There was a long table in the aforesaid hole in the wall, bearing a strong family likeness to a dissecting-table; upon which the stark figure was laid, and the pest-cart driver disappeared.

The apothecary held a mirror close to the face; applied his ear to the pulse and heart; held a pocket-mirror over his mouth, looked at it; shook his head; and set down the candle with decision.
"The man is dead, sir!" was his criticism, "dead as a door nail! All the medicine in the shop wouldn't kindle one spark of life in such ashes!" "At least, try! Try something--bleeding for instance," suggested Sir Norman.
Again the apothecary examined the body, and again he shook his head dolefully.
"It's no use, sir: but, if it will please, you can try." The right arm was bared; the lancet inserted, one or two black drops sluggishly followed and nothing more.
"It's all a waste of time, you see," remarked the apothecary, wiping his dreadful little weapon, "he's as dead as ever I saw anybody in my life! How did he come to his end, sir--not by the plague ?" "I don't know," said Sir Norman, gloomily.

"I wish you would tell me that." "Can't do it, sir; my skill doesn't extend that far.

There is no plague-spot or visible wound or bruise on the person; so he must have died of some internal complaint--probably disease of the heart." "Never knew him to have such a thing," said Sir Norman, sighing.

"It is very mysterious and very dreadful, and notwithstanding all you have said, I cannot believe him dead.