‘Who’s here?’ he asked, looking at Irons, whose face he remembered, though he forgot to whom it belonged.

’I’m Zekiel Irons, the parish-clerk, please your worship, and all I want is ten minutes alone with your honour.’

‘For what purpose?’ demanded the magistrate, eyeing him sharply.

‘To tell you all about a damned murder.’

‘Hey—­why—­who did it?’

‘Charles Archer,’ he answered; and screwed up his mouth with a convulsive grimace, glaring bloodlessly at the justice.

‘Ha!  Charles Archer!  I think we know something already about that.’

’I don’t think you do, though; and by your leave, you’ll promise, if I bring it home to him, you’ll see me safe through it.  ’Tis what I’m the only witness living that knows all about it.’

‘Well, what is it about?’

’The murder of Mr. Beauclerc, that my Lord Dunoran was tried and found guilty for.’

‘Why, all very good; but that did not happen in Ireland.’

‘No.  At Newmarket, the “Pied Horse."’

‘Ay, in England.  I know, and that’s out of our jurisdiction.’

’I don’t care.  I’ll go to London if you like—­to Bow-street—­anywhere—­so as I make sure to hang him; for my life is worse than death while he’s at this side of the grave—­and I’d rather be in my coffin—­I would—­than live within five miles of him.  Anyway, you’ll hear what I have to say, and to swear, and send me safe across the water to Bow-street, or wherever else you think best; for, if he has his liberty, and gets sight o’ me again, I’m a dead man.’

‘Come in here, Mr. Irons, and take a chair,’ said the justice.

Doctor Toole was in the room, in a balloon-backed chair, regaling himself with a long pipe, and Mr. Lowe shut the door.

’We have another deposition, doctor, to take; Mr. Irons, here, is prepared to swear informations of very singular importance.’

‘Irons, hollo! from what planet did you drop to-night?’

‘Mullingar, Sir.’

‘Nothing about the burning of the old woman at Tyrrell’s Pass, eh?’

’No—­’tis an old story.  I don’t care what comes of it, I’m innocent, only you’ll say I kept it too long to myself.  But you can’t touch my life.  I’m more afeard of him than you, and with good cause; but I think he’s in a corner now, and I’ll speak out and take my chance, and you mustn’t allow me to be murdered.’

By this time Lowe had procured writing materials, and all being ready, he and the curious and astonished doctor heard a story very like what we have already heard from the same lips.

CHAPTER XC.

MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD HAS SOMETHING ON HIS MIND, AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX RECEIVES A MESSAGE.

Mr. Dangerfield having parted with Irons, entered the little garden or shrubbery, which skirted on either side the short gravel walk, which expanded to a miniature court-yard before the door of the Brass Castle.  He flung the little iron gate to with a bitter clang; so violent that the latch sprang from its hold, and the screaking iron swung quivering open again behind him.