The tall figure was that of our old friend, Zekiel Irons, the clerk.  A sable form, as beseemed his ecclesiastical calling—­and now a white figure was gliding without noise swiftly after him.

Suddenly, as he reached an open part of the road, a thin hand was laid on his shoulder, and, with a start, and a ‘hollo,’ he sprung round.

’Hey! why, you’re as frightened as if you had seen Charles—­Charles Nutter.  Hey?—­don’t be uneasy.  I heard from the parson yesterday morning you were to be with him to-night before nine o’clock, about that money you left in his hands, and I’ve chanced to meet you; and this I want you to understand, Charles Nutter is in gaol, and we must not let him get out—­do you see?  That business settled, we’re at rest.  So, Mr. Irons, you must not show the white feather.  Be bold—­speak out what you know—­now’s the time to strike.  I’ll put your evidence, as you reported it to me, into shape, and you come to me to-morrow morning at eight o’clock; and mind you, I’ll reward you this time, and better than ever you’ve fared before.  Go on.  Or stay—­I’ll go before.’

And Mr. Dangerfield laughed one of his chilly laughs—­and, with a nod to Irons, repeated—­’eight o’clock’—­and so walked on a little bit.

The clerk had not said a word.  A perspiration broke forth on his forehead, and, wiping the drops away, he said—­

‘Lord have mercy upon us—­Lord deliver us—­Lord have mercy upon us,’ like a man dying.

Mr. Dangerfield’s bold proposition seemed quite to overpower and unman him.

The white figure turned short, facing the clerk, and said he—­

’See you, Mr. Irons, I’m serious—­there must be no shirking.  If you undertake, you must go through; and, hark! in your ear—­you shall have five hundred pounds.  I put no constraint—­say yes or no—­if you don’t like you needn’t.  Justice, I think, will be done even without your help.  But till he’s quiet—­you understand—­nothing sure.  He has been dead and alive again—­curse him; and till he’s at rest, and on the surgeon’s table—­ha! ha!—­we sha’n’t feel quite comfortable.’

‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ muttered Irons, with a groan.

‘Amen,’ said Dangerfield, with a sneering imitation.

’There, ’tis enough—­if you have nerve to speak truth and do justice, you may have the money.  We’re men of business—­you and I. If not, I sha’n’t trouble you any more.  If you like it, come to me at eight o’clock in the morning; if not, why, stay away, and no harm’s done.’

And with these words, Mr. Dangerfield turned on his heel once more, and started at a lively pace for Chapelizod.

CHAPTER LXXXVI.

IN WHICH MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD, AND MAKES SOME ARRANGEMENTS.

The white figure glided duskily over the bridge.  The river rushed beneath in Egyptian darkness.  The air was still, and a thousand celestial eyes twinkled down brightly through the clear deep sky upon the actors in this true story.  He kept the left side, so that the road lay between him and the Phoenix door, which gaped wide with a great hospitable grin, and crimsoned the night air with a glow of candle-light.