particularly
struck with this view of the case, but I was still more, and less
pleasingly, impressed with the sight of my quondam patient, Stagers, who
nodded to me familiarly from the opposite pavement.

I was not at all surprised when, that evening quite late, I found this
worthy seated waiting in my office. I looked around uneasily, which was
clearly understood by my friend, who retorted, "Ain't took nothin', Doc.
You don't seem right awful glad to see me. You needn't be afraid,--I've
only fetched you a job, and a right good one too."

I replied, that I had my regular business, that I preferred he should
get some one else, and pretty generally made Mr. Stagers conscious that
I had had enough of him.

I did not ask him to sit down, and, just as I supposed him about to
leave, he seated himself with a grin, remarking, "No use, Doc. Got to go
into it this one time."

At this I naturally enough grew angry, and used several rather violent
phrases.

"No use, Doc," remarked Stagers.

Then I softened down, and laughed a little, treated the thing as a joke,
whatever it was, for I dreaded to hear.

But Stagers was fate. Stagers was inevitable. "Won't do, Doc,--not even
money wouldn't get you off."

"No?" said I interrogatively, and as coolly as I could, contriving at
the same time to move towards the window. It was summer, the sashes were
up, the shutters drawn in, and a policeman whom I knew was lounging
opposite, as I had noticed when I entered. I would give Stagers a scare
anyhow; charge him with theft,--anything but get mixed up with his kind
again.

He must have understood me, the scoundrel, for in an instant I felt a
cold ring of steel against my ear, and a tiger clutch on my cravat. "Sit
down," he said; "what a fool you are. Guess you've forgot that there
coroner's business." Needless to say, I obeyed. "Best not try that
again," continued my guest. "Wait a moment,"--and, rising, he closed the
windows.

There was no resource left but to listen; and what followed I shall
condense, rather than relate it in the language employed by my friend
Mr. Stagers.

It appeared that another acquaintance, Mr. File, had been guilty of a
cold-blooded and long-premeditated murder, for which he had been tried
and convicted. He now lay in jail awaiting his execution, which was to
take place at Carsonville, Ohio, one month after the date at which I
heard of him anew. It seemed that, with Stagers and others, he had
formed a ban