‘Who’s here?’ he asked, looking
at Irons, whose face he remembered, though he forgot
to whom it belonged.
’I’m Zekiel Irons, the parish-clerk, please
your worship, and all I want is ten minutes alone
with your honour.’
‘For what purpose?’ demanded the magistrate,
eyeing him sharply.
‘To tell you all about a damned murder.’
‘Hey—why—who did it?’
‘Charles Archer,’ he answered; and screwed
up his mouth with a convulsive grimace, glaring bloodlessly
at the justice.
‘Ha! Charles Archer! I think we know
something already about that.’
’I don’t think you do, though; and by
your leave, you’ll promise, if I bring it home
to him, you’ll see me safe through it. ’Tis
what I’m the only witness living that knows
all about it.’
‘Well, what is it about?’
’The murder of Mr. Beauclerc, that my Lord Dunoran
was tried and found guilty for.’
‘Why, all very good; but that did not happen
in Ireland.’
‘No. At Newmarket, the “Pied Horse."’
‘Ay, in England. I know, and that’s
out of our jurisdiction.’
’I don’t care. I’ll go to London
if you like—to Bow-street—anywhere—so
as I make sure to hang him; for my life is worse than
death while he’s at this side of the grave—and
I’d rather be in my coffin—I would—than
live within five miles of him. Anyway, you’ll
hear what I have to say, and to swear, and send
me safe across the water to Bow-street, or wherever
else you think best; for, if he has his liberty, and
gets sight o’ me again, I’m a dead man.’
‘Come in here, Mr. Irons, and take a chair,’
said the justice.
Doctor Toole was in the room, in a balloon-backed
chair, regaling himself with a long pipe, and Mr.
Lowe shut the door.
’We have another deposition, doctor, to take;
Mr. Irons, here, is prepared to swear informations
of very singular importance.’
‘Irons, hollo! from what planet did you drop
to-night?’
‘Mullingar, Sir.’
‘Nothing about the burning of the old woman
at Tyrrell’s Pass, eh?’
’No—’tis an old story.
I don’t care what comes of it, I’m innocent,
only you’ll say I kept it too long to myself.
But you can’t touch my life. I’m
more afeard of him than you, and with good cause; but
I think he’s in a corner now, and I’ll
speak out and take my chance, and you mustn’t
allow me to be murdered.’
By this time Lowe had procured writing materials,
and all being ready, he and the curious and astonished
doctor heard a story very like what we have already
heard from the same lips.
MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD HAS SOMETHING ON HIS MIND, AND
CAPTAIN DEVEREUX RECEIVES A MESSAGE.
Mr. Dangerfield having parted with Irons, entered
the little garden or shrubbery, which skirted on either
side the short gravel walk, which expanded to a miniature
court-yard before the door of the Brass Castle.
He flung the little iron gate to with a bitter clang;
so violent that the latch sprang from its hold, and
the screaking iron swung quivering open again behind
him.
