From this survey of my utter helplessness I turned suddenly to confront
the deep, dark, salient eyes of the disciple of Hahnemann, real or
pretended, fixed upon me with a glance that even his blue spectacles
could not deprive of its subtle intensity.
Where had I seen before orbs of the same snake-like peculiarity of
expression, or caught the outline of the profile which suddenly riveted
my gaze as the light partially revealed it, then subsided into shadow
again? I pondered this question for a moment while Dr. Englehart,
silent, expectant perhaps, stood with his hand tightly grasping the back
of a chair, on the seat of which he reposed one knee, in a position such
as defiant school-boys often assume before a pedagogue.
As I have said, his head and body were again in shadow, as was, indeed,
most of the chamber, for the rays which struggled through the thick
ground glass of my astral lamp were as mild as moonbeams, and as
unsatisfactory. But the light fell strong and red beneath the shade, and
the full glare of the astral lamp seemed centred on that pudgy hand, in
its inevitable glove, that had fixed so firm a gripe on the back of the
mahogany chair as to strain open one of the fingers of the tight, tawny
kid-glove worn by Dr. Englehart. This had parted slightly just above the
knuckle of the front-finger, and revealed the cotton stuffing within.
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