Hospitality is a watchword through all that part of Virginia.
There are no hotels, or inns, or anything of the sort, save only in the larger towns, and they are remote from one another.
If a traveler is caught upon the road at dinner time and wants a meal he has only to approach the nearest house, which may stand a mile away from the highway, and ask for it. He gets it, and he must not offer to pay for it, either.
The same unwritten law applies to the matter of a night’s lodging—and Nick Carter intended to make the most of it upon his arrival at Kingsgift, and had timed himself accordingly.
It was after eight o’clock in the evening when he drove upon the estate, and had still another mile to drive before he could reach the house. In due time he stopped his horses before the door, got down and tied them—and by that time a negro servant was at hand, ready to receive him.
“Hello, uncle,” said the detective. “I suppose your master can put me up for the night, can’t he?”
“I reckon so, sah,” was the reply. “Mistur Dinwiddie ain’t to home, sah, but dat don’ make no sort uh diff’ence, sah. You is welcome, jes de same. Whar you done come from, sah?”
“I am from the North, uncle.”
“Hush, chile! Is you, now! Dat mus’ be a won’ful country up dar, sah, from all I hearn tell about it. Jes you walk right into de house, sah; I’ll take care of the hosses—an’ they sure is fine ones. Looks to me like they done come from Fredericksburg. Reckon I’s seen ’em afore, sah.”
“Perhaps you have. Is your mistress at home, uncle?”