Under the flame of the single burner which made the place ablaze with light, a plump, little man was writing hard, his nose very near the desk.

His head was perfectly bald and about the same drab tint as the papers.

He appeared pretty dusty too.
"I didn't notice whether there were any cobwebs on him, but I shouldn't wonder if there were because he looked as though he had been imprisoned for years in that little hole.

The way he dropped his pen and sat blinking my way upset me very much.

And his dungeon was hot and musty; it smelt of gas and mushrooms, and seemed to be somewhere 120 feet below the ground.