Mocket's tilted chair came noisily to the floor. "What! In Richmond!—he in Richmond! When did he come? Where's he staying?"
"He came last night, and he's staying quietly at Bowler's Tavern. It isn't known that he's here, and he is not anxious that it should be known. He's here on business, and he goes to-morrow. That is all—and you're to say no word of what I tell you."
"All right," quoth Tom. "I won't blab. But I'd mightily like to see the man who shot Alexander Hamilton."
"I've told you he's not anxious for company."
"Oh, I know!" said Tom, not without humility. "I'm small fry. Well, there are curious things said about him, and you and he are strange bedfellows! How did it happen?"
"Tom, Tom," answered Rand, "you ask too many questions! It was an accident, or it was predestined and foreordained when I was dust blown about by the wind. You may take your choice according to your theology! I'm going now. Be at the House early to-morrow."
"Are you going to take that Mathews case? Young Mathews was here yesterday, swearing that if he couldn't get you, he would hang himself."
"I've said that I would take it."
"Ludwell Cary's for the other side."
"Yes, I know. I'll win."