'"No; 'tis your money, Sir—I've no right to a sixpence—and I won't have it," says I; "and there's an end."
'"Well, Glascock, what say you?—you hear Irons."
'"Let Irons speak for himself—he's nothing to me. You should have considered me when all that money was took from Mr. Beauclerc—one done as much as another—and if 'twas no more than holding my tongue, still 'tis worth a deal to you."
'"I don't deny—a deal—everything. Come—there's sixty pounds here—but, mark, 'tis all I have—how much?"
'"I'll have thirty, and I'll take no less," says Glascock, surly enough.
'"Thirty! 'tis a good deal—but all considered—perhaps not too much," says Mr. Archer.
'And with that he took his right hand from his breeches' pocket, and shot him through the heart with a pistol.
'Neither word, nor stir, nor groan, did Glascock make; but with a sort of a jerk, flat on his back he fell, with his head on the verge of the tarn.
'I believe I said something—I don't know—I was almost as dead as himself—for I did not think anything that bad was near at all.
'"Come, Irons—what ails you—steady, Sir—lend me a hand, and you'll take no harm."