“It is I, Jethro Brown,” called a cautious voice. “Can you come down? I want to talk to you.”
Hugh took up his candle and stole on tiptoe down the stairs. All of the Ingmarssons were sound asleep. He contrived to shoot back the bolts and open the front door without a sound. The clerk from the hotel, looking more lank and awkward than ever in the candle light, stood waiting outside.
“I saw your window was bright and I had some things to tell you,” he said. “I am sorry to bring you down.”
Hugh blew out the candle and they sat down together on the doorstep.
“It is all right,” he said; “you wouldn’t have found me to-morrow. I am going away early in the morning.”
“Going?” echoed the other in a tone of the greatest disappointment and dismay. Then he heaved a deep sigh.
“Well,” he remarked, “I suppose it is the only thing you can do, but somehow I had kind of hoped you were going to stay.”
