The Fortunes of Oliver Horn [130]
dare to break all the rules of good manners, and search the house, she whispered to Richard.
Another of the detectives now stepped forward-- a dark, ugly-looking man, with the face of a bulldog.
"Look here! I'll settle this. You and two men crossed the Square ten minutes ago. This nigger one of 'em; where's the other?"
Malachi turned and smiled significantly at Oliver --a smile he knew. It was the smile which the old man's face always wore whenever some tortuous lie of the darky's own concoction had helped his young master out of one of his scrapes.
"I am not here to answer your questions," Oliver replied quietly, a feeling of relief in his heart.
The officer turned quickly and said with an oath to one of the detectives, "Send one man to the alley in the rear, and place another at this door. I'll search the yard and the house. Let no one of the family leave this hall. If that nigger moves put the irons on him."
The men outside made a circle about the house, some of them moving up the alley to watch the rear. Clayton leaned against the jamb of the door. He addressed no word to Richard or Mrs. Horn, nor did be look their way. Oliver stood with folded arms under the eight-sided hall-lantern which an officer had lighted. Now and then he spoke in restrained tones to his mother, who had taken her seat on the stairs, Richard standing beside her. It was not the fate of the soldier that interested her--it was the horror of the search. Richard had not spoken except to direct Malachi to obey the officer's orders. The horror of the search did not affect the inventor--that only violated the sanctity of the home: it was the brute force behind it which appalled him--that might annihilate the Republic.
"It is the beginning of the end," he said to himself.
The tread of heavy feet was again heard coming through the hall. Malachi turned quickly and a subdued smile lighted his wrinkled face.
The two detectives were alone!
"He is not there, Colonel Clayton," said the man with the bull-dog face, slipping his pistol into his hip pocket. "We went through the yard and the out- houses like a fine tooth-comb and made a clean sweep of the cellar. He may have gotten over the wall, but I don't think it. There's a lot of broken bottles on top. I'll try the bedrooms now."
As the words fell from his lips Mrs. Horn rose from her seat on the stairs, straight as a soldier on guard. The light from the lantern illumined her gray hair and threw into strong relief her upraised hand--the first of millions raised in protest against the invasion of the homes of the South. The detective saw the movement and a grim smile came into his face.
"Unless they'll bring him out," he added, slowly. "This young feller knows where he is. Make him tell."
Colonel Clayton turned to Oliver. "Is he upstairs, Oliver?"
"No."
"You give me your word of honor. Oliver, that he is not upstairs?"
"I do."
"Of course he'd say that. Here, I'll know pretty d-- quick," muttered the detective moving toward the stairway.
The Colonel stepped forward and barred his way with his arm.
"Stay where you are! You don't know these people. If Oliver says he is not upstairs I believe him. These Horns don't know how to lie. Your information is wrong. The man never entered the house. You must look for the Yankee somewhere else." Waiting until the detectives had left the hall, he raised his hat, and with some show of feeling said:
"I am sorry, Sallie, that we had to upset you so. When you and Richard see this matter in its true light you'll think as I do. If these scoundrels are to be permitted to come here and burn our homes we want to know which side our friends are on."
"You are the judge of your own conduct, John Clayton," she answered, calmly. "This night's work will follow you all your life. Malachi, show Colonel Clayton to the door and close it behind him."
Three nights later Malachi admitted a man he had never seen before. He was short and thick-set and had a grim, firmly set jaw. Under the lapel of his coat was a gold shield. He
Another of the detectives now stepped forward-- a dark, ugly-looking man, with the face of a bulldog.
"Look here! I'll settle this. You and two men crossed the Square ten minutes ago. This nigger one of 'em; where's the other?"
Malachi turned and smiled significantly at Oliver --a smile he knew. It was the smile which the old man's face always wore whenever some tortuous lie of the darky's own concoction had helped his young master out of one of his scrapes.
"I am not here to answer your questions," Oliver replied quietly, a feeling of relief in his heart.
The officer turned quickly and said with an oath to one of the detectives, "Send one man to the alley in the rear, and place another at this door. I'll search the yard and the house. Let no one of the family leave this hall. If that nigger moves put the irons on him."
The men outside made a circle about the house, some of them moving up the alley to watch the rear. Clayton leaned against the jamb of the door. He addressed no word to Richard or Mrs. Horn, nor did be look their way. Oliver stood with folded arms under the eight-sided hall-lantern which an officer had lighted. Now and then he spoke in restrained tones to his mother, who had taken her seat on the stairs, Richard standing beside her. It was not the fate of the soldier that interested her--it was the horror of the search. Richard had not spoken except to direct Malachi to obey the officer's orders. The horror of the search did not affect the inventor--that only violated the sanctity of the home: it was the brute force behind it which appalled him--that might annihilate the Republic.
"It is the beginning of the end," he said to himself.
The tread of heavy feet was again heard coming through the hall. Malachi turned quickly and a subdued smile lighted his wrinkled face.
The two detectives were alone!
"He is not there, Colonel Clayton," said the man with the bull-dog face, slipping his pistol into his hip pocket. "We went through the yard and the out- houses like a fine tooth-comb and made a clean sweep of the cellar. He may have gotten over the wall, but I don't think it. There's a lot of broken bottles on top. I'll try the bedrooms now."
As the words fell from his lips Mrs. Horn rose from her seat on the stairs, straight as a soldier on guard. The light from the lantern illumined her gray hair and threw into strong relief her upraised hand--the first of millions raised in protest against the invasion of the homes of the South. The detective saw the movement and a grim smile came into his face.
"Unless they'll bring him out," he added, slowly. "This young feller knows where he is. Make him tell."
Colonel Clayton turned to Oliver. "Is he upstairs, Oliver?"
"No."
"You give me your word of honor. Oliver, that he is not upstairs?"
"I do."
"Of course he'd say that. Here, I'll know pretty d-- quick," muttered the detective moving toward the stairway.
The Colonel stepped forward and barred his way with his arm.
"Stay where you are! You don't know these people. If Oliver says he is not upstairs I believe him. These Horns don't know how to lie. Your information is wrong. The man never entered the house. You must look for the Yankee somewhere else." Waiting until the detectives had left the hall, he raised his hat, and with some show of feeling said:
"I am sorry, Sallie, that we had to upset you so. When you and Richard see this matter in its true light you'll think as I do. If these scoundrels are to be permitted to come here and burn our homes we want to know which side our friends are on."
"You are the judge of your own conduct, John Clayton," she answered, calmly. "This night's work will follow you all your life. Malachi, show Colonel Clayton to the door and close it behind him."
Three nights later Malachi admitted a man he had never seen before. He was short and thick-set and had a grim, firmly set jaw. Under the lapel of his coat was a gold shield. He