“Turn up dat light! I want to see yo’ face better. Dah now—lemme look at you. Chambers, you’s as white as yo’ shirt! Has you see dat man? Has he be’n to see you?”
“Ye-s.”
“When?”
“Monday noon.”
“Monday noon! Was he on my track?”
“He—well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was. This is the bill you saw.” He took it out of his pocket.
“Read it to me!”
She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be something threatening about it. The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, and the heading in bold type, “$100 Reward.” Tom read the bill aloud—at least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his St. Louis address and the address of the Fourth-street agency; but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might also apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll.
Tom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket. He felt a chilly streak creeping down his back, but said as carelessly as he could—