"Well."
"The Pompadour coloured coat! Ah, I recollect the Pompadour coloured coat, too. I thought I knew your face. There was a something, too, about your voice that haunted me like the remembrance of a dream. You—you—are—"
"What?"
"Help—help! Tell me if I be mad, or if you are a duke in the disguise of a barber, or a barber in the likeness of a duke. Ah, that Pompadour coloured coat, it sticks—sticks in my throat."
"I wish it did," growled Todd. "What do you mean, Mr. Mundell?—Pray express yourself. What do you mean by those incoherent expressions?"
"Are you human?"
"Dear me, I hope so. Really, sir, you look quite wild."
"Stop—stop—let me think—the face—the voice—the Pompadour coat—the costume fit for a duke. It must be so.—Man or devil, I will grapple with you, for you have got my pearls and my money. My £8000—my gold that I have lived, that I have toiled for—that I have schemed, and cheated to keep up—that I have shut my eyes to all sights for—and my heart to all tender emotions. You have my money, and I will denounce you!"
"Stop," said Todd.
The usurer paused in what he was saying, but he still glared at Todd fiercely, and his eyes protruded from their orbits, while the muscles of his mouth worked as though he were still trying to utter audible sounds, but by some power was denied the capacity to utter them.