“I live about a quarter of a mile from here,” said Latimer. “The brick house with the bay windows, opposite the square. Number 89.”
“I’d rather see ye in,” replied Stamps, cautiously.
“I might go into a house I do not live in,” returned Latimer.
“Ye won’t. It’s too late. Ain’t ye gwine to say nothin’, Mr. Latimer?”
“Sheby’s good-lookin’ gal,” Stamps said. “Tom’s done well by her. Ef they get their claim through they’ll be powerful rich. Young D’Willerby he’s mightily in love with her—an’ he wouldn’t want no talk.”
“There is the house I live in at present,” said Latimer, pointing with his umbrella. “We shall be there directly.”
“Ministers don’t want no talk neither,” proceeded Stamps. “Ef a minister had made a slip an’ tried hard to hide it an’ then hed it proved on him he wouldn’t like it—an’ his church members wouldn’t like it—an’ his high class friends. There’d be a heap er trouble.”
“Number 89,” said Latimer. “You see I was speaking the truth. This is the gate; I am going in.”
His tone and method were so unsatisfactory and unmoved that—remembering Abner Linthicum—Stamps became desperate. He clutched Latimer’s arm and held it.