’I believe in luck, Sir, and there’s the sum of my creed.  I was wrong in taking that money from Beauclerc when I did, ’twas in the midst of a dismal run of ill-fortune.  There was nothing unfair in taking it, though.  The man was a cheat.  It was not really his, and no one could tell to whom it belonged; ’twas no more his because I had found it in his pocket than if I had found it in a barrel on the high seas.  I killed him to prevent his killing me.  Precisely the same motive, though in your case neither so reasonable nor so justifiable, as that on which, in the name of justice, which means only the collective selfishness of my fellow-creatures, you design in cool blood to put me publicly to death.  ’Tis only that you, gentlemen, think it contributes to your safety.  That’s the spirit of human laws.  I applaud and I adopt it in my own case.  Pray, Sir’ (to Mr. Armstrong), ’do me the honour to try this snuff, ’tis real French rappee.

’But, Sir, though I have had to do these things, which you or any other man of nerve would do with a sufficient motive, I never hurt any man without a necessity for it.  My money I’ve made fairly, though in great measure by play, and no man can say I ever promised that which I did not perform.  ’Tis quite true I killed Beauclerc in the manner described by Irons.  That was put upon me, and I could not help it.  I did right.  ’Tis also true, I killed that scoundrel Glascock, as Irons related.  Shortly after, being in trouble about money and in danger of arrest, I went abroad, and changed my name and disguised my person.

’At Florence I was surprised to find a letter directed to Charles Archer.  You may suppose it was not agreeable.  But, of course, I would not claim it; and it went after all to him for whom it was intended.  There was actually there a Mr. Charles Archer, dying of a decline.  Three respectable English residents had made his acquaintance, knowing nothing of him but that he was a sick countryman.  When I learned all about it, I, too, got an introduction to him; and when he died, I prevailed with one of them to send a note signed by himself and two more to the London lawyer who was pursuing me, simply stating that Charles Archer had died in Florence, to their knowledge, they having seen him during his last illness, and attended his funeral.

’I told them that he had begged me to see this done, as family affairs made it necessary; ’twas as well to use the event—­and they did it without difficulty.  I do not know how the obituary announcement got into the newspapers—­it was not my doing—­and naming him as the evidence in the prosecution of my Lord Dunoran was a great risk, and challenged contradiction, but none came.  Sir Philip Drayton was one of the signatures, and it satisfied the attorney.

’When I came to Chapelizod, though, I soon found that the devil had not done with me, and that I was like to have some more unpleasant work on my hands.  I did not know that Irons was above ground, nor he either that I was living.  We had wandered far enough asunder in the interval to make the chances very many we should never meet again.  Yet here we met, and I knew him, and he me.  But he’s a nervous man, and whimsical.