"We'll see," was the curt interruption; "hurry, please."
And Mr. Wilson disappeared, noiselessly, up the broad stairway.
In a short time he returned, closely followed by a stout, middle-aged negress, whose face, much swollen with weeping, reflected the degree of terror often described as speechless. She approached Mr. Converse with obvious reluctance and trepidation; but upon observing her condition his sternness relaxed, and he sought to reassure her that he was somewhat less formidable than an ogre.
"Sam is in the servants' quarters," Mr. Slayden Wilson explained. "He does not fully realize what the taking away of a kind master and friend means. Ordinarily he is inclined to be jocular, and the shock has not yet had time to exert its sobering influence, so pray overlook any facetiousness or apparent levity."
"Very good—if you will only fetch him."
It was not difficult to calm Melissa when it became evident to her understanding that this burly, unassuming man desired nothing more momentous of her than the shoes worn the preceding night by her mistress.
Miss Joyce's shoes—the idea!
But astonishment and awakened curiosity made her pliable, and the articles of apparel were not long in forthcoming.
Converse placed one on the palm of his right hand; but whatever of softness and femininity it might have imparted, such influences were apparently lost upon the impassive figure who scrutinized it so closely. His cold eyes took in the fact that the heel and sole were stained with yellow sand, and that innumerable bits of fine gravel yet clung to it.
To any person beneath that roof—save himself and McCaleb, of course,—the circumstance would have appeared ridiculously trifling, yet it made him terribly, dangerously silent and absorbed.