'My head's a little bit heated--_ira furo brevis_,' and he sneered a
solitary laugh, more like himself, and went out into his tiny hall, and
opened the door, and stood on the step for air, enjoying the cold wind
that played about his temples. Presently he heard the hollow clink of
two pair of feet walking toward the village. The pedestrians were
talking eagerly; and he thought, as they passed the little iron gate of
his domain, he heard his own name mentioned, and then that of Mervyn. I
dare say it was mere fancy; but, somehow, he did not like it, and he
walked swiftly down to the little gate by the road side--it was only
some twenty yards--keeping upon the grass that bounded it, to muffle the
sound of his steps. This white phantom noiselessly stood in the shadow
of the road side. The interlocutors had got a good way on, and were
talking loud and volubly. But he heard nothing that concerned him from
either again, though he waited until their steps and voices were lost in
the distance.
The cool air was pleasant about his bare temples, and Mr. Paul
Dangerfield waited a while longer, and listened, for any sound of
footsteps approaching from the village, but none such was audible; and
beginning to feel a little chilly, he entered his domicile again, shut
the hall-door, and once more found himself in the little parlour of the
Brass Castle.
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