Cowardly and plotting; but when his cowardice was wrought upon to a certain pitch, he would wax daring and fierce from desperation.
He walked down to the village from the little gate of the Brass Castle, where he had talked with Mr.Dangerfield, appointing eight o'clock next morning for making the deposition; late now for all purposes; but to nail him to a line of _viva voce_ evidence when he should come to be examined on Charles Nutter's approaching trial.

The whole way along he walked with the piece of silver, which Mr.Paul Dangerfield had given him, griped tight in his crooked fingers, in his breeches' pocket--no change in his grim and sinister face--no turn of the head--no side glance of the eye--all dark, rigid, and tense.
The mechanism of long habit brought him round the corner to the door of the Salmon House, the 'public' facing, but with the length of the street interposing, the Phoenix, whose lights were visible through and under the branches of the village tree.

His mind wandered back to the Mills with a shock, and glided stealthily past the Brass Castle without dwelling there, and he looked down the street.

Over the bridge at the Elms, lay death in its awful purity.

At his left, in the Gray Stone House, was Doctor Sturk--the witness with sealed lips--the victim of Charles Archer's mysterious prowess; and behind lay the church-yard, and the quiet little church with that vault and nameless coffin.
Altogether, the suggestions and associations about him were not cheerful or comfortable.