“But how did you ever find out she was _here_?” The young Southerner smiled. “I reckon I owe being in this scrape at all to your gentlemen of the press. One of them wrote a kind of character-sketch about her, describing her—” “I know. He’s the youngest man on the list, and an awful liar, but he does write a mighty readable story.” “He did this time,” said Allerton, dryly; “so readable it was copied in the papers all over, I expect; anyhow, it was copied in our local sheet—inside, where they have the patent insides, you know. It was entitled ‘A Usurer, but Merciful!’ I showed it to my mother, and she was sure it was Aunt Margaret. Even the name was right, for her whole name is Margaret Clark Cary. She hadn’t the heart to cast the name away, and she thought, Clark being a common name, she wouldn’t be discovered.” Amos, who had sat down, was nursing his ankle. “Do you suppose,” said he, slowly—“do you suppose that taking it to be the case she wasn’t so much hurt as the doctors supposed, that _then_ she could get out of the room?” “I don’t see how she could. She was in the room, in the bed, when I went out. I sat down before the door. She couldn’t pass me. I heard a screech after a while, a mighty queer sound, and I ran in. Sir, I give you my word of honor, the bed was empty! the room was empty!” “How was the room lighted?” “By a large lamp with a Rochester burner, and some fancy of hers had made her keep it turned up at full blaze. Oh, you could see every inch of the room at a glance! And then, too, I ran all round it before I ran to the window, pushed it up, and looked out. I would be willing to take my oath that the room was empty.” “You looked under the bed?” “Of course. And in the closet. I tell you, sir, there was no one in the room.” Amos sat for the space of five minutes, it seemed to the young man, really perhaps for a full minute, thinking deeply. Then, “I can’t make it out,” said he, “but I believe you are telling the truth.” He stood up; the young man also rose. In the silence wherein the younger man tried to formulate something of his gratitude and yet keep his lip from quivering (for he had been sore beset by homesickness and divers ugly fears during the last day), the roar of the crowd without beat through the bars, swelling ominously. And now, all of an instant, the jail was penetrated by a din of its own making. The prisoners lost their heads. They began to scream inquiries, to shriek at each other. Two women whose drunken disorder had gone beyond the station-house restraints, and who were spending a week in jail, burst into deafening wails, partly from fright, partly from pity, and largely from the general craving of their condition to make a noise. “Never mind,” said Amos, laying a kindly hand on young Allerton’s shoulder, “the Company B boys are all in the yard. But I guess you will feel easier if you go down-stairs. Parole of honor you won’t skip off?”