As I turned the matter over in my mind, I half unconsciously scrutinized my visitor⁠—somewhat to his embarrassment⁠—and I liked his appearance as little as I liked his mission. He kept his station near the door, where the light was dim⁠—for the illumination was concentrated on the table and the patient’s chair⁠—but I could see that he had a somewhat sly, unprepossessing face and a greasy, red moustache that seemed out of character with his rather perfunctory livery; though this was mere prejudice. He wore a wig, too⁠—not that there was anything discreditable in that⁠—and the thumbnail of the hand that held his hat bore disfiguring traces of some injury⁠—which, again, though unsightly, in no wise reflected on his moral character. Lastly, he watched me keenly with a mixture of anxiety and sly complacency that I found distinctly unpleasant. In a general way, he impressed me disagreeably. I did not like the look of him at all; but nevertheless I decided to undertake the case.

“I suppose,” I answered, at length, “it is no affair of mine who the patient is or where he lives. But how do you propose to manage the business? Am I to be led to the house blindfolded, like the visitor to the bandit’s cave?”