"A simple question, with a simple answer. I've been here two days and two nights, right here in the house. My bedchamber is down the hall there, and this has been my lounging room. Of course, I had my meals in the dining-room--my after-the-theater suppers, you might say. It's been good fun, foolin' the servants. I hope you don't mind my fakin' grub from your larder, kid. I used to sit around, unbeknownst to the niggers, and listen to them talk about spirits and ghosts and all that sort of thing. It was most amusin'. They couldn't account for the disappearance of pies and cakes and Sally Lunn--say, how I do love Sally Lunn. And jam, too. To say nothin' of fried chicken. Say! I've been living like a prince, kid. Sleepin' in a real bed and hangin' around in swell togs like these. Say! You _do_ know how to live, David. You'd have been very much entertained half an hour ago if you could have seen me swipe a Washington pie and a quart of milk right out from under the nose of old Aunt Fanny. Milk is my favorite beverage, David. You notice I'm not drinkin' this fire-water. I made two of 'em for company's sake, but I still turn my back on the wine when it's pink. Not for me--not for little Dicky-bird." "I don't see how you do it, Dick," cried David delightedly. "That's part of my game, kid--not letting people see how I do anything. But it's as simple as rollin' off a log, as the jays say. I must confess--and that is something I make it a rule never to do--that this high living is not good for me. I'll get into awful habits, if I keep it up. I won't be satisfied with pretzels and bologny sausages. Seems to me I feel a touch of the gout coming on now." "You will have breakfast with me in the dining-room to-morrow morning, Dick," announced the master of the house. "It won't be necessary to swipe it, as you call it." Dick grinned. "My dear chap," he mimicked, "I have my breakfast stowed away in the garret at this minute. Never put off till to-morrow what you ought to do to-day. In time of plenty prepare for famine. Still, if you insist, I'll join you at some ham and eggs--and coffee. I _do_ miss my coffee, old chap. We take a train for Richmond at nine A. M." David's patience gave out. "What does it all mean, Dick? I must know at once. It must be important or you wouldn't--" "Maybe it's important and maybe it ain't," philosophized Dick, relighting the long pipe. "Well, let's have it." "Tom Braddock's out." "Out? I don't understand." Dick's surprise was genuine. "You don't mean to say you never heard what happened to him?" "Joey wrote me that he had gone completely to the dogs in Chicago." "Joey's off his nut. Brad's just out of Sing Sing." "Sing Sing! The penitentiary?" "The sure-enough cooler. He's been there for nearly three years." "Christine's father a convict!" groaned David.