Zekiel Irons, the clerk, was down below about his business, at the communion table at the far end, lean, blue-chinned, thin-lipped, stooping over his quarto prayer books, and gliding about without noise, reverent and sinister.

When they came in, Nutter led the way to Lord Castlemallard's pew, which brought them up pretty near to the spot where grave Mr.Irons was prowling serenely.

The pew would soon want new flooring, Mr.Dangerfield thought, and the Castlemallard arms and supporters, a rather dingy piece of vainglory, overhanging the main seat on the wall, would be nothing the worse of a little fresh gilding and paint.
'There was a claim--eh--to one foot nine inches off the eastern end of the pew, on the part of--of the family--at Inchicore, I think they call it,' said Dangerfield, laying his riding-whip like a rule along the top to help his imagination--'Hey--that would spoil the pew.' 'The claim's settled, and Mr.Langley goes to the other side of the aisle,' said Nutter, nodding to Irons, who came up, and laid his long clay-coloured fingers on the top of the pew door, and one long, thin foot on the first step, and with half-closed eyes, and a half bow, he awaited their pleasure.
'The Langley family had _this_ pew,' said Dangerfield, with a side nod to that next his lordship's.
'Yes, Sir,' said Irons, with the same immutable semblance of a smile, and raising neither his head nor his eyes.
'And who's got it now ?' 'His reverence, Dr.Walsingham.' And so it came out, that having purchased Salmonfalls, the rector had compromised the territorial war that was on the point of breaking out among his parishioners, by exchanging with that old coxcomb Langley, the great square pew over the way, that belonged to that house, for the queer little crib in which the tenant of Inchicore had hitherto sat in state; and so there was peace, if not good will, in the church.
'Hey--let's see it,' said Dangerfield, crossing the aisle, with Irons at his heels, for he was a man that saw everything for himself, that ever so remotely concerned him or his business.
'We buried Lord -- --' (and the title he spoke very low) 'in the vault here, just under where you stand, on Monday last, by night,' said Irons, very gently and grimly, as he stood behind Dangerfield.
A faint galvanic thrill shot up through the flagging and his firmly planted foot to his brain, as though something said, 'Ay, here I am!' 'Oh! indeed ?' said Dangerfield, dryly, making a little nod, and raising his eyebrows, and just moving a little a one side--''Twas a nasty affair.' He looked up, with his hands in his breeches' pockets, and read a mural tablet, whistling scarce audibly the while.

It was not reverent, but he was a gentleman; and the clerk standing behind him, retained his quiet posture, and that smile, that yet was not a smile, but a sort of reflected light--was it patience, or was it secret ridicule ?--you could not tell: and it never changed, and somehow it was provoking.
'And some persons, I believe, had an unpleasant duty to do there,' said Dangerfield, abruptly, in the middle of his tune, and turning his spectacles fully and sternly on Mr.Irons.
The clerk's head bent lower, and he shook it; and his eyes, but for a little glitter through the eyelashes, seemed to close.
''Tis a pretty church, this--a pretty town, and some good families in the neighbourhood,' said Dangerfield, briskly; 'and I dare say some trout in the river--hey ?--the stream looks lively.' 'Middling, only--poor gray troutlings, Sir--not a soul cares to fish it but myself,' he answered.
'You're the clerk--eh ?' 'At your service, Sir.' '_Dublin_ man ?--or--' 'Born and bred in Dublin, your honour.' 'Ay--well! Irons--you've heard of Mr.Dangerfield--Lord Castlemallard's agent--I am he.

Good-morning, Irons;' and he gave him half-a-crown, and he took another look round; and then he and Nutter went out of the church, and took a hasty leave of one another, and away went Nutter on his nag, to the mills.