In a little space the coach stopped, and De Vessey was invited to alight. He was led up a narrow staircase; a door flew open. He entered. Could it be; surely imagination betrayed his senses! He could scarcely believe himself once more in the apartment of the painter! Yet there was no mistaking what he saw. The ebony cabinet, the easel, table, chair, all left as he saw them yesterday. But the living occupants were strangely diverse. Two or three functionaries of the civil power, and, in one corner, a black cloth, spread on the floor, concealed some unknown object. The whole was lighted by a feeble lamp from the ceiling. A dusky haze from the damp foggy atmosphere rendered objects ill-defined, indistinct, almost terrific to an excited imagination. In addition to the usual articles of furniture, was a desk, with writing materials, at which one of the officers of justice appeared dictating something to his secretary.
On De Vessey's entrance, the scribe made some minute preparatory to his examination, which commenced as follows:
"Sigismund de Vessey?"
"The same."
"Being accused upon oath before us of murder, thou art brought hither to confront thine accusers, and to answer this heinous charge. First, let the body be produced."
The cloth was removed, and De Vessey beheld the corpse lying on a mattress.
"Knowest thou this body?"
"I do," said the cavalier firmly.
"When was he seen by thee alive, the last time?"