As he did so his eyes lighted on the dead face. He
started; he took two steps nearer, with the candle raised. "God Almighty!" he cried. "That is Jane Galbraith!" The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer the door. "I know her, I tell you," he continued. "She was alive and hearty
yesterday. It's impossible she can be dead; it's impossible you should
have got this body fairly." "Sure, sir, you're mistaken entirely," said one of the men. But the other looked Fettes darkly in the eyes, and demanded the money
on the spot. It was impossible to misconceive the threat or to exaggerate the danger. The lad's heart failed him. He stammered some excuses, counted out the
sum, and saw his hateful visitors depart. No sooner were they gone than
he hastened to confirm his doubts. By a dozen unquestionable marks he
identified the girl he had jested with the day before. He saw, with
horror, marks upon her body that might well betoken violence. A panic
seized him, and he took refuge in his room. There he reflected at
length over the discovery that he had made; considered soberly the
bearing of Mr. K----'s instructions and the danger to himself of
interference in so serious a business, and at last, in sore perplexity,
determined to wait for the advice of his immediate superior, the class
assistant. This was a young doctor, Wolfe Macfarlane, a high favourite among all
the reckless students, clever, dissipated, and unscrupulous to the last
degree. He had travelled and studied abroad. His manners were agreeable
and a little forward. He was an authority on the stage, skilful on the
ice or the links with skate or golf-club; he dressed with nice audacity,
and, to put the finishing touch upon his glory, he kept a gig and a
strong trotting-horse. With Fettes he was on terms of intimacy; indeed,
their relative positions called for some community of life; and when
subjects were scarce the pair would drive far into the country in
Macfarlane's gig, visit and desecrate some lonely graveyard, and return
before dawn with their booty to the door of the dissecting-room. On that particular morning Macfarlane arrived somewhat earlier than his
wont. Fettes heard him, and met him on the stairs, told him his story,
and showed him the cause of his alarm, Macfarlane examined the marks on
her body. "Yes," he said, with a nod, "it looks fishy." "Well, what should I do?" asked Fettes. "Do?" repeated the other. "Do you want to do anything? Least said
soonest mended, I should say." "Some one else might recognise her," objected Fettes. "She was as well
known as the Castle Rock." "We'll hope not," said Macfarlane, "and if anybody does--well, you
didn't, don't you see, and there's an end. The fact is, this has been
going on too long. Stir up the mud, and you'll get K---- into the most
unholy trouble; you'll be in a shocking box yourself. So will I, if you
come to that. I should like to know how any one of us would look, or
what the devil we should have to say for ourselves, in any Christian
witness-box. For me, you know there's one thing certain--that,
practically speaking, all our subjects have been murdered." "Macfarlane!" cried Fettes. "Come now!" sneered the other. "As if you hadn't suspected it yourself!" "Suspecting is one thing----"

"And proof another. Yes, I know; and I'm as sorry as you are this should
have come here," tapping the body with his cane. "The next best thing
for me is not to recognise it; and," he added coolly, "I don't. You may,
if you please. I don't dictate, but I think a man of the world would do
as I do; and I may add, I fancy that is what K---- would look for at our
hands. The question is, Why did he choose us two for his assistants? And
I answer, Because he didn't want old wives." This was the tone of all others to affect the mind of a lad like Fettes. He agreed to imitate Macfarlane. The body of the unfortunate girl was
duly dissected, and no one remarked or appeared to recognise her. One afternoon, when his day's work was over, Fettes dropped into a
popular tavern and found Macfarlane sitting with a stranger. This was a
small man, very pale and dark, with coal-black eyes. The cut of his
features gave a promise of intellect and refinement which was but feebly
realised in his manners, for he proved, upon a nearer acquaintance,
coarse, vulgar, and stupid. He exercised, however, a very remarkable
control over Macfarlane; issued orders like the Great Bashaw; became
inflamed at the least discussion or delay, and commented rudely on the
servility with which he was obeyed. This most offensive person took a
fancy to Fettes on the spot, plied him with drinks, and honoured him
with unusual confidences on his past career. If a tenth part of what he
confessed were true, he was a very loathsome rogue; and the lad's
vanity was tickled by the attention of so experienced a man. "I'm a pretty bad fellow myself," the stranger remarked, "but Macfarlane
is the boy--Toddy Macfarlane I call him. Toddy, order your friend
another glass." Or it might be, "Toddy, you jump up and shut the door." "Toddy hates me," he said again. "Oh, yes, Toddy, you do!" "Don't you call me that confounded name," growled Macfarlane. "Hear him! Did you ever see the lads play knife? He would like to do
that all over my body," remarked the stranger. "We medicals have a better way than that," said Fettes. "When we dislike
a dead friend of ours, we dissect him." Macfarlane looked up sharply, as though this jest were scarcely to his
mind. The afternoon passed. Gray, for that was the stranger's name, invited
Fettes to join them at dinner, ordered a feast so sumptuous that the
tavern was thrown into commotion, and when all was done commanded
Macfarlane to settle the bill. It was late before they separated; the
man Gray was incapably drunk. Macfarlane, sobered by his fury, chewed
the cud of the money he had been forced to squander and the slights he
had been obliged to swallow. Fettes, with various liquors singing in his
head, returned home with devious footsteps and a mind entirely in
abeyance. Next day Macfarlane was absent from the class, and Fettes
smiled to himself as he imagined him still squiring the intolerable Gray
from tavern to tavern. As soon as the hour of liberty had struck he
posted from place to place in quest of his last night's companions. He
could find them, however, nowhere; so returned early to his rooms, went
early to bed, and slept the sleep of the just. At four in the morning he was awakened by the well-known signal. Descending to the door, he was filled with astonishment to find
Macfarlane with his gig, and in the gig one of those long and ghastly
packages with which he was so well acquainted. "What?" he cried. "Have you been out alone? How did you manage?" But Macfarlane silenced him roughly, bidding him turn to business. When
they had got the body upstairs and laid it on the table, Macfarlane made
at first as if he were going away.