They almost shuddered to see the silent change that came to the rich brunette visage of the Southerner. His complexion became purple and livid in spots, his nostrils dilated, his eyes were steady orbs of cruel gloss, with the blood-specks distinct upon their tawn. Slowly swaying in his chair for a moment, he stopped in this movement, and spoke. “It is Antony, is it?” he said, in a low, smooth voice. “Gentlemen, I urge you to find that slave of mine. He is a wretch whom I wish to see once more. When you told me you had a boy of mine, I thought it must be one of my brother’s, who ran away the week before I left. I did not imagine it was Antony, for I thought he was done for in the swamp.” “Where, Mr. Lafitte?” asked the merchant. “In the swamp,” repeated Lafitte. “That scoundrel, Mr. Atkins, flew upon me, and left me for dead on the floor of my house. Then he ran for the swamp, half-killing my overseer on the way. We roused the neighbors and hunted for him three days and part of a fourth, and at last finding his clothes near a bayou, we concluded he was food for alligators. Though why we should find his clothes, and not him, was a mystery to me. And so he got to Boston, after all. Now where do you expect to find him, gentlemen?” “Well, Mr. Lafitte, I don’t exactly know,” returned the merchant, dubiously; “but Bangham here will look round Nigger Hill, a quarter where the colored people herd together. The best way would be to get out a search warrant, and put the matter in the hands of the city marshal.” “Listen to me, Atkins,” said the Southerner. “I’ve got a clue. Several months ago I received a letter offering to purchase this fellow. Now, eight or nine years ago his brother William ran away from me, and it was clear to me, when I received this letter, that whoever sent it knew where William was, and was probably put up to it by him.” “Well, who did send it?” demanded Mr. Atkins. “That letter,” pursued Lafitte, “was postmarked from Philadelphia, and the answer was to be sent to a Mr. Joseph House, who, it seems, was to act as agent in the matter. I called on House, and was told by him that the person who wrote the letter lived in London. In fact, he showed me the person’s name and address in a London Directory, and he was so serious about it, that I swear I was thrown off the track. But I had my misgivings afterward, and the more I thought of it the stronger they grew. Mr. Atkins, that letter was signed John Harrington.” “John Harrington!” exclaimed the merchant, starting and scowling. “You don’t mean to say”— “Mr. Atkins,” interrupted Lafitte, “when you told me that fellow’s name who came into the Abolition meeting last night with your lovely niece, it flashed upon me at once that he was the man that wrote the letter.” “Upon my word,” said the merchant, “this is odd. But this Harrington’s poor as poverty. How should he be buying your negro?” Mr. Lafitte shrugged his shoulders.