"This is the worst job," he said, "that ever we have had—"
"Not a whit.—Brandy—give me a tumbler of brandy, Fogg. Some of our own particular, for I have something to say to you now, that a better opportunity than this for saying is not likely to occur."
"Come into my room then," said Fogg, "and we can talk quietly.—Do you think—that—that—"
"What?"
"That she is quite dead?"
"What do I care.—Let her crawl out of that, if she can."
With a jerk of his thumb, Watson intimated that the well was the "that" he referred to, and then he followed Fogg into the house, whistling as he went the same lively air with which he had frequently solaced his feelings in the hearing of poor Tobias Ragg. Never had Fogg been in such a state of agitation, except once, and that was long ago, upon the occasion of his first crime. Then he had trembled as he now trembled, but the
"Dull custom of iniquity"
had effectually blunted soon the keen edge of his conscience, and he had for years carried on a career of infamy without any other feeling than exultation at his success.—Why then did he suffer now? Had the well in the garden ever before received a victim? Was he getting alive to the excellence of youth and beauty?—Oh no—no. Fogg was getting old. He could not stand what he once stood in the way of conscience. When he reached his room—that room in which he had held the conference with Todd, he sank into a chair with a deep groan.
"What's the matter now?" cried Watson, who got insolent in proportion as Fogg's physical powers appeared to be upon the wane.