HE moon was at the full and the clock of Saint Clement the Dane was chiming midnight when Mr. Merriam, reaching the arched doorway of Clifford's Inn, raised his hand to knock upon the wicket—a white hand, slim and elegant like himself, but a hand whose symmetry was marred by the loss of its little finger.
Mr. Merriam, then, raised his hand to knock, but, in the very act, checked himself and turned to peer over his shoulder.
It was Christmas Eve and freezing hard; in a cloudless firmament a myriad stars glittered, their vivid light scarcely dimmed by the pale glory of an orbed moon that cast an ugly blotch before Mr. Merriam wherever he moved, the grotesque, foreshortened shadow of his immaculate and stately self; beholding which, he frowned and lifted scowling eyes to glare up at the refulgent heaven and round about the silent thoroughfare. Then, slowly retracing his steps, he turned eastwards and sauntered towards the grim shadow of Temple Bar. From a sedan-chair a-swing between its trotting bearers issued a quavering voice upraised in song tipsily discordant; here and there a belated pedestrian, muffled to the eyes, hastened by; from dark corners misery peered and murmured hoarse supplications. But Mr. Merriam strolled leisurely on, all unheeding, and apparently impervious to the cold, left hand poised gracefully upon the hilt of his small-sword, right hand clasping silver-mounted cane, but his eyes—set in the oval of a handsome face, pale by contrast with the black curl of his great periwig—small, bright, and very keen eyes, scanning the loom of Temple Bar with a fixed and expectant scrutiny.
Almost within the shadow of the Bar he paused to lean gracefully upon his cane and peer up at a row of rusted iron spikes that crowned the central arch, divers of which spikes were topped by awful, shapeless, festering things that had once been human. It was upon one of these dismal objects that Mr. Merriam focussed his keen gaze, a head so much fresher and less weather-beaten than its ghastly fellows that Mr. Merriam could plainly descry the pallid features in detail—the eyes that seemed to leer down at him beneath drooping lids, the pinched nostrils, the dark orifice of the mouth horribly agape.
Mr. Merriam smiled and, taking out his snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch, which he inhaled delicately and with an appearance of much enjoyment.
Many other eyes had doubtless looked upon this gruesome thing since it had been set up that morning, but surely none with such an expression of malignant satisfaction as those of Mr. Merriam.
"Egad, and so there you are, my lord!" said he in a soft, murmurous voice. "Not precisely the Apollo Belvedere you were, my lord, no. She would shudder away from you now, my lord, as she was wont to shudder from me. Aha, Barbara, my proud Lady Disdain, would ye kiss him now? Egad, I venture to doubt it, madam—aye, upon my soul, I do! So there are you, my lord, no very pleasing object, though you will look worse yet when the wind and rain and sun have been at you a while. There I have you, and there I leave you—to rot and rot, my lord—and over the Border is Barbara, waiting to be comforted I She shall be less cruel than she was, mayhap. We shall see anon. And so a merry Christmas, my lord, a fair good night, and may she forget you as speedily as you shall rot"
"Was you speaking to me, sir?"
Mr. Merriam stood utterly still for a moment, then, fobbing his snuff-box, spun round upon the speaker, whipping out his sword as he did so.
A very tall man in a long, loose cloak, his features hidden in the shade of his wide-eaved hat, repeated the question:
"Was you speaking to me, sir?"
"I was not," answered Mr. Merriam, and, stepping quickly back, he levelled his sword threateningly. "Lift your head and let me look at you!" he commanded.
The man obeyed, showing a lean face with high cheekbones and a shock of fiery red hair.
"You'll be a Scot?" said Mr. Merriam, scowling.
"I am that."
"Well, yonder's another!" quoth Mr. Merriam, gesturing with his cane to the freshly-decapitated head above them. "Take my advice and don't prowl hereabouts, lest you come to a like end. Now, out of my path!"
The man stepped mutely aside, and Mr. Merriam sheathed his sword, then, becoming conscious of the other's fixed stare, thrust his mutilated hand hastily into his pocket.
"What the devil d'ye stare at?" he demanded angrily.
"Nothing, sir, forbye it ain't there. You ha'e lost a finger, and him up yonder his head! 'Tis you are the lucky ane—so far, I'm thinkin'. But as ye say, sir, here is no juist a verra healthy place for us Scots, so here's ane as will awa'. Gude nicht tae ye!"