She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. John’s demeanor shifted. Then, quite insensibly, her queenliness had declined. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. “Forgive me, madam,” he said stiffly, “but in such a case as this it is better that nothing in the room should be disturbed until the arrival of the police. “Dear me!” he said.
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