For some days Mr. Graeme took to coming home earlier than usual, and one evening he was rewarded. Just after his arrival little Ben came in, and, climbing up to his cigar box, took out several cigars, and silently withdrew. As soon as he had disappeared his father stepped to the telephone, and, calling up the detective agency, asked that an officer be sent around to his house immediately. A few minutes later the officer arrived, and after a few words with him Mr. Graeme stationed him at the back gate and strolled back toward the kitchen. As he softly approached the door he heard voices within-one of them his little boy's voice, the other the deep, unctuous tones of a negro man. The child was begging the latter to blow smoke-wreaths, and the man was bartering with him.

“Well, you must get me more cigars; remember what I told you—six wreaths for one cigar.”

At this moment the mammy evidently came in, for Mr. Graeme heard the man caution the child, and heard her voice for the first time,

“What dat you telling dat chile?” she demanded, suspiciously.

“Nothing. I was just entertaining him by blowing a few of those artistic wreaths he admires so much. My good friends keep me in cigars. It is one of the few consolations in a hard-working pastor's life. Well, sister, I called around to tell you your investment promises to be even more remunerative than I expected—and to tell you if you have any more, or even can borrow any, to let me place it as you did the other. I can guarantee to double it for you in a short time.”

“I ain' got any more—an' ain' got nobody to lend me none.”

“Well, ah! Could n 't you get any from your employer?” He lowered his voice; but Graeme caught the words. “You could raise money on the silver—and they would never know it. Besides, they owe it to you for all the work you have done without payment. Think how many years you worked for them as a slave without pay.”

“Now, I ain' gwine to do dat!” exclaimed the old woman.

At this moment Graeme softly opened the door. The mammy was standing with her back to him, and in one chair, tilted back with his feet in another chair, was a large and unctuous-looking negro of middle age, in all the glory of a black broadcloth coat and a white tie. He was engaged at the moment in blowing small wreaths, while little Ben stood by and gazed at him with open-eyed wonder and delight.

At sight of Mr. Graeme, the preacher with a gulp, which sadly disturbed his last effort, rose to his feet. An expression of fear flitted across his face, then gave way to a crafty, half-insolent look.

“Good evening, sir,” he began, with an insinuating smile, not wholly free from uneasiness.

“Good evening, Amos. Mammy, will you kindly go to your mistress. Take the boy with you. Run along, son.”

The old woman with a half-scared air led the child out, and Mr. Graeme closed the door and turned back to the visitor, who looked much embarrassed.

“Take my cigars out of your pocket.”

The preacher's hand went involuntarily to his breast-pocket, and then came down.

“What! Your cigars out of my pocket? I have no cigars of yours, sir.” He spoke with slightly rising severity, as Mr. Graeme remained so calm.

“Oh, yes, you have. But no matter for the present. You had just as well leave them there for a moment. What are you doing, coming here all the time?”

“What am I doing?—Coming here? I am a minister of the Gawspel, sir, and I have a member of my congregation here, and I come to look after her welfare.”

“And to see that she gets recognition?”

“Suh?”—with a wince.

“And incidentally to rob me of my cigars, and her of her small savings”—pursued Mr. Graeme, calmly.

“Suh? Nor, suh, I has not done dat I will take my oath to it on the word of Almighty God.”

The veneer of his fine speech had all been dropped, and the Rev. Johnson was talking naturally enough now.

“What did you do with that money you took from her?”

“What did I do wid—? What money?”

Mr. Graeme showed impatience for the first time.

“The four hundred and fifty-five dollars you got from her. Was there more than that?”

At this point Mam' Lyddy opened the door and came in. She looked somewhat mystified and rather disturbed, but she said nothing. She only took her stand, and with arms folded waited silent and observant.

The negro saw that Mr. Graeme knew of the fact and answered promptly.

