—There, Mr. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. There's not his peer among the peerage. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. As for the doctor, he found a pleasure in this service that would have puzzled him had he paused to analyse it.
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