“Come this way for a moment, Mr. Carew,” said the other, aloud, “and I'll show you my snuggery, where I live, apart from all the world.”
My father followed him into a small chamber, where Fagan at once closed the door and locked it, and then, approaching him, pulled forth from beneath his loose cuff a lace ruffle stained and clotted with blood.
“It is fortunate for you, Mr. Carew,” said he, “that Raper is so unobservant; any other than he would have seen this, and this;” and as he spoke the last words, he pointed to a small portion of a bloody handkerchief which projected outside the shirt-frill.
So overwhelmed was my father by these evidences that he sank powerless into a chair, without strength to speak.
“How was it?—how did it occur?” asked Fagan, sitting down in front of him, and placing one hand familiarly on my father's knee. Simple as the action was, it was a liberty that he had never dared before to take with my father, who actually shuddered at the touch, as though it had been a pollution.
“Unpremeditated, of course, I conclude,” said Fagan, still endeavoring to lead him on to some explanation. My father nodded.
“Unwitnessed also,” said Fagan, slowly. Another nod implied assent.
“Who knows of your presence in Dublin?—Who has seen you since your arrival in Dublin?” asked he.
“None of my acquaintances, so far, at least, as I know. I went, by a mere accident, to an hotel where I am not known. By another accident, if I dare so call it, I fell upon this rencontre. I will endeavor to tell you the whole, as it occurred,—that is, if I can sufficiently collect myself; but first let me have some wine, Fagan, for I am growing weak.”
As Fagan left the room, he passed the desk where Raper was already seated, hard at work, and, laying his hand on the clerk's shoulder, he whispered,—