’Tavius did as he was bidden, and Warren stepped into a room which served for office, smoking-room and bar. He followed his host through the room into a long corridor and up a flight of stairs into a spacious apartment neatly though primitively furnished. Having deposited the saddle-bags, the host turned to leave the room, pausing a moment to say:
“Well, mister, my name’s Ebenezer Maybee, an’ I’m proprietor of this hyar hotel. What may yer name be?”
Warren handed him a visiting card which he scanned closely by the light of the tallow candle.
“‘Warren Maxwell, England.’ Um, um, I s’pose you’re an ’ristocrat. Where bound? Canidy?”
“No,” replied Warren, “just travelling for pleasure.”
“Oh, I see. Rich. Well, Mr. Maxwell, yer supper’ll be ’bilin on the table inside a half-hour: Fried chicken, johnny cake and coffee.”
In less than an hour the smoking repast was served in the hotel parlor, and having discussed this, wearied by the day’s travel, Maxwell retired and speedily fell asleep.
It must have been near midnight when he was awakened by a loud rapping. What was it? Mingled with the knocking was a sound of weeping.
Jumping on to the floor, and throwing on some clothing, Maxwell went into the corridor. All was darkness; the rain still beat against the window panes now and again illumined by sheet lightning. Listening, he heard voices in the office or bar-room, and in that direction he started. As he drew nearer he recognized the tones of his host.
“What is it? What is the trouble?” he asked as he entered the room.