'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. Beauclerc, that my Lord Dunoran was tried and found guilty for.'
'Why, all very good; but that did not happen in Ireland.'
'No. At Newmarket, the "Pied Horse."'
'Ay, in England. I know, and that's out of our jurisdiction.'
'I don't care. I'll go to London if you like—to Bow-street—anywhere—so as I make sure to hang him; for my life is worse than death while he's at this side of the grave—and I'd rather be in my coffin—I would—than live within five miles of him. Anyway, you'll hear what I have to say, and to swear, and send me safe across the water to Bow-street, or wherever else you think best; for, if he has his liberty, and gets sight o' me again, I'm a dead man.'