“What do you mean, Sandy?”

Sandy related his experience of the preceding evening:  how he had seen the apparition preceding him to the house, and how he had questioned Tom upon the subject.

“There’s some mystery here, Sandy,” said Mr. Delamere reflectively.  “Have you told me all, now, upon your honor?  I am trying to save your life, Sandy, and I must be able to trust your word implicitly.  You must tell me every circumstance; a very little and seemingly unimportant bit of evidence may sometimes determine the issue of a great lawsuit.  There is one thing especially, Sandy:  where did you get the gold which was found in your trunk?”

Sandy’s face lit up with hopefulness.

“Why, Mars John, I kin ’splain dat part easy.  Dat wuz money I had lent out, an’ I got back f’m—­But no, suh, I promise’ not ter tell.”

“Circumstances absolve you from your promise, Sandy.  Your life is of more value to you than any other thing.  If you will explain where you got the gold, and the silk purse that contained it, which is said to be Mrs. Ochiltree’s, you will be back home before night.”

Old Mr. Delamere’s faculties, which had been waning somewhat in sympathy with his health, were stirred to unusual acuteness by his servant’s danger.  He was watching Sandy with all the awakened instincts of the trial lawyer.  He could see clearly enough that, in beginning to account for the possession of the gold, Sandy had started off with his explanation in all sincerity.  At the mention of the silk purse, however, his face had blanched to an ashen gray, and the words had frozen upon his lips.

A less discerning observer might have taken these things as signs of guilt, but not so Mr. Delamere.

“Well, Sandy,” said his master encouragingly, “go on.  You got the gold from”—­

Sandy remained silent.  He had had a great shock, and had taken a great resolution.

“Mars John,” he asked dreamily, “you don’ b’lieve dat I done dis thing?”

“Certainly not, Sandy, else why should I be here?”

“An’ nothin’ wouldn’ make you b’lieve it, suh?”

“No, Sandy,—­I could not believe it of you.  I’ve known you too long and too well.”

“An’ you wouldn’ b’lieve it, not even ef I wouldn’ say one wo’d mo’ about it?”

“No, Sandy, I believe you no more capable of this crime than I would be,—­or my grandson, Tom.  I wish Tom were here, that he might help me overcome your stubbornness; but you’ll not be so foolish, so absurdly foolish, Sandy, as to keep silent and risk your life merely to shield some one else, when by speaking you might clear up this mystery and be restored at once to liberty.  Just tell me where you got the gold,” added the old gentleman persuasively.  “Come, now, Sandy, that’s a good fellow!”

“Mars John,” asked Sandy softly, “w’en my daddy, ‘way back yander befo’ de wah, wuz about ter be sol’ away f’m his wife an’ child’en, you bought him an’ dem, an’ kep’ us all on yo’ place tergether, didn’t you, suh?”