Sandy tapped softly at the door.
"Who's there?" came Delamere's voice, in a somewhat startled tone, after
a momentary silence.
"It's me, suh; Sandy."
They both spoke softly. It was the rule of the house when Mr. Delamere
had retired, and though he was not at home, habit held its wonted sway.
"Just a moment, Sandy."
Sandy waited patiently in the hall until the door was opened. If the
room showed any signs of haste or disorder, Sandy was too full of his
own thoughts--and other things--to notice them.
"What do you want, Sandy," asked Tom.
"Mistuh Tom," asked Sandy solemnly, "ef I wuz in yo' place, an' you wuz
in my place, an' we wuz bofe in de same place, whar would I be?"
Tom looked at Sandy keenly, with a touch of apprehension. Did Sandy mean
anything in particular by this enigmatical inquiry, and if so, what? But
Sandy's face clearly indicated a state of mind in which consecutive
thought was improbable; and after a brief glance Delamere breathed more
freely.
"I give it up, Sandy," he responded lightly. "That's too deep for me."
"'Scuse me, Mistuh Tom, but is you heared er seed anybody er anything
come in de house fer de las' ten minutes?"
"Why, no, Sandy, I haven't heard any one. I came from the club an hour
ago. I had forgotten my key, and Sally got up and let me in, and then
went back to bed. I've been sitting here reading ever since. I should
have heard any one who came in."
"Mistuh Tom," inquired Sandy anxiously, "would you 'low dat I'd be'n
drinkin' too much?"
"No, Sandy, I should say you were sober enough, though of course you
may have had a few drinks.
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