Похититель трупов

           ‘That’sthedoctor,’criedthelandlord. ‘Looksharp,andyoucancatchhim.’ 

           ItwasbuttwostepsfromthesmallparlourtothedooroftheoldGeorgeInn; thewideoakstaircaselandedalmostinthestreet; therewasroomforaTurkeyrugandnothingmorebetweenthethresholdandthelastroundofthedescent; butthislittlespacewaseveryeveningbrilliantlylitup,notonlybythelightuponthestairandthegreatsignal-lampbelowthesign,butbythewarmradianceofthebar-roomwindow. TheGeorgethusbrightlyadvertiseditselftopassers-byinthecoldstreet. Fetteswalkedsteadilytothespot,andwe,whowerehangingbehind,beheldthetwomenmeet,asoneofthemhadphrasedit,facetoface. Dr.Macfarlanewasalertandvigorous.Hiswhitehairsetoffhispaleandplacid,althoughenergetic,countenance. Hewasrichlydressedinthefinestofbroadclothandthewhitestoflinen,withagreatgoldwatch-chain,andstudsandspectaclesofthesamepreciousmaterial. Heworeabroad—foldedtie,whiteandspeckledwithlilac,andhecarriedonhisarmacomfortabledriving-coatoffur. Therewasnodoubtbuthebecamehisyears,breathing,ashedid,ofwealthandconsideration; anditwasasurprisingcontrasttoseeourparloursot—bald,dirty,pimpled,androbedinhisoldcamletcloak—confronthimatthebottomofthestairs. 

           ‘Macfarlane!’hesaidsomewhatloudly,morelikeaheraldthanafriend.