Mervyn had so often
discoursed with in Chapelizod. On this occasion, his narrative ran on
uninterruptedly and easily, but full of horrors, like a satanic reverie.
'Upon my honour, Sir,' said Paul Dangerfield, with his head erect, 'I
bear Mr. Lowe no ill-will. He is, you'll excuse me, a thief-catcher by
nature. He can't help it. He thinks he works from duty, public spirit,
and other fine influences; I know it is simply from an irrepressible
instinct. I do assure you, I never yet bore any man the least ill-will.
I've had to remove two or three, not because I hated them--I did not
care a button for any--but because their existence was incompatible with
my safety, which, Sir, is the first thing to me, as yours is to you.
Human laws we respect--ha, ha!--you and I, because they subserve our
convenience, and just so long. When they tend to our destruction, 'tis,
of course, another thing.'
This, it must be allowed, was frank enough; there was no bargain here;
and what ever Mr. Dangerfield's plan might have been, it certainly did
not involve making terms with Lord Dunoran beforehand, or palliating or
disguising what he had done.
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