This Giant Despair, who carried the keys at his girdle, did not often get so swell a pilgrim into his castle, and was secretly flattered by his familiarity, and cheered by his devilish gaiety, and was quite willing to make rules bend a little, and the place as pleasant as possible to his distinguished guest, and give him in fact, all his heart could desire, except a chance of escape.

’I’ve one move left—­nothing very excellent—­but sometimes, you know, a scurvy card enough will win the trick.  Between you and me, my good friend, I have a thing to tell that ’twill oblige my Lord Dunoran very much to hear.  My Lord Townshend will want his vote.  He means to prove his peerage immediately and he may give a poor devil a lift, you see—­hey?

So next day there came my Lord Dunoran and a magistrate, not Mr. Lowe—­Mr. Dangerfield professed a contempt for him, and preferred any other.  So it was Mr. Armstrong this time, and that is all I know of him.

Lord Dunoran was more pale than usual; indeed he felt like to faint on coming into the presence of the man who had made his life so indescribably miserable, and throughout the interview he scarcely spoke six sentences, and not one word of reproach.  The villain was down.  It was enough.

Mr. Dangerfield was, perhaps, a little excited.  He talked more volubly than usual, and once or twice there came a little flush over his pallid forehead and temples.  But, on the whole, he was very much the same brisk, sardonic talker and polite gentleman whom Mr. Mervyn had so often discoursed with in Chapelizod.  On this occasion, his narrative ran on uninterruptedly and easily, but full of horrors, like a satanic reverie.

‘Upon my honour, Sir,’ said Paul Dangerfield, with his head erect, ’I bear Mr. Lowe no ill-will.  He is, you’ll excuse me, a thief-catcher by nature.  He can’t help it.  He thinks he works from duty, public spirit, and other fine influences; I know it is simply from an irrepressible instinct.  I do assure you, I never yet bore any man the least ill-will.  I’ve had to remove two or three, not because I hated them—­I did not care a button for any—­but because their existence was incompatible with my safety, which, Sir, is the first thing to me, as yours is to you.  Human laws we respect—­ha, ha!—­you and I, because they subserve our convenience, and just so long.  When they tend to our destruction, ’tis, of course, another thing.’

This, it must be allowed, was frank enough; there was no bargain here; and what ever Mr. Dangerfield’s plan might have been, it certainly did not involve making terms with Lord Dunoran beforehand, or palliating or disguising what he had done.  So on he went.