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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.”