E. Maggot. "A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. I have—run away. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Her confession was still unmade. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out.
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