"I prefer to say no more; you, Haberden, know as well as I do that the
most trivial laws of life are not to be broken with impunity; and for so
terrible an act as this, in which the very inmost place of the temple
was broken open and defiled, a terrible vengeance followed. What began
with corruption ended also with corruption." *       *       *       *       *

Underneath is the following in Dr. Haberden's writing:--

"The whole of the above is unfortunately strictly and entirely true. Your brother confessed all to me on that morning when I saw him in his
room. My attention was first attracted to the bandaged hand, and I
forced him to show it me. What I saw made me, a medical man of many
years standing, grow sick with loathing; and the story I was forced to
listen to was infinitely more frightful than I could have believed
possible. It has tempted me to doubt the Eternal Goodness which can
permit nature to offer such hideous possibilities; and if you had not
with your own eyes seen the end, I should have said to you--disbelieve
it all. I have not, I think, many more weeks to live, but you are young,
and may forget all this. "JOSEPH HABERDEN, M.D." In the course of two or three months I heard that Dr. Haberden had died
at sea, shortly after the ship left England. Miss Leicester ceased speaking, and looked pathetically at Dyson, who
could not refrain from exhibiting some symptoms of uneasiness. He stuttered out some broken phrases expressive of his deep interest in
her extraordinary history, and then said with a better grace--

"But, pardon me, Miss Leicester, I understood you were in some
difficulty. You were kind enough to ask me to assist you in some way." "Ah," she said, "I had forgotten that. My own present trouble seems of
such little consequence in comparison with what I have told you. But as
you are so good to me, I will go on. You will scarcely believe it, but I
found that certain persons suspected, or rather pretended to suspect
that I had murdered my brother. These persons were relatives of mine,
and their motives were extremely sordid ones; but I actually found
myself subject to the shameful indignity of being watched. Yes, sir, my
steps were dogged when I went abroad, and at home I found myself exposed
to constant if artful observation. With my high spirit this was more
than I could brook, and I resolved to set my wits to work and elude the
persons who were shadowing me. I was so fortunate as to succeed. I
assumed this disguise, and for some time have lain snug and unsuspected. But of late I have reason to believe that the pursuer is on my track;
unless I am greatly deceived, I saw yesterday the detective who is
charged with the odious duty of observing my movements. You, sir, are
watchful and keen-sighted; tell me, did you see any one lurking about
this evening?" "I hardly think so," said Dyson, "but perhaps you would give me some
description of the detective in question." "Certainly; he is a youngish man, dark, with dark whiskers. He has
adopted spectacles of large size in the hope of disguising himself
effectually, but he cannot disguise his uneasy manner, and the quick,
nervous glances he casts to right and left." This piece of description was the last straw for the unhappy Dyson, who
was foaming with impatience to get out of the house, and would gladly
have sworn eighteenth century oaths if propriety had not frowned on such
a course. "Excuse me, Miss Leicester," he said with cold politeness, "I cannot
assist you." "Ah!" she said sadly, "I have offended you in some way. Tell me what I
have done, and I will ask you to forgive me." "You are mistaken," said Dyson, grabbing his hat, but speaking with some
difficulty; "you have done nothing. But, as I say, I cannot help you. Perhaps," he added, with some tinge of sarcasm, "my friend Russell might
be of service." "Thank you," she replied; "I will try him," and the lady went off into a
shriek of laughter, which filled up Mr. Dyson's cup of scandal and
confusion. He left the house shortly afterwards, and had the peculiar delight of a
five-mile walk, through streets which slowly changed from black to gray,
and from gray to shining passages of glory for the sun to brighten. Here
and there he met or overtook strayed revellers, but he reflected that no
one could have spent the night in a more futile fashion than himself;
and when he reached his home he had made resolves for reformation. He
decided that he would abjure all Milesian and Arabian methods of
entertainment, and subscribe to Mudie's for a regular supply of mild and
innocuous romance. STRANGE OCCURRENCE IN CLERKENWELL. Mr. Dyson had inhabited for some years a couple of rooms in a moderately
quiet street in Bloomsbury, where, as he somewhat pompously expressed
it, he held his finger on the pulse of life without being deafened with
the thousand rumors of the main arteries of London. It was to him a
source of peculiar, if esoteric gratification, that from the adjacent
corner of Tottenham Court Road a hundred lines of omnibuses went to the
four quarters of the town; he would dilate on the facilities for
visiting Dalston, and dwell on the admirable line that knew extremest
Ealing and the streets beyond Whitechapel. His rooms, which had been
originally "furnished apartments," he had gradually purged of their more
peccant parts; and though one would not find here the glowing splendors
of his old chambers in the street off the Strand, there was something of
severe grace about the appointments which did credit to his taste. The
rugs were old, and of the true faded beauty; the etchings, nearly all of
them proofs printed by the artist, made a good show with broad white
margins and black frames, and there was no spurious black oak. Indeed,
there was but little furniture of any kind: a plain and honest table,
square and sturdy, stood in one corner; a seventeenth century settle
fronted the hearth; and two wooden elbow-chairs, and a bookshelf of the
Empire made up the equipment, with an exception worthy of note. For
Dyson cared for none of these things. His place was at his own bureau, a
quaint old piece of lacquered-work at which he would sit for hour after
hour, with his back to the room, engaged in the desperate pursuit of
literature, or, as he termed his profession, the chase of the phrase. The neat array of pigeon-holes and drawers teemed and overflowed with
manuscript and note-books, the experiments and efforts of many years;
and the inner well, a vast and cavernous receptacle, was stuffed with
accumulated ideas. Dyson was a craftsman who gloved all the detail and
the technique of his work intensely; and if, as has been hinted, he
deluded himself a little with the name of artist, yet his amusements
were eminently harmless, and, so far as can be ascertained, he (or the
publishers) had chosen the good part of not tiring the world with
printed matter.