The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 389: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

372 THE COURT OF LONDON marks of dissipation on his features. There was also a cer- tain sinister expression on that countenance, which seemed actually encouraging to the purpose Emmerson had in view. As tor the barber himself, he of course saw that he was the object of this survey, but did not appear to take any special notice of it, doubtless fancying that it might arise from the morbid mood or disturbed humour of a wretched being con- demned to death. ‘“So you are the prison barber?’”’ said Emmerson, with his eyes still riveted on the man. ““T am, sir, just for the present,’ was the reply, “ the regular one being ill.” ‘Ah! then you are not the regular one?”’ said Emmer- son, inquiringly. ‘‘ How long have you acted in this capacity within these walls? ”’ ‘“ About six weeks,’’ was the man’s answer, as he prepared his shaving-tackle. ‘And are you likely to continue visiting the prison much longer? ”’ | ‘Well, I should say I am, sir, for the regular barber don’t seem to be getting well.” “Tn that case, then, you must come and shave me,”’ said Emmerson, “ every morning until —”’ And he stopped suddenly short, as a man pauses in horror upon the brink of a precipice which he suddenly reaches. ‘“T shall be very happy, sir,’’ was the barber’s observation, ‘“and I am sure I am very sorry to see a gentleman of your standing in such —”’ ‘ Knough,”’ said Emmerson, not sternly, but convulsively with horror. ‘‘ What is your name? ”’ he demanded, quickly. “ Richard Melmoth — Dick, they call me, sir. But I ain’t a master barber on my own account. I live with Mr. Coffin, who —”’ And then he also stopped short in sudden confusion, for he instantaneously perceived that he had just mentioned a name which might be already too well known to the doomed man. ‘Coffin! ’’ echoed the latter, with another strong shudder convulsing him from head to foot as he sat in his chair, so that the very chains clanked upon his legs with the powerful writhing of his limbs. ‘‘ Is not he the — the — you know what I mean? ”’ Gomichbooks (E(0)