Malachi whispered to Grant, and the two disappeared in the shadows. At the same moment a bolt shot back in a gate in the rear of the yard--a gate rarely unbolted. Old Hannah stood behind it shading a candle with her hand. Malachi led the way across the yard, through the green door of Richard's shop, mounted the work-bench, felt carefully along the edge of a trap-door in the ceiling, unhooked a latch, pushed it up with his two hands, the dust sifting down in showers on his head, and disclosed a large, empty loft, once used by the slaves as a sleeping-room, and which had not been opened for years.
Assisted by the negro's arms, Grant climbed to the floor above, where a dim skylight gave him light and air. A cup of hot coffee was then handed up and the door of the trap carefully fastened, Malachi rumpling the shavings on the work-bench to conceal the dust, No trace of the hiding-place of the fugitive was visible.
When Malachi again reached the front hall, it was in response to someone who was hammering at the door as if to break it down. The old man peered cautiously out through the small panes of glass. The sidewalk was crowded with men led by Colonel Clayton, most of them carrying guns. They had marched over from Clayton's house. Among them was a posse of detectives from the Police Department.
In answer to their summons Richard had thrown up the window of his bedroom and was talking to Clayton, whose voice Malachi recognized above the murmurs and threats of the small mob.
"Come down, Horn. Oliver has proved traitor, just as I knew he would. He's been hiding one of these damned Yankees all day. We want that man, I tell you, dead or alive, and we are going to have him."
When the door was flung wide Clayton confronted, not Richard, but Oliver.
"Where's that Yankee?" cried Clayton. He had not expected to see Oliver. "We are in no mood for nonsense--where have you hidden him?"
Malachi stepped forward before Oliver could answer.
"Marse Oliver ain't hid him. If you want him go hunt him!"
"You speak like that to me, you black scoundrel," burst out the Colonel, and he raised his arm as if to strike him.
"Yes--me! Ain't nobody gwine ter tech Marse Oliver while I lib. I's as free as you is, Marse Clayton.
Ain't no man can lay a han' on me!"
The Colonel wheeled angrily and gave an order to one of the detectives in a low voice. Oliver stood irresolute. He knew nothing of Grant's whereabouts.
The detective moved from the Colonel's side and pushed his way closer to where Oliver stood.
"There's no use your denying it, young feller; we've heard the whole story from one of our men who saw you jump in front of him. You bring him out or we'll go through the place from cellar to garret."
Oliver gazed straight at the speaker and still held his peace. He was wondering where Grant had hidden himself and what John's chances were if the crowd searched the house. Malachi's outburst had left him in the dark.
Mrs. Horn and Richard, who had followed Oliver and were standing half way down the stairs; looked on in astonishment. Would Clayton 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.
