More and more confident of some mystery, which would come out in time, if properly investigated, Mr. Delamere, strangely beset by a vague sense of discomfort over and beyond that occasioned by his servant’s danger, hurried away upon his errand of mercy.  He felt less confident of the outcome than when he had entered the jail, but was quite as much resolved that no effort should be spared to secure protection for Sandy until there had been full opportunity for the truth to become known.

“Take good care of your prisoner, sheriff,” he said sternly, as he was conducted to the door.  “He will not be long in your custody, and I shall see that you are held strictly accountable for his safety.”

“I’ll do what I can, sir,” replied the sheriff in an even tone and seemingly not greatly impressed by this warning.  “If the prisoner is taken from me, it will be because the force that comes for him is too strong for resistance.”

“There should be no force too strong for an honest man in your position to resist,—­whether successfully or not is beyond the question.  The officer who is intimidated by threats, or by his own fears, is recreant to his duty, and no better than the mob which threatens him.  But you will have no such test, Mr. Wemyss!  I shall see to it myself that there is no violence!”

XXV

THE HONOR OF A FAMILY

Mr. Delamere’s coachman, who, in accordance with instructions left by Miller, had brought the carriage around to the jail and was waiting anxiously at the nearest corner, drove up with some trepidation as he saw his master emerge from the prison.  The old gentleman entered the carriage and gave the order to be driven to the office of the Morning Chronicle.  According to Jerry, the porter, whom he encountered at the door, Carteret was in his office, and Mr. Delamere, with the aid of his servant, climbed the stairs painfully and found the editor at his desk.

“Carteret,” exclaimed Mr. Delamere, “what is all this talk about lynching my man for murder and robbery and criminal assault?  It’s perfectly absurd!  The man was raised by me; he has lived in my house forty years.  He has been honest, faithful, and trustworthy.  He would no more be capable of this crime than you would, or my grandson Tom.  Sandy has too much respect for the family to do anything that would reflect disgrace upon it.”

“My dear Mr. Delamere,” asked Carteret, with an indulgent smile, “how could a negro possibly reflect discredit upon a white family?  I should really like to know.”

“How, sir?  A white family raised him.  Like all the negroes, he has been clay in the hands of the white people.  They are what we have made them, or permitted them to become.”

“We are not God, Mr. Delamere!  We do not claim to have created these—­masterpieces.”