“Yas, suh, yas, suh,” returned Sandy, with a lack of enthusiasm which he tried to conceal from his master.  “An’ I s’pose ef he hadn’ gone fishin’ so soon dis mawnin’, he’d ‘a’ be’n lookin’ after me, suh.”

“It has been my love for him and your care of me, Sandy,” said the old gentleman tremulously, “that have kept me alive so long; but now explain to me everything concerning this distressing matter, and I shall then be able to state your case to better advantage.”

“Well, suh,” returned Sandy, “I mought’s well tell de whole tale an’ not hol’ nothin’ back.  I wuz kind er lonesome las’ night, an’ sence I be’n tu’ned outen de chu’ch on account er dat cakewalk I didn’ go ter, so he’p me God!  I didn’ feel like gwine ter prayer-meetin’, so I went roun’ ter see Solomon Williams, an’ he wa’n’t home, an’ den I walk’ down street an’ met Josh Green, an’ he ax’ me inter Sam Taylor’s place, an’ I sot roun’ dere wid Josh till ’bout ’leven o’clock, w’en I sta’ted back home.  I went straight ter de house, suh, an’ went ter bed an’ ter sleep widout sayin’ a wo’d ter a single soul excep’ Mistuh Tom, who wuz settin’ up readin’ a book w’en I come in.  I wish I may drap dead in my tracks, suh, ef dat ain’t de God’s truf, suh, eve’y wo’d of it!”

“I believe every word of it, Sandy; now tell me about the clothes that you are said to have been found cleaning, and the suspicious articles that were found in your room?”

“Dat’s w’at beats me, Mars John,” replied Sandy, shaking his head mournfully.  “Wen I lef home las’ night after supper, my clo’s wuz all put erway in de closet in my room, folded up on de she’f ter keep de moths out.  Dey wuz my good clo’s,—­de blue coat dat you wo’ ter de weddin’ fo’ty years ago, an’ dem dere plaid pants I gun Mistuh Cohen fo’ dollars fer three years ago; an’ w’en I looked in my closet dis mawnin’, suh, befo’ I got ready ter sta’t fer Belleview, dere wuz my clo’s layin’ on de flo’, all muddy an’ crumple’ up, des lack somebody had wo’ ’em in a fight!  Somebody e’se had wo’ my clo’s,—­er e’se dere’d be’n some witchcraf, er some sort er devilment gwine on dat I can’t make out, suh, ter save my soul!”

“There was no witchcraft, Sandy, but that there was some deviltry might well be.  Now, what other negro, who might have been mistaken for you, could have taken your clothes?  Surely no one about the house?”

“No, suh, no, suh.  It couldn’t ‘a’ be’n Jeff, fer he wuz at Belleview wid you; an’ it couldn’t ‘a’ be’n Billy, fer he wuz too little ter wear my clo’s; an’ it couldn’t ‘a’ be’n Sally, fer she’s a ’oman.  It’s a myst’ry ter me, suh!”

“Have you no enemies?  Is there any one in Wellington whom you imagine would like to do you an injury?”

“Not a livin’ soul dat I knows of, suh.  I’ve be’n tu’ned out’n de chu’ch, but I don’ know who my enemy is dere, er ef it wuz all a mistake, like dis yer jailin’ is; but de Debbil is in dis somewhar, Mars John,—­an’ I got my reasons fer sayin’ so.”