Whether the cause of my evasion, and of my flux of blood, was guessed, or whether his attention was withdrawn, by more momentous objects, from my condition, he proceeded in his task in silence.
A shallow bed and a slight covering of clay were provided for the hapless Watson.

Welbeck's movements were hurried and tremulous.

His countenance betokened a mind engrossed by a single purpose, in some degree foreign to the scene before him.

An intensity and fixedness of features were conspicuous, that led me to suspect the subversion of his reason.
Having finished the task, he threw aside his implement.

He then put into my hand a pocket-book, saying it belonged to Watson, and might contain something serviceable to the living.