'Open the door, will you? it's me.'
'Aha—that I will;' and the bolt was withdrawn quickly.
'Why, neighbor, is this you? how are you? come in. Well, you are the last man I should have thought of seeing here this dark night—take a chair, neighbor—what's the news?' And as Squire Foster (for he was the gentleman whom Mr. Cross had honored with a visit) said this, he threw away the smile, or rather grin, that had played over his sallow and flabby face, and assumed his naturally sly and mouserly look. 'Any thing good abroad?'
Cross was in no talking humor: so let the gentleman run on, and in the mean time helping himself to a chair, sat down, and leaning back against the wall, fixed his eye, dark and lowry, full upon the little light that stood flaring and smoking on the middle of the table.
'Well, there's the devil to pay now!'
'Where? what, what, neighbor—any news?'
'None that you will want to hear. Ned Saunders is dead.'
'One rogue less, then, neighbor, ha, ha! he won't tell any tales then about here.'
'But suppose he has told the tale already?'
'That would be bad, neighbor; but you don't mean to say that he has?'