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. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you.
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