Part 29 (1/2)

CHAPTER XVII.

A BURGLAR IN THE HOUSE.

Millicent Fern lay wide awake a few nights later, at Midlands, when the clock struck two. She was thinking of her second novel, now nearly ready for Mr. Roseleaf's hand. There was a hitch in the plot that she could best unravel in the silence. As she lay there she heard a slight noise, as of some one moving about. At first she paid little attention to it, but later she grew curious, for she had never known the least motion in that house after its occupants were once abed. She thought of each of them in succession, and decided that the matter ought to be investigated.

Millicent had no fear. If there was a burglar present, she wanted to know. She arose, therefore, and slipped on a dress and slippers. Guided only by the uncertain light that came in at the windows, she tiptoed across the hall, and in the direction in which she had heard the noise.

She soon located it as being on the lower floor where there were no bedrooms, and a thrill of excitement pa.s.sed over her. She crept as silently as possible down the back stairs, and toward the sound, which she was now sure was in the library.

What was the sound? It was the rustling of papers. It might be made by a mouse, but Millicent was not even afraid of mice. She was afraid of nothing, so far as she knew. If there was a robber there, he would certainly run when discovered. At the worst she could give a loud outcry, and the servants would come.

She tiptoed along the lower hall. A man sat at her father's desk, examining his private papers so carefully, that he seemed wholly lost in the occupation.

The room was quite light. In fact, the gas was lit, and the intruder was taking his utmost ease. His face was half turned toward the girl, and she recognized him without difficulty.

It was Hannibal!

Hannibal, whom she supposed at that moment in France!

Without pausing to form any plan, Millicent stepped into the presence of the negro.

”Thief,” she said, sharply, ”what do you want?”

They had hated each other cordially for a long time, and neither had changed their opinion in the slightest degree. Hannibal looked up quietly at the figure in the doorway.

”I have a good mind to tell you,” he said, smiling.

”You will _have_ to tell me, and give a pretty good reason, too, if you mean to keep out of the hands of the police,” she retorted. ”Come!”

He laughed silently, resting his head on his hands, his elbows on the desk. Millicent's hair hung in a loose coil, her shoulders were but imperfectly covered by her half b.u.t.toned gown, the feet that filled her slippers had no hosiery on them. She was as fair a sight as one might find in a year.

”Do you remember the time I saw you in this guise before?” he asked, in a low voice.

A convulsion seized the girl's countenance. She looked as if she would willingly have killed him, had she a weapon in her hand. But she could not speak at first.

”It was you who sought me then,” said the negro. ”And because I bade you go back to your chamber, you never forgave me. Have you forgotten?”

Gasping for breath, like one severely wounded, Millicent roused herself.

”Will you go,” she demanded, hotly, ”or shall I summon help?”

”Neither,” replied Hannibal. ”If you inform any person that I am here, I will tell the story I hinted at just now. Besides, I would only have to wait until your father came down, when he would order them to release me, and say I came here by his request.”

Millicent chafed horribly at his coolness.

”Came here by my father's request!” she echoed. ”In the middle of the night! A likely story. Do you think any one would believe it?”

”I do not think they would. It would not even be true. But he would say it was, if I told him to, and that would answer. Don't you know by this time that I have Wilton Fern in a vise?”

Yes, she did know it. Everything had pointed in that direction.