"Nothin’, Marse Langdon, ’cep’ dem rapscallions kept me awake, an’ I heard you stormin’ out at um. I tol’ yo’ pa, Marse Langdon, ef dey was any mo’ night carouses while he was gone I’d let ’im know, but I ain’t gwine mention dis, kase I done see how hard you tried to oust dat low white trash widout a row. You acted de plumb gentleman, Marse Langdon. Is de anything I kin do fer you, Marse Langdon?" "No, Aunt Maria." Chester’s tone betrayed impatience even with the consideration of the faithful servant. "No, I don’t want a thing. I’m going to bed. I’ve got a headache. If any one should call to-night, which is not likely at this hour, send them away. I sha’n’t get up." Ann was now fearful lest in turning he would discover her presence before the negro had withdrawn, and, seeing her opportunity while his attention was still on the road, from which the trotting of the departing horses came in a steady beat of hoofs, she noiselessly glided into the big hall through the open door and stood against a wall in the darkness. "Now, I reckon, they will let me alone!" she heard Chester say, as he came into the hall and turned into the parlor. The next instant he had blown out the tall prismed lamp, lowered a window, and come out to close and lock the front door. His hand was on the big brass handle when, in a calm voice, Ann addressed him: "I want a word with you, Mr. Chester," she said, and she moved towards him, the revolver hanging at her side. She heard him gasp, and he stood as if paralyzed in the moonbeams which fell through the open doorway and the side-lights of frosted glass. "Who are you?" he managed to articulate. "Oh, you know me, I reckon, Mr. Chester. I’m Ann Boyd. I want to see you on a little private business, just between you and me, you know. It needn’t go any further." "Oh, Ann Boyd!" he exclaimed, and the thought ran through his bewildered brain that she had mistaken him for his father, and that he was accidentally running upon evidence of an intercourse between the two that he had thought was a thing of the past. "But, Mrs. Boyd," he said, "you’ve made a mistake. My father is away; he left for Savannah—" "I didn’t want to see your father," Ann snarled, angrily. "My business is with you, my fine young man, and nobody else." "Me?" he gasped, in growing surprise. "Me?" "Yes, you. I’ve come back for Virginia Hemingway’s shawl. She says you kept it. Just between you and me," she went on, "I don’t intend to leave a thing like that in the hands of a man of your stamp to hold over the poor girl and intimidate her with." "You say—you say—" He seemed unable to formulate expression for his abject astonishment, and he left the door and aimlessly moved to the railing of the stairs and stood facing her. His eyes now fell on the revolver in her hand, and the sight of it increased his wondering perturbation.