Ezra took the scrap of paper, saying there must be some letter inside, and mechanically unfolded it, when the hoarse scream that he uttered almost made Napoleon Pompey jump through the window.
“Where did you get this?” he panted.
“Darkie gin it ter me jes’ while back.”
“Who gave it? What was his name? Where did he live? Who sent him here?” asked Ezra in a breath.
“Darkie he didn’t go for to say nuffin, on’y jes’ gin dat ar, an’ tole me ter pike to ole Uncle David wid it.”
Ezra darted out of the house and ran like a mad-man to Madame’s and burst into the room where she and Uncle David were just sitting down to supper. He held out the scrap of paper to the old man and gasped:
“Olive is somewhere!”
“I presume that was already known, and that it can hardly be considered news,” said Madame’s cool cutting voice, which brought Ezra somewhat to his senses.
“She is somewhere near. She sent a negro boy with this. Read it.” He shoved it under Uncle David’s nose.
“I can’t see to read it, read it aloud, let me hear all she says in her letter,” said the old man with trembling eagerness.