in the bed with
his eyes open, and Mr. Archer drew a thin long dagger out of the dead
man's breast, for dead he was.

"What are you afraid of, you ---- fool?" says he, shaking me up; "I know
what I'm about; I'll carry you through; your life's in my hands, mine in
yours, only be cool." He was that himself, if ever man was, and quick as
light he closed the dead man's eyes, saying, "in for a penny in for a
pound," and he threw a bit of the coverlet over his breast, and his
mouth and chin, just as a man might draw it rolling round in the bed,
for I suppose he thought it best to hide the mouth that was open, and
told its tale too plainly, and out he was on the lobby the next
instant. "Don't tell Glascock what's happened, 'twill make him look
queer; let him put in the boots, and if he's asked, say Mr. Beauclerc
made a turn in the bed, and a grumbling, like a man turning over in his
sleep, while he was doing so, d'ye see, and divide this, 'twill settle
your little trouble, you know." 'Twas a little paper roll of a hundred
guineas. An' that's the way Mr. Beauclerc came by his death.'

This to Mervyn was the sort of shock that might have killed an older
man. The dreadful calamity that had stigmatised and beggared his
family--the horror and shame of which he well remembered, when first
revealed to him, had held him trembling and tongue-tied for more than an
hour before tears came to his relief, and which had ever since blackened
his sky, with a monotony of storm and thunder, was in a moment shown to
be a chimera. No wonder that he was for a while silent, stunned, and
bewildered. At last he was able--pale and cold--to lift up his clasped
hands, his eyes, and his heart, in awful gratitude, to the Author of
Mercy, the Revealer of Secrets, the Lord of Life and Truth.

'And where is this Charles Archer--is he dead or living?' urged Mervyn
with an awful adjuration.

'Ay, where to catch him, and how--Dead? Well, he's dead to some, you
see, and living to others; and living or dead, I'll put you on his track
some fine day, if you're true to me; but not yet awhile, and if you turn
a stag, or name my name to living soul (and here Mr. Irons swore an oath
such as I hope parish clerks don't often swear, and which would have
opened good Dr. Walsingham's eyes with wonder and horror), you'll never
hear word more from me, and I think, Sir, you'll lose your life beside.'

'Your threats of violence are lost on me, I can take care of myself,'
sa