It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, when Oleah Tompkins tired of dancing walked into the conservatory, and from there into the garden. His thoughts naturally flew back to his home, to his parents, and to her he had learned to love with all the warmth and ardor of his Southern heart. A hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned and beheld standing behind him a mulatto, one who had played the leading violin in the orchestra. He was between forty and fifty years of age, a man of grave and somber countenance.
"Well, sir, what will you have?" demanded the lieutenant, turning sharply about.
"Is your name Tompkins?" asked the man.
"Yes. What is your business with me?"
"I was anxious to be sure," said the mulatto, "for I assure you, Lieutenant Tompkins, that I may sometime be able to give you some valuable information."
"If you have any information to give, why not give it now?" demanded the young officer.
"I have reasons that I can not give. To tell the reasons would be to give the information."
Oleah looked fixedly into the mulatto's face. There was something unusual about him, something that impressed the young lieutenant strangely, yet, what it was, he could not tell.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"They call me Yellow Steve."