Just as he was about to go to bed he heard a sound at the window, a handful of pebbles striking against the glass. He got up to look out and saw some one standing on the doorstep below.
“It is I, Jethro Brown,” called a cautious voice. “Can you come down? I want to talk to you.”
Hugh took up his candle and stole on tiptoe down the stairs. All of the Ingmarssons were sound asleep. He contrived to shoot back the bolts and open the front door without a sound. The clerk from the hotel, looking more lank and awkward than ever in the candle light, stood waiting outside.
“I saw your window was bright and I had some things to tell you,” he said. “I am sorry to bring you down.”
Hugh blew out the candle and they sat down together on the doorstep.
“It is all right,” he said; “you wouldn’t have found me to-morrow. I am going away early in the morning.”
“Going?” echoed the other in a tone of the greatest disappointment and dismay. Then he heaved a deep sigh.
“Well,” he remarked, “I suppose it is the only thing you can do, but somehow I had kind of hoped you were going to stay.”
“Why?” Hugh stared in astonishment, for what difference could it make to any one whether he remained in Rudolm or went away?
Jethro sat staring at the ground between his feet and shuffled them uneasily several times.