ed. It was the policy of Mr. K---- to ask no
questions in his dealings with the trade. "They bring the body, and we
pay the price," he used to say, dwelling on the alliteration--"_quid pro
quo_." And, again, and somewhat profanely, "Ask no questions," he would
tell his assistants, "for conscience' sake." There was no understanding
that the subjects were provided by the crime of murder. Had that idea
been broached to him in words, he would have recoiled in horror; but the
lightness of his speech upon so grave a matter was, in itself, an
offence against good manners, and a temptation to the men with whom he
dealt. Fettes, for instance, had often remarked to himself upon the
singular freshness of the bodies. He had been struck again and again by
the hangdog, abominable looks of the ruffians who came to him before the
dawn; and putting things together clearly in his private thoughts, he
perhaps attributed a meaning too immoral and too categorical to the
unguarded counsels of his master. He understood his duty, in short, to
have three branches: to take what was brought, to pay the price, and to
avert the eye from any evidence of crime.

One November morning this policy of silence was put sharply to the test.
He had been awake all night with a racking toothache--pacing his room
like a caged beast or throwing himself in fury on his bed--and had
fallen at last into that profound, uneasy slumber that so often follows
on a night of pain, when he was awakened by the third or fourth angry
repetition of the concerted signal. There was a thin, bright moonshine;
it was bitter cold, windy, and frosty; the town had not yet awakened,
but an indefinable stir already preluded the noise and business of the
day. The ghouls had come later than usual, and they seemed more than
usually eager to be gone. Fettes, sick with sleep, lighted them
upstairs. He heard their grumbling Irish voices through a dream; and as
they stripped the sack from their sad merchandise he leaned dozing, with
his shoulder propped against the wall; he had to shake himself to find
the men their money. As he did so his eyes lighted on the dead face. He
started; he took two steps nearer, with the candle raised.

"God Almighty!" he cried. "That is Jane Galbraith!"

The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer the door.

"I know her, I tell you," he continued. "She was alive and hearty
yesterday. It's impossible she can be dead; it's impossible you should
have got thi