Dapperwick’s fingers were fluttering moth-like over the page of George’s drawing-book, which lay open before him on his library’s writing table, around which we all stood: the old anatomist, the young artist, Luke Fidelis and myself. ‘Am I to understand,’ Dapperwick continued, ‘that the original of this subject is lying dead less than five miles from here?’ ‘Yes, at Garlick Hall,’ I told him. Dapperwick’s trembling fingers traced the outline of the naked corpse. Taking a downward viewpoint, George had drawn it with astonishing accuracy and truth, not only the outline, but the actual flesh of it, and with the complete illusion of three dimensions. ‘I only wish I could look at this in the flesh,’ Dapperwick went on. ‘I have never seen one, you know. They are exceedingly, exceedingly rare. But no. It is impossible for me to go to Garlick Hall, or anywhere outside this house. Quite impossible.’ His lips were pursed and faintly dribbling, but the eyes set in his masked, immobile face were on fire.
