Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. The same night he met Meddoes and Drummond together, the latter over from Paris on a week’s leave from the Embassy. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. What is it that you wish from me? You would like to arrest me for spying? Very well, arrest me.
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