The old man paused and made that queer movement with his wrinkled lips as if he tasted some salty flavor.
“I—I don't mean exactly a—a negress,” stammered the old gentleman; “I mean she's not a—a good girl, Peter; she's a—a thief, in fact—she's a thief—a thief, Peter. I couldn't endure for you to marry a thief, Peter.”
It seemed to Peter Siner that some horrible compulsion kept the old Captain repeating over and over the fact that Cissie Dildine was a thief, a thief, a thief. The word cut the very viscera in the brown man. At last, when it seemed the old gentleman would never cease, Peter lifted a hand.
“Yes, yes,” he gasped, with a sickly face, “I—I've heard that before.”
He drew a shaken breath and moistened his lips. The two stood looking at each other, each profoundly at a loss as to what the other meant. Old Captain Renfrew collected himself first.
“That is all, Peter.” He tried to lighten his tones. “I think I'll get to work. Let me see, where do I keep my manuscript?”
Peter pointed mechanically at a drawer as he walked out at the library door. Once outside, he ran to the front piazza, then to the front gate, and with a racing heart stood looking up and down the sleepy thoroughfare. The street was quite empty.
