A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. Their conversation hung. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. Miss Charvill. The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes.
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