hat room Mr. Fiddyes, while wretched Peter
Starke was yet swinging between heaven and earth, was busily engaged in
arranging a variety of implements and materials, consisting of a large
quantity of plaster-of-Paris, two large pails of water, some tubs, and
other necessaries of the moulder's art. The room contained a large deal
table, and a wooden cross, not neatly planed and squared at the angles,
but of thick, narrow, rudely-sawn oaken plank, fixed by strong, heavy
nails. And while Mr. Fiddyes was thus occupied, the executioner
entered, bearing upon his shoulders the body of the wretched Peter,
which he flung heavily upon the table.

"You are sure he is dead?" asked Mr. Fiddyes.

"Dead as a herring," replied the other. "And yet just as warm and limp
as if he had only fainted."

"Then go to work at once," replied the sculptor, as turning his back
upon the hangman, he resumed his occupation.

The "work" was soon done. Peter was stripped and nailed upon the timber,
which was instantly propped against the wall.

"As fine a one as ever I see," exclaimed the executioner, as he regarded
the defunct murderer with an expression of admiration, as if at his own
handiwork, in having abruptly demolished such a magnificent animal.
"Drops a good bit for'ard, though. Shall I tie him up round the waist,
sir?"

"Certainly not," returned the sculptor. "Just rub him well over with
this oil, especially his head, and then you can go. Dr. Carnell will
settle with you."

"All right, sir."

The fellow did as ordered, and retired without another word; leaving
this strange couple, the living and the dead, in that dismal chamber.

Mr. Fiddyes was a man of strong nerve in such matters. He had been too
much accustomed to taking posthumous casts to trouble himself with any
sentiment of repugnance at his approaching task of taking what is called
a "piece-mould" from a body. He emptied a number of bags of the white
powdery plaster-of-Paris into one of the larger vessels, poured into it
a pail of water, and was carefully stirring up the mass, when a sound of
dropping arrested his ear.

_Drip, drip._

"There's something leaking," he muttered, as he took a second pail, and
emptying it, again stirred the composition.

_Drip, drip, drip._

"It's strange," he soliloquized, half aloud. "There is no more water,
and yet----"

The sound was heard again.

He gazed at the ceiling; there was no sign of damp. He turned his eyes
to the body, and