“Michael thought he was a sailor,” drawled Mrs. Atkins, in her fal-lal voice; “and he said he’d come on business of importance, and that you’d want to see him.” “Oh, business. That’s another affair,” returned her husband, rising and looking at his watch. “Business before pleasure always. You’ll excuse me a few moments, Mr. Lafitte. I’ll be right down.” “Certainly, sir, certainly,” said the Southerner, blandly bowing. Mr. Atkins at once left the drawing-room and went up-stairs into the library. The visitor, a short, strongly-built man, with a sunburnt face, who was slowly walking up and down, with his hands in his pockets, came toward him as he entered. “Why, Captain Bangham! You? How are you?” exclaimed the merchant, smiling, and shaking hands with him. “All right, Mr. Atkins. How are you, sir?” “Capital. And so the Soliman’s in.” “Yes, sir. Came up this morning. I’ve been waiting at the office pretty much all day”— “Indeed. I’m sorry, captain. But, for a wonder, Lafitte came to town, and I’ve been showing him round.” Captain Bangham started, and slapped his hips with his hands. “Lafitte in town!” he burst out. “Which one of ’em?” “Lafitte the younger. Torwood, you know,” returned the merchant, taking an easy chair. “The hell he is!” ejaculated the profane captain, reddening, and thrusting both hands into his pocket. “You don’t mean to say he’s down-stairs now?” “Why Bangham, what in the world’s the matter with you, man?” said the surprised merchant, staring at him. “Down stairs? Of course he’s down stairs. Come to dine with us.” “Well, I’m damned!” vociferated the excited captain. “If this ain’t horrid.” He stamped off, with his hands in his pocket, while Mr. Atkins stared at him, as if he thought the man had gone mad. “Captain Bangham,” said the merchant, slowly, “will you be so good as to tell me what you mean by this extraordinary ebullition. What’s the matter? Isn’t the Soliman all right? Has the cargo”— “The matter’s just this, Mr. Atkins,” broke in the sailor, coming toward him, and flinging himself into a chair. “Soliman, cargo, and all is right. There’s nothing the matter with them”— “Then what _is_ the matter?” demanded the merchant, angrily. “The matter’s this, Mr. Atkins,” roared Bangham, pounding his knees with his clenched hands. “When we were three days out we found a blasted nigger, half smothered in the hold. And that nigger belongs to Torwood Lafitte, and you’ve got him down-stairs to dine with you. Yes, sir, I’ve got the nigger tied up aboard the brig this minute, and you’ve got his master.” Mr. Atkins turned white, and sat looking at the sailor with rigid lips. “Yes, sir. That’s the matter,” continued Bangham. “And matter enough, too, Mr. Atkins. Just think of what Lafitte’ll say if he hears that his nigger got off on your brig. Just think of the row there’ll be in Orleans if it gets out. They’ll seize me for it, if the brig ever touches the levee again, Mr. Atkins.”