’And, respecting that money you’ll use
caution; a hundred guineas is not always so honestly
come by. Your wife drinks—suppose a
relative in England had left you that gold, by will,
’twould be best not to let her know;
but give it to Dr. Walsingham, secretly, to keep for
you, telling him the reason. He’ll undertake
the trust and tell no one—that’s
your plan—mind ye.’
Then came another long silence, and Dangerfield applied
himself in earnest to catch some trout, and when he
had accomplished half-a-dozen, he tired altogether
of the sport, and followed by Irons, he sauntered
homewards, where astounding news awaited him.
RELATING AFTER WHAT FASHION DR. STURK CAME HOME.
As Dangerfield, having parted company with Irons at
the corner of the bridge, was walking through the
town, with his rod over his shoulder and his basket
of troutlings by his side, his attention was arrested
by a little knot of persons in close and earnest talk
at the barrack-gate, nearly opposite Sturk’s
house.
He distinguished at a glance the tall grim figure
of Oliver Lowe, of Lucan, the sternest and shrewdest
magistrate who held the commission for the county
of Dublin in those days, mounted on his iron-gray hunter,
and holding the crupper with his right hand, as he
leaned toward a ragged, shaggy little urchin, with
naked shins, whom he was questioning, as it seemed
closely. Half-a-dozen gaping villagers stood round.
There was an indescribable something about the group
which indicated horror and excitement. Dangerfield
quickened his pace, and arrived just as the adjutant
rode out.
Saluting both as he advanced, Dangerfield asked—
‘Nothing amiss, I hope, gentlemen?’
‘The surgeon here’s been found murdered
in the park!’ answered Lowe.
‘Hey—Sturk?’ said Dangerfield.
‘Yes,’ said the adjutant: ’this
boy here says he’s found him in the Butcher’s
Wood.’
‘The Butcher’s Wood!—why, what
the plague brought him there?’ exclaimed
Dangerfield.
‘’Tis his straight road from Dublin across
the park,’ observed the magistrate.
’Oh!—I thought ‘twas the wood
by Lord Mountjoy’s,’ said Dangerfield;
‘and when did it happen?’
‘Pooh!—some time between yesterday
afternoon and half an hour ago,’ answered Mr.
Lowe.
‘Nothing known?’ said Dangerfield. ’’Twill
be a sad hearing over the way;’ and he glared
grimly with a little side-nod at the doctor’s
house.
Then he fell, like the others, to questioning the
boy. He could tell them but little—only
the same story over and over. Coming out of town,
with tea and tobacco, a pair of shoes, and a bottle
of whisky, for old Mrs. Tresham—in the
thick of the wood, among brambles, all at once he
lighted on the body. He could not mistake Dr.
Sturk; he wore his regimentals; there was blood about
him; he did not touch him, nor go nearer than a musket’s
length to him, and being frightened at the sight in
that lonely place he ran away and right down to the
barrack, where he made his report.
