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WHILE these events were occurring on
the storm-lashed coast of St. George's
Channel, a sombre scene might have
been witnessed at Westbrooke Hall.

In an apartment of the mansion, furnished
with only two or three chairs and a long pine
table, Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, clad in his
old dressing-gown, with the sleeves rolled up,
was dissecting a dead body.

The corpse was that of the “wolf,” carried
off from the lonely spot near the sea; and at the
door stood one of the rough persons who had
effected the robbery of the grave, thus providing
the “subject” which the baronet was
engaged in dissecting.

Sir Murdaugh, with animated movements,

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and an expression of horrible avidity in his
eyes, cut away at the body: the man gazed at
him with interest and a curiosity which was
plain in his expression.

All at once the baronet turned, bloody scalpel
in hand, and grinned. His yellow tusks protruded
frightfully thereupon, and, to speak
plainly, he was extremely hideous.

“Gubbs!” he said.

The man thus addressed returned,—

“Your honor?”

“This seems a strange way of amusing myself,
Gubbs?”

As the words were uttered in the tone of an
inquiry, the man said,—

“Yes, your honor.”

The baronet grinned again. The occupation
in which he was engaged always put him in a
good humor. To see the flesh of his dead subjects
divide at the application of the knife,
almost invariably communicated a singular
and repulsive cheerfulness to the baronet's
expression.

“You wonder, I suppose, Gubbs,” he said,
“why I dissect. Well, suppose I tell you. It
is simple, and easily explained. When I was a
young man, I acquired a taste for surgery in

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the great hospitals of Paris. I was poor—was
then simple Murdaugh Westbrooke; studied
surgery. Afterwards I had no occasion to
enter the fraternity of leg and arm cutters; but
I was as fond as ever of this—I am fond of
it still; and so I amuse myself, you see,
Gubbs, in this highly scientific manner.”

The tusks became the most prominent
features in the baronet's face as he spoke.
His yellow teeth came out too, jagged and
awry; his eyes, bloodshot but glittering with
pleasure, rolled in their cavernous sockets.

“Other men like wine and cards and
women,” said the baronet, plunging his knife
into the body,—“I like this!”

And with a keen stroke, he cut into the subject,
making a clear circular incision which
nearly divided it.

“Every man to his taste! this is mine.”

And he eagerly repeated the stroke. As he
did so, the knife slipped, and inflicted a slight
wound upon his hand.

“Take care, your honor,” said the man, “I've
hearn that was dangerous.”

“What?”

“To cut yourself while you were carving
away at one of them.”

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And he pointed to the body.

“True, it is sometimes. But a little water
will prevent danger.”

And going to a basin he washed his hands
and looked at it.

The knife had punctured the palm and blood
exuded.

“An ugly scratch!” he muttered, “but no
harm can come of it now.”

As he spoke, he bound a handkerchief around
the hand, and returned to his work.

“Anything further to do, to-night, your honor?”
said the man.

“Nothing, but come back to-morrow.”

All at once hurried steps were heard, and the
door was thrown open.

As it flew back, Wilde rushed in; his face
flushed, his eyes sparkling, his clothes wet and
dripping.

“You have it!” exclaimed the baronet.

“Yes, your honor,—but I am nearly dead.
He—that one—pursued me; both boats were
wrecked on the reef yonder. I swam ashore,
he after me,—he clutched me just as I touched
land. I stabbed him, and got off in the dark.”

The baronet had scarcely listened.

“The paper!” he exclaimed.

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“Here it is, your honor.”

And Wilde drew forth the leaf which he
had stolen from the register,—the proof of Sir
Murdaugh's marriage with Marianne Earle.

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