A happy thought struck me.  We would take a cast of it in plaster of Paris.  This would give us the solid figure, and satisfy all our wishes.  But how to do it?  The movements of the creature would disturb the setting of the plastic covering, and distort the mold.  Another thought.  Why not give it chloroform?  It had respiratory organs,—­that was evident by its breathing.  Once reduced to a state of insensibility, we could do with it what we would.  Doctor X——­ was sent for; and after the worthy physician had recovered from the first shock of amazement, he proceeded to administer the chloroform.  In three minutes afterward we were enabled to remove the fetters from the creature’s body, and a modeler was busily engaged in covering the invisible form with the moist clay.  In five minutes more we had a mold, and before evening a rough facsimile of the Mystery.  It was shaped like a man—­distorted, uncouth, and horrible, but still a man.  It was small, not over four feet and some inches in height, and its limbs revealed a muscular development that was unparalleled.  Its face surpassed in hideousness anything I had ever seen.  Gustav Dore, or Callot, or Tony Johannot, never conceived anything so horrible.  There is a face in one of the latter’s illustrations to Un Voyage ou il vous plaira, which somewhat approaches the countenance of this creature, but does not equal it.  It was the physiognomy of what I should fancy a ghoul might be.  It looked as if it was capable of feeding on human flesh.

Having satisfied our curiosity, and bound every one in the house to secrecy, it became a question what was to be done with our Enigma?  It was impossible that we should keep such a horror in our house; it was equally impossible that such an awful being should be let loose upon the world.  I confess that I would have gladly voted for the creature’s destruction.  But who would shoulder the responsibility?  Who would undertake the execution of this horrible semblance of a human being?  Day after day this question was deliberated gravely.  The boarders all left the house.  Mrs. Moffat was in despair, and threatened Hammond and myself with all sorts of legal penalties if we did not remove the Horror.  Our answer was, “We will go if you like, but we decline taking this creature with us.  Remove it yourself if you please.  It appeared in your house.  On you the responsibility rests.”  To this there was, of course, no answer.  Mrs. Moffat could not obtain for love or money a person who would even approach the Mystery.

The most singular part of the affair was that we were entirely ignorant of what the creature habitually fed on.  Everything in the way of nutriment that we could think of was placed before it, but was never touched.  It was awful to stand by, day after day, and see the clothes toss, and hear the hard breathing, and know that it was starving.

Ten, twelve days, a fortnight passed, and it still lived.  The pulsations of the heart, however, were daily growing fainter, and had now nearly ceased.  It was evident that the creature was dying for want of sustenance.  While this terrible life-struggle was going on, I felt miserable.  I could not sleep.  Horrible as the creature was, it was pitiful to think of the pangs it was suffering.