"A false alarm, Bussey," he said. "No danger. Just a lot of smoke from some towels in the kitchen. Were you frightened?"
"No," said Ben stolidly.
"Here's your box of pigment that I carried off. I'll leave it on your table," said Burton, crossing the room. His voice shook in his throat when he spoke. He came back and stood by the couch for a moment, looking down curiously at Ben's impassive face.
"Suppose it had been a real fire, Ben! Wouldn't you have been frightened then? What would you have done?"
Ben's face twitched for a moment with a passing emotion.
"I guess that would have been Henry Underwood's affair," he said indifferently, and turned his face away.
"Henry is downstairs now."
But Ben made no answer to this, and Burton left him. He ran down the stairs and looked into the surgery, the door of which was standing open.
"Come inside," the doctor said, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him. "What am I to think of this?"
"Of what?"