“Then you will have no reason to regret your caution,” answered the gentleman.
“I cannot pretend to understand you.”
“I must urge upon you the necessity of a quick decision,” said the stranger. “Will it satisfy you to be told that the subject”—he again pointed to the hidden form—“expressly desired that this task should be deputed to you?”
“Are you mad?” said the young surgeon, “or am I, or do you think me so? What task—and who desired it?”
“The task,” said the gentleman, “of ascertaining, in the first instance, that life is indisputably extinct, and of then devoting the remains, at your complete discretion, to the interests of science. I may tell you”—he seemed to hesitate a moment—“that the subject suffered under a morbid apprehension of premature burial.”
“His apprehensions,” said the surgeon, “could be easily set at rest.”
“I hope so,” answered the stranger.
“But—but,” cried the surgeon in desperation—he made a movement as if clutching at his hair—“you must see, gentlemen, that I cannot possibly undertake the responsibility on these vague premises.”
“Question me, sir, if you will, and I will endeavour to answer to your satisfaction.”
“Tell me then. Who is this man? What was his complaint—presumably mortal? Was he a patient of mine that he selected me for this extraordinary business?”