Wood and several serving-men, all well armed, rushed into the room. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. “Quite on my own,” she said. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. “What happened to your parents, Lucy? Is it all right if I ask?” Lucy looked at her with a soft gaze. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. "Hear the letter," said Ireton, breaking the seal.
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