“You hear, gentlemen, what my lord says, he meant only a blow or two, and not to take his life,” cries Mr. Archer.

’So my lord repeats it again, cursing and swearing, like St. Peter in the judgment hall.

’So, as nobody was meddling with my lord, out he goes, intending, I suppose, to get away altogether, if he could.  But Mr. Underwood missed him, and he says, “Gentlemen, where’s my Lord Dunoran? we must not suffer him to depart;” and he followed him—­two or three others going along with him, and they met him with his hat and cloak on, in the lobby, and he says, stepping between him and the stairs,—­

’"My lord, you must not go, until we see how this matter ends.”

’"Twill end well enough,” says he, and without more ado he walks back again.

‘So you know the rest—­how that business ended, at least for him.’

‘And you are that very Zekiel Irons who was a witness on the trial?’ said Mervyn, with a peculiar look of fear and loathing fixed on him.

‘The same,’ said Irons, doggedly; and after a pause, ’but I swore to very little; and all I said was true—­though it wasn’t the whole truth.  Look to the trial, Sir, and you’ll see ’twas Mr. Archer and Glascock that swore home against my lord—­not I. And I don’t think myself, Glascock was in the room at all when it happened—­so I don’t.’

’And where is that wretch, Glascock, and that double murderer Archer; where is he?’

‘Well, Glascock’s making clay.’

‘What do you mean?’

’Under ground, this many a day.  Listen:  Mr. Archer went up to London, and he was staying at the Hummums, and Glascock agreed with me to leave the “Pied Horse.”  We were both uneasy, and planned to go up to London together; and what does he do—­nothing less would serve him—­but he writes a sort of letter, asking money of Mr. Archer under a threat.  This, you know, was after the trial.  Well, there came no answer; but after a while—­all on a sudden—­Mr. Archer arrives himself at the “Pied Horse;” I did not know then that Glascock had writ to him—­for he meant to keep whatever he might get to himself.  “So,” says Mr. Archer to me, meeting me by the pump in the stable-yard, “that was a clever letter you and Glascock wrote to me in town.”

’So I told him ’twas the first I heard of it.

’"Why,” says he, “do you mean to tell me you don’t want money?”

’I don’t know why it was, but a sort of a turn came over me and I said, “No.”

’"Well,” says he, “I’m going to sell a horse, and I expect to be paid to-morrow; you and Glascock must wait for me outside”—­I think the name of the village was Merton—­I’m not sure, for I never seen it before or since—­“and I’ll give you some money then.”

’"I’ll have none,” says I.

’"What, no money?” says he.  “Come, come.”

’"I tell you, Sir, I’ll have none,” says I. Something, you see, came over me, and I was more determined than ever.  I was always afeard of him, but I feared him like Beelzebub now.  “I’ve had enough of your money, Sir; and I tell you what, Mr. Archer, I think ’tis best to end our dealings, and I’d rather, if you please, Sir, never trouble you more.”