“Better not keep anything from me, my dear friends,” blandly continued the Southerner, smiling stilly down upon their blank and ghast faces. “Because I am the very devil for finding out things that are kept from me. Besides, frankness is a virtue—a positive virtue.” He closed the glass door behind him, and entering, took a chair, and removed his Panama hat, smiling stilly all the while, with his tawny, blood-specked, glossy eyes slowly and almost imperceptibly roving from one to the other. “Lafitte,” gasped the merchant, feeling as if he was about to faint, “don’t blame me. I meant it for the best.” “Blame you, my friend!” returned the Southerner, smoothly, with an air of tender reproach which was atrocious; “blame you! Could I be so cruel? Ah, no! Bangham, my love, how are you? It is long since I have seen you. The last time I saw you, my Bangham, was at the St. Charles Hotel—and oh, my friend, how drunk you were! But you are not drunk to-day, dear captain. Ah, no! To-day we can appeal from Philip Bangham drunk to Philip Bangham sober. Let us then appeal to you to tell us what is the mystery.” The captain reddened under this address, and looking exceedingly nonplused, fidgeted with his necktie as if it choked him. “Lafitte, don’t joke,” said Mr. Atkins, nervously. “Don’t, I beg of you. I feel ill already, and you disturb me. Listen. Here is the trouble. One of your slaves was found in Bangham’s vessel when he was three days out, and came on here to Boston. We kept him bound in the hold, intending to have him sent back to you, and last night the infernal scoundrel of a mate let him go, and we’ve lost him.” “And you were going to keep this from me, were you?” said Mr. Lafitte, blandly, all the tiger seeming to condense into his glossy, tawny orbs, while his smile remained serene and still. “Really, my dear Atkins, you were not frank.” “Oh, my God!” exclaimed the merchant, “don’t talk so! What was the use of disturbing you? We were going to institute a search for the negro, and have him returned to you as quickly and quietly as possible.” “Good friend! good Atkins!” said the Southerner, with gentle approval. “So considerate of you. I really hope you may find the runaway, for if you shouldn’t, and it gets noised on the Levee, your house will suffer. Of course, I wouldn’t mention it myself, but these things always get out. The sailors, you know! Very indiscreet those sailors—ah, very, very!” “Depend on my doing everything I can, Lafitte,” hurriedly replied the merchant, uncertain whether the Southerner’s words held a menace or no. “We will ransack the city. Suppose you get a warrant out for him—how will that do?” “No,” answered Mr. Lafitte, blandly. “I should prefer not. Since you lost him, you ought in justice to find him. If you don’t succeed, we may try the police. But, apropos, you do not tell me the boy’s name.” “He called himself Antony,” replied Bangham.