He had turned over the pages rapidly, and then he stopped at this little piece of news packed up in a small paragraph at the bottom of a column, and, pointing his finger to it, he slid the volume of newspapers over to Mervyn, who read—­

’Died on the 4th of August, of a lingering disease, at his lodgings in Florence, whither he had gone for the improvement of his health, Charles Archer, Esq., a gentleman who some three years since gave an exceeding clear evidence against Lord Dunoran, for the murder of Mr. Beauclerc, and was well known at Newmarket.  His funeral, which was private, was attended by several English gentlemen, who were then at Florence.’

Mervyn, deadly pale, with gleaming eyes, and hand laid along his forehead, as if to screen off an insupportable light and concentrate his gaze upon the words, read and re-read these sentences with an agony of scrutiny such as no critic ever yet directed upon a disputed passage in his favourite classic.  But there was no possibility of fastening any consolatory interpretation upon the paragraph.  It was all too plain and outspoken.

’’Tis possible this may be true—­thus much. A Charles Archer is dead, and yet another Charles Archer, the object of my search, still living,’ said Mervyn.

‘Hey! that didn’t strike me,’ said Dangerfield, as much amused as was consistent with moderately good breeding.  ’But I can quite account, Mr. Mervyn,’ he continued, with a sudden change of tone and manner, to something almost of kindness, ’for your readiness to entertain any theory 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.