Mr. Irons, like most men of his rank in life, was not much in the habit
of exact thinking. His ruminations, therefore, were rather confused,
but, perhaps, they might be translated in substance, into something like
this--
'Why the ---- can't he let them alone that's willing to let him alone? I
wish he was in his own fiery home, and better people at rest. I _can't_
mark them places--I don't know whether I'm on my head or heels.'
And he smacked the quarto Prayer-book down upon the folio Bible with a
sonorous bang, and glided out, furious, frightened, and taciturn, to the
Salmon House.
He came upon Dangerfield again only half-a-dozen steps from the turn
into the street. He had just dismissed Martin, and was looking into a
note in his pocket-book, and either did not see, or pretended not to
see, the clerk. But some one else saw and recognised Mr. Irons; and, as
he passed, directed upon him a quick, searching glance. It was Mr.
Mervyn, who happened to pass that way. Irons and Dangerfield, and the
church-yard--there was a flash of association in the group and the
background which accorded with an old suspicion.
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