Then he produced a small crumpled doll, with a thread of black cotton around its neck, and began swinging it in front of him, laughing at Elizabeth all the time.
"Tell us," Pritchard asked, "what has become of Mathers ?" He stopped swinging the doll, shivered for a moment, and then laughed.
"I don't mind," he declared.

"I guess I don't mind telling.

You see, whatever I was when I did it, I am mad now--quite mad.

My friend Pritchard here says I am mad.

I must have been mad or I shouldn't have tried to hurt that dear beautiful lady over there." He leered at Elizabeth, who shrank back.
"She ran away from me some time ago," he went on, "sick to death of me she was.