For the first time since he'd started his story, Sir Hogshead raised the bottle of whisky and downed a great swallow. I watched in amazement as he stood there in his smudged makeup and blue dress, guzzling whisky after relating a tale that was disturbing on so many levels.
Those of us who were gathered around him in the billiard room of the Wanderers' Club remained silent for a long moment. We were weighed down by the gravity of Sir Hogshead's story, the sheer emotion with which he'd invested that terrible final sequence.
Yet there he stood, looking ridiculous in that dress, those gloves, those boots. The incongruity was appalling.
Finally, I took it upon myself to break the silence. "How did you escape, Algernon? Was there a struggle?"
Sir Hogshead sighed and shook his head. He
