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[289]

Blindfolded as he was, he knew that they turned suddenly into an alleyway and he also knew when they passed through a gate, which Sloan closed behind them. He rightly conjectured that they were now in a sort of paved court, in the rear of a building.

“Come this way and make no noise,” whispered Sloan.

The next moment the latter knocked on a door with a low, peculiar rap, that was like a signal. Immediately a guarded voice on the inside was heard:

Are you white?

“Down with the blacks!” responded Sloan.

Noting more was said. A chain clanked inside, a bolt shot back, and the door creaked on its hinges as it swung open.

Webster was led through, and he and his conductor began to ascend a flight of stairs, so thickly carpeted that they emitted no sound from the footsteps upon them.

At the head of the stairs they were again accosted:

Halt! Who comes there?

“Long live Jeff Davis,” muttered Sloan.

Passing on through another door, they found themselves in a small, square apartment, although, so far as Webster was concerned, there was no ocular proof of this. There seemed to be several persons here, and a voice, that was evidently meant to be tragical and impressive, demanded:

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