How I was watched and guarded, and how hurried over a thousand miles of rail to my fate, little concerns us now. I find it dreadful to recall it to memory. Above all, an aching eagerness for revenge upon the man who had caused me these sufferings was uppermost in my mind. Could I not fool the wretch and save myself? Of a sudden an idea came into my consciousness. Then it grew and formed itself, became possible, probable, seemed to me sure. “Ah,” said I, “Stagers, give me something to eat and drink.” I had not tasted food for two days. Within a day or two after my arrival, I was enabled to see File in his cell, on the plea of being a clergyman from his native place. I found that I had not miscalculated my danger. The man did not appear to have the least idea as to how I was to help him. He only knew that I was in his power, and he used his control to insure that something more potent than friendship should be enlisted in his behalf. As the days went by, his behavior grew to be a frightful thing to witness. He threatened, flattered, implored, offered to double the sum he had promised if I would save him. My really reasonable first thought was to see the governor of the State, and, as Stagers’s former physician, make oath to his having had many attacks of epilepsy followed by brief periods of homicidal mania. He had, in fact, had fits of alcoholic epilepsy. Unluckily, the governor was in a distant city. The time was short, and the case against my man too clear. Stagers said it would not do. I was at my wit’s end. “Got to do something,” said File, “or I’ll attend to your case, doc.” “But,” said I, “suppose there is really nothing?” “Well,” said Stagers to me when we were alone, “you get him satisfied, anyhow. He’ll never let them hang him, and perhaps--well, I’m going to give him these pills when I get a chance. He asked to have them. But what’s your other plan?” Stagers knew as much about medicine as a pig knows about the opera. So I set to work to delude him, first asking if he could secure me, as a clergyman, an hour alone with File just before the execution. He said money would do it, and what was my plan? “Well,” said I, “there was once a man named Dr. Chovet. He lived in London. A gentleman who turned highwayman was to be hanged. You see,” said I, “this was about 1760. Well, his friends bribed the jailer and the hangman. The doctor cut a hole in the man’s windpipe, very low down where it could be partly hid by a loose cravat. So, as they hanged him only a little while, and the breath went in and out of the opening below the noose, he was only just insensible when his friends got him--” “And he got well,” cried Stagers, much pleased with my rather melodramatic tale. “Yes,” I said, “he got well, and lived to take purses, all dressed in white. People had known him well, and when he robbed his great-aunt, who was not in the secret, she swore she had seen his ghost.”