y not quite destructive of hopes, which, notwithstanding, I fear,
rest simply on the visions of that poor hypochondriac, Irons. But, for
all that, 'tis just possible that something may strike either you or me
in the matter not quite so romantic--hey? But still something.--You've
not told me how the plague Charles Archer could possibly have served
you. But on that point, perhaps, we can talk another time. I simply
desire to say, that any experience or ability I may possess are heartily
at your service whenever you please to task them, as my good wishes are
already.'

So, stunned, and like a man walking in a dream--all his hopes shivered
about his feet--Mervyn walked through the door of the little parlour in
the Brass Castle, and Dangerfield, accompanying him to the little gate
which gave admission from the high-road to that tenement, dismissed him
there, with a bow and a pleasant smile; and, standing, for a while, wiry
and erect, with his hands in his pockets, he followed him, as he paced
dejectedly away, with the same peculiar smile.

When he was out of sight, Dangerfield returned to his parlour, smiling
all the way, and stood on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire. When
he was alone, a shadow came over his face, and he looked down on the
fringe with a thoughtful scowl--his hands behind his back--and began
adjusting and smoothing it with the toe of his shoe.

'Sot, fool, and poltroon--triple qualification for mischief--I don't
know why he still lives. Irons--a new vista opens, and this d----d young
man!' All this was not, as we sometimes read, 'mentally ejaculated,' but
quite literally muttered, as I believe every one at times mutters to
himself. 'Charles Archer living--Charles Archer dead--or, as I sometimes
think, neither one nor t'other quite--half man, half corpse--a
vampire--there is no rest for thee: no sabbath in the days of thy week.
Blood, blood--blood--'tis tiresome. Why should I be a slave to these
d----d secrets. I don't think 'tis my judgment, so much as the devil,
holds me here. Irons has more brains than I--instinct--calculation--which
is oftener right? Miss Gertrude Chattesworth, a mere whim, I think
understood her game too. I'll deal with that to-morrow. I'll send Daxon
the account, vouchers, and cheque for Lord Castlemallard--tell Smith to
sell my horses, and, by the next packet--hey?' and he kissed his hand,
with an odd smirk, like a gentleman making his adieux, 'and so leave
those who court th