Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. “But then they would find that check endorsed in his bureau. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. On this second excursion, forewarned, she would use no light and keep as quiet as a mouse, she vowed, and thus refrain from attracting the attention of the militia at the gates. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. Once in, the constable's manner appeared totally changed. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection.
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