"
'"You're a queer dog," says he, with his eye fast on me, and musing for
a while--as if he could see into my brain, and was diverted by what he
found there;--"you're a queer dog, Irons. Glascock knows the world
better, you see; and as you and he are going up to London together, and
I must give the poor devil a lift, I'll meet you at the other side of
Merton, beyond the quarry--you know the moor--on Friday evening, after
dark--say seven o'clock--we must be quiet, you know, or people will be
talking."
'Well, Sir, we met him, sure enough, at the time and place.'
CHAPTER LXXII.
IN WHICH THE APPARITION OF MR. IRONS IS SWALLOWED IN DARKNESS.
''Twas a darkish night--very little moon--and he made us turn off the
road, into the moor--black and ugly it looked, stretching away four or
five miles, all heath and black peat, stretches of little broken
hillocks, and a pool or tarn every now and again. An' he kept looking
back towards the road, and not a word out of him. Well, I did not like
meeting him at all if I could help it, but I was in dread of him; and I
thought he might suppose I was plotting mischief if I refused.
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