“Oh! You are mistaken, sir. I have taken no money of her. You can ax her. She had a sum of money which I as a favor to her invested for her. You can ask the sister there. I suppose you refer to that!”

“Invested! In what?”

“Ah—ur—in—ur—the Afro-American Sister's Loan and Trust Association. I have promised to invest it in that for her.”

He stammered a good deal at the start, but was glib enough when he brought out the name. “Didn't I, sister!”

“Yes, sir.” The old woman was manifestly impressed. The preacher's cunning face brightened.

“You see what she says?”

“With its chief office at the Race-course out here,” said Graeme, with a toss of his head. “Look here, I want you to get that money.”

The negro shot a glance at Mam' Lyddy and decided that she would stand by him. He suddenly stiffened up and resumed his affected manner.

“Well, sir, I do not know by what right you interfere with my affairs—or this lady's.”

“You don 't? Well, that's what I am going to show you now. My right is that she is a member of my family, whom I am going to protect from just such scoundrels and thieves as you, Amos Brown.”

The preacher received the name like a blow.

At the words the old mammy jumped as if she were shot. She leaned forward, moving up slowly.

“What's dat?—'Amos Brown'? What's dat you said, Marse Cabell? 'Amos Brown'?”

Mr. Graeme nodded. “Yes. This is Amos Brown, 'a friend of Caesar's.'”

“Indeed, I ain 't suh. I'm de Reverend Amos Johnson—” began the preacher, but his looks belied him. Mammy Lyddy took in the truth, and the next second the storm broke.

“'Amos Brown' you is? I might 'a' knowd it! You thief! You a friend of Caesar's! Whar's my money?—My money you stole from Caesar? You come talkin' to me 'bout rec'nition? I done rec'nize you, you black nigger. Let me get at him, Marse Gabelle.”

The old woman swept toward him with so threatening an air that Graeme interposed, and the preacher retreated behind him for protection. Even that place of security did not, however, save him from her vitriolic tongue. She poured out on him the vials of her wrath till Graeme, fearing she might drop down in a faint, stopped her.

“Stop now. I will settle with him.”

His authoritative air quieted her, but she still stood glowering and muttering her wrath.

“You will have that money back here by to-morrow at this hour or I will put you in the penitentiary, where you have already been once and ought to be now. And now you will take my cigars out of your pocket, or I will hand you to that policeman out there at the door. Out with them.”

“Boss, I ain't got no cigars o' yo's. I 'll swar to it on de wud o'——”

“Out with them—or—” Mr. Graeme turned to open the door. The negro, after a glance at Mam' Lyddy, slowly took several cigars from his pockets.

“Dese is all de cigars I has—and dey wuz given to me by a friend,” he said, surlily.

“Yes, by my little boy. I know. Lay them there. I will keep them till to-morrow. And now go and get that money.”

“What money?—I can't git dat money—dat money is invested.”

“Then you bring the securities in which it is invested. I know where that money went. You go and rob some one else—but have that money at my office to-morrow before three o'clock or I 'll put you in jail to-morrow night. And if you ever put your foot on this place or speak to that old woman again, I 'll have you arrested. Do you understand!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now go.” He opened the door.

“Officer, do you recognize this man!”

“Yes, sir, I know him.”

“Well, I am going to let him go for the present”

The Rev. Amos was already slinking down the street. Mr. Graeme turned to the old woman.

“You want recognition?”

“Nor, suh, I don't” She gave a whimper. “I wants my money. I wants to git hold of dat black nigger what 's done rob me talkin' 'bout bein' sich a friend o' Caesar's.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“Dis is my home.” She spoke humbly, but firmly.

Two days afterward Mrs. Graeme said:

“Cabell, Mammy is converted. It is like old times.”

“I think it will last,” said her husband. “She is out four hundred and fifty-five dollars, and the Mount Salem flock is temporarily without a shepherd. The Rev. Amos Johnson was gathered in this morning for fleecing one of his sheep and signing the wrong name to a check.”