' And Mr. Irons took a turn, and came back
very close to Mervyn, and said very gently, 'and I think Charles Archer
murdered him.'
'Then Charles Archer _has_ been in Dublin, perhaps in Chapelizod, within
the last few months,' exclaimed Mervyn, in a sort of agony.
'I didn't say so,' answered Irons. 'I've told you the truth--'tis the
truth--but there's no catching a ghost--and who'd believe my story? and
them things is so long ago. And suppose I make a clean breast of it, and
that I could bring you face to face with him, the world would not
believe my tale, and I'd then be a lost man, one way or another--no one,
mayhap, could tell how--I'd lose my life before a year, and all the
world could not save me.'
'Perhaps--perhaps Charles Nutter's the man; and Mr. Dangerfield knows
something of him,' cried Mervyn.
Irons made no answer, but sat quite silent for some seconds, by the
fire, the living image of apathy.
'If you name me, or blab one word I told you, I hold my peace for ever,'
said he, slowly, with a quiet oath, but very pale, and how blue his chin
looked--how grim his smile, with his face so shiny, and his eyelids
closed.
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