Benjamin Wright, in his mangy beaver hat, sitting quaking in his
library, heard their steps on the veranda. As soon as supper was over,
he had dismissed his rejoicing grandson, and long before it was
necessary, had bidden Simmons light the lamps; but as night fell, it
occurred to him that darkness would make things easier, and in a
panic, he shuffled about and blew them all out. A little later, he had
a surge of terror; he couldn't bear _that voice_ in the dark!

"You! Simmons!" he called across the hall. "Light the lamps!"

"I done lit 'em, suh--" Simmons expostulated from the pantry, and then
looked blankly at the black doorway of the library. "I 'clare to
goodness, they's gone out," he mumbled to himself; and came in, to
stand on one leg and scratch a match on the sole of his carpet
slipper.

"Don't light all four, you stupid nigger!" the old man screamed at
him.

When Simmons left him he lit a cigar, his fingers trembling very much;
it went out almost at once, and he threw it away and took another.
Just as he heard that ponderous step on the veranda, he took a third--
[Illustration: Samuel slid into a chair near the door.] but only to
throw it, too, still smouldering, into the empty fireplace.

Dr. Lavendar came in first. His face was very grave; he made no
conventional pretence of ease. Behind him, in the doorway, loomed the
other figure. Out in the hall, Simmons, his bent old back flattened
against the wall, his jaw chattering with amazement, stood, clutching
at the door-knob and staring after the visitors.