"But surely, old fellow, you're not awfully fit, are you?"

"Fit? My dear Bunny, I'm dead--I'm at the bottom of the
sea--and don't you forget it for a minute."

"But are you all right, or are you not?"

"No, I'm half-poisoned by Theobald's prescriptions and putrid
cigarettes, and as weak as a cat from lying in bed."

"Then why on earth lie in bed, Raffles?"

"Because it's better than lying in gaol, as I am afraid YOU
know, my poor dear fellow. I tell you I am dead; and my one
terror is of coming to life again by accident. Can't you see?
I simply dare not show my nose out of doors--by day. You have
no idea of the number of perfectly innocent things a dead man
daren't do. I can't even smoke Sullivans, because no one man
was ever so partial to them as I was in my lifetime, and you
never know when you may start a clew."

"What brought you to these mansions?"

"I fancied a flat, and a man recommended these on the boat; such
a good chap, Bunny; he was my reference when it came to signing
the lease. You see I landed on a stretcher--most pathetic
case--old Australian without a friend in old country--ordered
Engadine as last chance--no go--not an earthly--sentimental wish
to die in London--that's the history of Mr. Maturin. If it
doesn't hit you hard, Bunny, you're the first. But it hit