‘I’ve done, and will do my duty, Sir,’ replied Lowe, with dry decision.

‘You’ve committed a d——­d outrage; duty? ha, ha, ha!’

‘The coach is at the door, hey?’ asked Lowe

‘I say, Sir,’ continued Dangerfield, with a wolfish glare, and speaking in something like a suppressed shriek, ’you shall hear my warning and my protest, although it should occupy the unreasonable period of two whole minutes of your precious time.  You half murder, and then arrest me for the offence of another man, and under the name of a man who has been dead and buried full twenty years.  I can prove it; the eminent London house of Elrington Brothers can prove it; the handwriting of the late Sir Philip Drayton, Baronet, of Drayton Hall, and of two other respectable witnesses to a formal document, can prove it; dead and rotten—­dust, Sir.  And in your stupid arrogance, you blundering Irishman, you dare to libel me—­your superior in everything—­with his villainous name, and the imputation of his crimes—­to violate my house at the dead of night—­to pistol me upon my own floor—­and to carry me off by force, as you purpose, to a common gaol.  Kill Dr. Sturk, indeed!  Are you mad, Sir? I who offered a fee of five hundred guineas even to bring him to speech! I who took the best medical advice in London on his behalf; I who have been his friend only too much with my Lord Castlemallard, and who, to stay his creditors, and enable his family to procure for him the best medical attendance, and to afford him, in short, the best chance of recovery and life, have, where you neither lent or bestowed a shilling—­poured out my money as profusely as you, Sir, have poured out my blood, every drop of which, Sir, shall cost you a slice of your estate.  But even without Sturk’s speaking one word, I’ve evidence which escaped you, conceited blockhead, and which, though the witness is as mad almost as yourself, will yet be enough to direct the hand of justice to the right man.  There is a Charles, Sir, whom all suspect, who awaits trial, judgment, and death in this case, the wretched Charles Nutter of the Mills, Sir, whose motive is patent, and on whose proceedings a light will, I believe, be thrown by the evidence of Zekiel Irons, whatever that evidence may be worth.’

’I don’t care to tell you, Sir, that ’tis partly on the evidence of that same Zekiel Irons that I’ve arrested you,’ said Mr. Justice Lowe.

’Zekiel Irons, me!  What Zekiel Irons charge me with the crime which he was here, not two hours since, fastening on oath upon Charles Nutter!  Why, Sir, he asked me to bring him to your residence in the morning, that he might swear to the information which he repeated in my presence, and of which there’s a note in that desk.  ’Pon my life, Sir, ’tis an agreeable society, this; bedlam broke loose—­the mad directing the mad, and both falling foul of the sane.  One word from Doctor Sturk, Sir, will blast you, so soon as, please Heaven, he shall speak.’