As usual, Packard was in anything but a pleasant mood when he entered Defarge’s room, and also, as usual, he had been drinking heavily.
“Well, you sent for me,” was Packard’s greeting. “What do you want?”
“Don’t!” whispered Defarge, slipping across the room and closing the door securely. “Be careful not to talk too loud. I would not have him catch on for the world, and some one might hear us.”
“Who is ‘him’?”
“You know.”
“Merriwell?”
“Of course.”
“I supposed so. If I remember correctly, you have not been in love with Frank Merriwell in the past.”
“Hardly,” admitted Defarge, although he took care to keep his voice lowered. “You know I have hated him. Sit down, Packard, and we will talk this matter over.”
Packard finally accepted the chair which Bertrand urged him to take. It was near a little table, on which sat a cut-glass decanter that contained a reddish-amber liquid. Defarge had placed that decanter in a conspicuous position for the purpose of having it fall beneath the eyes of his visitor.