Again he called more distinctly than before:
"Rube! Rube!"
At the same instant from out of the clump of oaks a man's form appeared.
"All right. Come on," a voice was heard to say.
Pushing up the avenue leading to the mansion, which now more nearly resembled a rushing river than the smooth graveled road its builder had intended, he of the umbrella joined the man from among the trees, and both ascending the steps of the piazza, stood before the door of Three Oaks, sheltered from the storm at last.
"Pah! what a beast of a night!" exclaimed the owner of the alpaca umbrella, petulantly, shaking the water from his garments and closing it with a vicious snap. "I've had Satan's own time getting here, Rube. But it's just the night for our work. No fear of interruption from any inquisitive neighbors in a storm like this."
"You are right, Lije," replied the other, striking a match upon his trousers and touching it to a cigar. "But somehow I wish we had chosen any other night myself. It reminds one of the night the old man pegged out. You remember—it rained harder even than this."
Dim as is the light of the match, it is sufficient to show us the faces of these midnight visitors to old Jeremiah Mansfield's former home.
It is Mr. Elijah Callister who grasps the alpaca umbrella, it is his friend the bank burglar who now puffs away at the cigar—Reuben Tisdale by name.
"Well, upon my word, if you ain't the greatest fellow to bring up unpleasant memories I ever saw," exclaimed the stock-broker, crossly, as he produced a large key from his pocket, and inserting it in the rusty lock, threw open the hall door. "Why the mischief can't you let sleeping dogs lie? No man wants to be reminded of his past sins."