"You speak like that to me, you black scoundrel," burst out the
Colonel, and he raised his arm as if to strike him.
"Yes—me! Ain't nobody gwine ter tech Marse Oliver while I lib. I's as free as you is, Marse Clayton. Ain't no man can lay a han' on me!"
The Colonel wheeled angrily and gave an order to one of the detectives in a low voice. Oliver stood irresolute. He knew nothing of Grant's whereabouts.
The detective moved from the Colonel's side and pushed his way closer to where Oliver stood.
"There's no use your denying it, young feller; we've heard the whole story from one of our men who saw you jump in front of him. You bring him out or we'll go through the place from cellar to garret."
Oliver gazed straight at the speaker and still held his peace. He was wondering where Grant had hidden himself and what John's chances were if the crowd searched the house. Malachi's outburst had left him in the dark.
Mrs. Horn and Richard, who had followed Oliver and were standing half way down the stairs; looked on in astonishment. Would Clayton dare to break all the rules of good manners, and search the house, she whispered to Richard.
Another of the detectives now stepped forward—a dark, ugly-looking man, with the face of a bulldog.
"Look here! I'll settle this. You and two men crossed the Square ten minutes ago. This nigger one of 'em; where's the other?"
Malachi turned and smiled significantly at Oliver—a smile he knew. It was the smile which the old man's face always wore whenever some tortuous lie of the darky's own concoction had helped his young master out of one of his scrapes.