’Ha!—­mighty obleeging (he so pronounced the word)—­let in at last—­cold outside, Ma’am.  You’ve let out the fire I suppose?’

His tones were like the bark of a wolf, and there was a devilish smirk in his white face, as he made her a mock salutation, and glided into his parlour.  The fire was bright enough, however, as Mrs. Jukes was much relieved to see; and dropping a courtesy she enquired whether he would like a dish of tea, or anything?

‘No, Ma’am!’ he snarled.

‘Would he like his dressing-gown and slippers?’

‘No, Ma’am,’ again.  So she dropped another courtesy, and sneaked away to the kitchen, with short, noiseless steps, and heard Mr. Dangerfield shut the door sharply.

His servants were afraid of him.  They could not quite comprehend him.  They knew it was vain trying to deceive him, and had quite given up lying and prevaricating.  Neither would he stand much talking.  When they prattled he brought them to the point sternly; and whenever a real anxiety rested on his mind he became pretty nearly diabolical.  On the whole, however, they had a strange sort of liking for him.  They were proud of his wealth, and of his influence with great people.  And though he would not allow them to rob, disobey, or deceive him, yet he used them handsomely, paid like a prince, was a considerate master, and made them comfortable.

Now Mr. Dangerfield poked up his fire and lighted his candles.  Somehow, the room looked smaller he thought than it had ever seemed before.  He was not nervous—­nothing could bring him to that; but his little altercation with the iron gate, and some uncomfortable thoughts had excited him.  It was an illusion merely—­but the walls seemed to have closed in a foot or two, and the ceiling to have dropped down proportionably, and he felt himself confined and oppressed.

‘My head’s a little bit heated—­ira furo brevis,’ and he sneered a solitary laugh, more like himself, and went out into his tiny hall, and opened the door, and stood on the step for air, enjoying the cold wind that played about his temples.  Presently he heard the hollow clink of two pair of feet walking toward the village.  The pedestrians were talking eagerly; and he thought, as they passed the little iron gate of his domain, he heard his own name mentioned, and then that of Mervyn.  I dare say it was mere fancy; but, somehow, he did not like it, and he walked swiftly down to the little gate by the road side—­it was only some twenty yards—­keeping upon the grass that bounded it, to muffle the sound of his steps.  This white phantom noiselessly stood in the shadow of the road side.  The interlocutors had got a good way on, and were talking loud and volubly.  But he heard nothing that concerned him from either again, though he waited until their steps and voices were lost in the distance.

The cool air was pleasant about his bare temples, and Mr. Paul Dangerfield waited a while longer, and listened, for any sound of footsteps approaching from the village, but none such was audible; and beginning to feel a little chilly, he entered his domicile again, shut the hall-door, and once more found himself in the little parlour of the Brass Castle.