'Thank God. I'm in for it,' muttered he, with a shudder and a sardonic
grin, and he looked for a moment something like that fine image of the
Wandering Jew, given us by Gustave Doree, the talisman of his curse
dissolved, and he smiling cynically in the terrible light of the
judgment day.
The woman knocked at the parlour door, and Lowe opened it.
'Who's here?' he asked, looking at Irons, whose face he remembered,
though he forgot to whom it belonged.
'I'm Zekiel Irons, the parish-clerk, please your worship, and all I want
is ten minutes alone with your honour.'
'For what purpose?' demanded the magistrate, eyeing him sharply.
'To tell you all about a damned murder.'
'Hey--why--who did it?'
'Charles Archer,' he answered; and screwed up his mouth with a
convulsive grimace, glaring bloodlessly at the justice.
'Ha! Charles Archer! I think we know something already about that.'
'I don't think you do, though; and by your leave, you'll promise, if I
bring it home to him, you'll see me safe through it. 'Tis what I'm the
only witness living that knows all about it.'
'Well, what is it about?'
'The murder of Mr.
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