“Dat’s a fac’. Yassuh. Yassuh,” insisted Ham.
“Can you restore that young man to us, Tobey?” questioned Tremaine.
“Yassuh. Ef yo’ done pay me well fo’ it.”
“How much?”
Uncle Tobey advanced upon his questioner, raising his head up to whisper in Tremaine’s ear:
“T’ree t’ousan’ dollahs, sah—real money in mah hand. Ef yo’ don’ wanter to do it, den de young man, Marse Halstead, he-um done shuah die!”
“Nonsense!” scoffed the owner of the bungalow. “That’s more money than anyone ever pays a voodoo. Man, I’ll give you twenty dollars when young Halstead walks in on us. Not a cent more.”
“Yo’ll pay me de whole sum, sah, or yo’ll neber see de young marse ergin,” declared Uncle Tobey, in another whisper.
Henry Tremaine suddenly shot out his right hand, gripping the old voodoo’s arm tightly.