In a word, a moral plague ran through the city.

The noise, and hurry, and excitement, had for hundreds and hundreds an attraction they had no firmness to resist.
The contagion spread like a dread fever: an infectious madness, as yet not near its height, seized on new victims every hour, and society began to tremble at their ravings.
It was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon when Gashford looked into the lair described in the last chapter, and seeing only Barnaby and Dennis there, inquired for Hugh.
He was out, Barnaby told him; had gone out more than an hour ago; and had not yet returned.
'Dennis!' said the smiling secretary, in his smoothest voice, as he sat down cross-legged on a barrel, 'Dennis!' The hangman struggled into a sitting posture directly, and with his eyes wide open, looked towards him.
'How do you do, Dennis ?' said Gashford, nodding.

'I hope you have suffered no inconvenience from your late exertions, Dennis ?' 'I always will say of you, Muster Gashford,' returned the hangman, staring at him, 'that that 'ere quiet way of yours might almost wake a dead man.

It is,' he added, with a muttered oath--still staring at him in a thoughtful manner--'so awful sly!' 'So distinct, eh Dennis ?' 'Distinct!' he answered, scratching his head, and keeping his eyes upon the secretary's face; 'I seem to hear it, Muster Gashford, in my wery bones.' 'I am very glad your sense of hearing is so sharp, and that I succeed in making myself so intelligible,' said Gashford, in his unvarying, even tone.

'Where is your friend ?' Mr Dennis looked round as in expectation of beholding him asleep upon his bed of straw; then remembering he had seen him go out, replied: 'I can't say where he is, Muster Gashford, I expected him back afore now.