“Oh, very well, then,” cried the lieutenant, “bring half-a-dozen of the lads with you, Mr Roberts;” and the hall had a very business-like aspect as, to Murray’s great disgust, Caesar led him into the study.
“Why, what are you doing, man?” he cried. “Mr Allen is not in here. I’ve searched the place three times.”
The black looked up at him quickly and showed his teeth; but it was in no grin of cunning, for the poor fellow’s face looked muddy and strange.
“Caesar know,” he whispered hoarsely, and the midshipman felt the fingers which gripped his wrist twitch and jerk as he was pulled towards the corner of the room just beyond the window.
Here the black stopped short, trembling violently, and pointed downward, before darting back, loosening Murray’s wrist and making for the door.
“Stop him, Roberts,” cried Murray; but his words were needless, for the way of exit was completely blocked by the midshipman and his men.
“What does he mean by all this?” said Mr Anderson angrily.
“I don’t quite know, sir,” cried Murray; but he followed and caught the black by the arm. “Come,” he continued; “show us where Mr Allen is.”
“Caesar berry frighten’, massa,” whispered the poor fellow, whose teeth were chattering; but he yielded to Murray’s hand and followed him back towards the corner of the little room, where his eyes assumed a fixed and staring look as he leaned forward and pointed downward at the thick rug of fur which covered that part of the floor.
“What does he mean?” cried the lieutenant. “Is the planter buried there?”