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--"