"Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. As soon as he became convalescent, and all fears of his premature dissolution were at an end, Wild recommenced his rigorous treatment. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. His literary instincts were reviving. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house.
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