Now, it was a darksome day, and the windows of Mr.
Gamble’s room were so obscured with cobwebs,
dust, and dirt, that even on a sunny day they boasted
no more than a dim religious light. But on this
day a cheerful man would have asked for a pair of
candles, to dissipate the twilight and sustain his
spirits.
He had not been gone, and the room empty ten minutes,
when the door through which he had seemed to look
on that unknown something that dismayed him, opened
softly—at first a little—then
a little more—then came a knock at it—then
it opened more, and the dark shape of Charles Nutter,
with rigid features and white eye-balls, glided stealthily
and crouching into the chamber, and halted at the
table, and seemed to read the endorsements of the
notices that lay there.
HOW A GENTLEMAN PAID A VISIT AT THE BRASS CASTLE,
AND THERE READ A PARAGRAPH IN AN OLD NEWSPAPER.
Dangerfield was, after his wont, seated at his desk,
writing letters, after his early breakfast, with his
neatly-labelled accounts at his elbow. There
was a pleasant frosty sun glittering through the twigs
of the leafless shrubs, and flashing on the ripples
and undulations of the Liffey, and the redbreasts
and sparrows were picking up the crumbs which the
housekeeper had thrown for them outside. He had
just sealed the last of half-a-dozen letters, when
the maid opened his parlour-door, and told him that
a gentleman was at the hall-step, who wished to see
him.
Dangerfield looked up with a quick glance—
‘Eh?—to be sure. Show him in.’
And in a few seconds more, Mr. Mervyn, his countenance
more than usually pale and sad, entered the room.
He bowed low and gravely, as the servant announced
him.
Dangerfield rose with a prompt smile, bowing also,
and advanced with his hand extended, which, as a matter
of form rather than of cordiality, his visitor took,
coldly enough, in his.
’Happy to see you here, Mr. Mervyn—pray,
take a chair—a charming morning for a turn
by the river, Sir.’
‘I have taken the liberty of visiting you, Mr.
Dangerfield—’
‘Your visit, Sir, I esteem an honour,’
interposed the lord of the Brass Castle.
A slight and ceremonious bow from Mervyn, who continued—’For
the purpose of asking you directly and plainly for
some light upon a matter in which it is in the highest
degree important I should be informed.’
‘You may command me, Mr. Mervyn,’ said
Dangerfield, crossing his legs, throwing himself back,
and adjusting himself to attention.
Mervyn fixed his dark eyes full and sternly upon that
white and enigmatical face, with its round glass eyes
and silver setting, and those delicate lines of scorn
he had never observed before, traced about the mouth
and nostril.
’Then, Sir, I venture to ask you for all you
can disclose or relate about one Charles Archer.’
