"Did you come to rob me?" repeated Mr. Browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed.
There was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded—not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. Thomas Browning misinterpreted it. He thought the man was speechless from alarm.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded Browning, sternly.
The answer considerably surprised him.
"Why, pard, it's you, is it?" said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain.
"What do you mean by your impertinence?" asked the respectable Mr. Browning, angrily.
"Well, that's a good one! Who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?"
"What do you mean? Are you crazy, fellow?"
"No, I ain't crazy, as I know of, but I'm flabbergasted—that's what I am."
"Have done with this trifling and tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to the police?"