[
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: