Похититель трупов

           Onedarkwinternight—ithadstruckninesometimebeforethelandlordjoinedus —therewasasickmanintheGeorge,agreatneighbouringproprietorsuddenlystruckdownwithapoplexyonhiswaytoParliament; andthegreatman’sstillgreaterLondondoctorhadbeentelegraphedtohisbedside. ItwasthefirsttimethatsuchathinghadhappenedinDebenham,fortherailwaywasbutnewlyopen,andwewereallproportionatelymovedbytheoccurrence. 

           ‘He’scome,’saidthelandlord,afterhehadfilledandlightedhispipe. 

           ‘He?’saidI. ‘Who?—notthedoctor?’ 

           ‘Himself,’repliedourhost. 

           ‘Whatishisname?’ 

           ‘DoctorMacfarlane,’saidthelandlord. 

           Fetteswasfarthroughhisthirdtumbler,stupidlyfuddled,nownoddingover,nowstaringmazilyaroundhim; butatthelastwordheseemedtoawaken,andrepeatedthename‘Macfarlane’twice,quietlyenoughthefirsttime,butwithsuddenemotionatthesecond. 

           ‘Yes,’saidthelandlord,‘that’shisname,DoctorWolfeMacfarlane.’ 

           Fettesbecameinstantlysober; hiseyesawoke,hisvoicebecameclear,loud,andsteady,hislanguageforcibleandearnest. Wewereallstartledbythetransformation,asifamanhadrisenfromthedead. 

           ‘Ibegyourpardon,’hesaid,‘IamafraidIhavenotbeenpayingmuchattentiontoyourtalk. WhoisthisWolfeMacfarlane?’