At nine o'clock that night Richard Burke left the Grange--an unusual thing for him--and walked quickly to the Four Alls. The inn was closed, and shutters darkened the windows; but, seeing a chink of light between the folds, the farmer knocked at the door. There was no answer. He knocked again and again, grumbling under his breath; at length, when his patience was almost exhausted, a window above opened, and, looking up, Mr. Burke dimly saw a head.
"Is that you, Grinsell?" he asked.
"No, massa."
"Oh, you're the black boy, Mr. Diggle's servant. Is your master in?"
"No, massa."
"Well, come down and open the door. I'll wait for him."
"Massa said no open door for nuffin."
"Confound you, open at once! He knows me, I'm a friend of his; open the door!"
"Massa said no open door for nobody."
The farmer pleaded, stormed, cursed, but Scipio Africanus was inflexible. His master had given him orders, and the boy had learnt, at no little cost, that it was the wisest and safest policy to obey. Finding that neither threats nor persuasion availed, Burke took a stride or two in the direction of home; then he halted, pondered for a moment, changed his mind, and began to pace up and down the road.