and he looked with a haggard, surly stare on his visitor, through his great dark, deep-set prominent eyes, streaming fire, the one feature that transfixed the attention of all who saw him.  He had a great brutal mouth, and his nose was pimply and inflamed, for Bacchus has his fires as well as Cupid, only he applies them differently.  How polished showed Mr. Dangerfield’s chin opposed to the three days’ beard of Black Dillon! how delicate his features compared with the lurid proboscis, and huge, sensual, sarcastic mouth of the gentleman in the dirty morning-gown and shapeless slippers, who confronted him with his glare, an image of degradation and power!

‘Tuppince, Docthor Dillon,’ said a short, fat, dirty nymph, without stays or hoop, setting down a ‘naggin o’ whiskey’ between the medical man and his visitor.

The doctor, to do him justice, for a second or two looked confoundedly put out, and his eyes blazed fiercer as his face flushed.

‘Three halfpence outside, and twopence here, Sir,’ said he with an awkward grin, throwing the money on the table; ’that’s the way our shepherd deglubat oves, Sir; she’s brought it too soon, but no matter.’

It was not one o’clock, in fact.

’They will make mistakes, Sir; but you will not suffer their blunders long, I warrant,’ said Dangerfield, lightly.  ’Pray, Sir, can we have a room for a moment to ourselves?’

’We can, Sir, ’tis a liberal house; we can have any thing; liberty itself, Sir—­for an adequate sum,’ replied Mr. Dillon.

Whatever the sum was, the room was had, and the surgeon, who had palpably left his ‘naggin’ uneasily in company with the gentleman in the hat, and him without a wig, eyed Dangerfield curiously, thinking that possibly his grand-aunt Molly had left him the fifty guineas she was rumoured to have sewed up in her stays.

’There’s a great deal of diversion, Sir, in five hundred guineas, said Mr. Dangerfield, and the spectacles dashed pleasantly upon the doctor.

‘Ye may say that,’ answered the grinning surgeon, with a quiet oath of expectation.

‘’Tis a handsome fee, Sir, and you may have it.’

‘Five hundred guineas!’

’Ah, you’ve heard, Sir, perhaps, of the attempted murder in the park, on Doctor Sturk, of the Artillery; for which Mr. Nutter now lies in prison?’ said Mr. Dangerfield.

‘That I have, Sir.’

’Well, you shall have the money, Sir, if you perform a simple operation.’

‘’Tis not to hang him you want me?’ said the doctor, with a gloomy sneer.

’Hang him!—­ha, ha—­no, Sir, Doctor Sturk still lives, but insensible.  He must be brought to consciousness, and speech.  Now, the trepan is the only way to effect it; and I’ll be frank with you:  Doctor Pell has been with him half a dozen times, and he says the operation would be instantaneously fatal.  I don’t believe him.  So also says Sir Hugh Skelton, to whom I wrote in London—­I don’t believe him, either.  At all events, the man is dying, and can’t last very many days longer, so there’s nothing risked.  His wife wishes the operation; here’s her note; and I’ll give you five hundred guineas and—­what are you here for?’