"Your mamma ain't home; she went up to Rindley's. You ain't sick, are you, Mr. Izzy?"
A spasm of relief flashed over his face, and he snapped his dry fingers in an agony of nervousness. "Where's Renie? Quick!"
"She's in her room, layin' down. She ain't goin' to be home to the supper-party to-night, Mr. Izzy; she—What's the matter, Mr. Izzy?"
He was down the hallway in three running bounds and, without the preliminary of knocking, into his sister's tiny, semi-darkened bedroom, his breathing suddenly filling it. She sprang from her little chintz-covered bed, where she had flung herself across its top, her face and wrapper rumpled with sleep.
"Izzy!"
"'Sh-h-h!"
"Izzy, what—where—Izzy, what is it?"
"'Sh-h-h, for God's sake! 'Sh-h! Don't let 'em hear, Renie. Don't let 'em hear!"
Her swimming senses suddenly seemed to clear. "What's happened, Izzy?
Quick! What's wrong?"
He clicked the key in the lock, and in the agony of the same dry-fingered nervousness rubbed his hand back and forth across his dry lips. "Don't let 'em hear—the old man or ma—don't!"