“Who knows?” he returned. “Perhaps the dear William has earned the cash, and wants to treat himself to a bit of black brother in his old age. Perhaps,” he added, with a sly, sardonic smile, “your lovely niece wants to do a little philanthropy for him. She’s rich, you told me. Your Boston ladies are so fond of the philanthropy business, you know. And Harrington’s sweet upon her, isn’t he? Who knows but that he has put her up to it. He looks just like one of those noble fools we read of. Now, what will you wager he doesn’t know this dear William, and hasn’t been touched by the sorrows of that black angel? Atkins, keep your eye on Harrington to find William, and finding William, perhaps you’ll find Antony.” “Upon my word, Lafitte, you’re the very devil,” cried the merchant, with a harsh laugh, looking at the visage of the Southerner, which was lit with an infernal smile. “That’s your clue,” said the latter. “Just follow it, and you’ll find I’m right.” “But how am I to follow it?” returned the merchant, “There’s any quantity of black Williams in Boston, probably, and who knows what name your man goes by now?” “Egad,” replied Mr. Lafitte, his face darkening, “I didn’t think of that.” “Had your man William any other name?” asked the merchant. “Name?” scoffed the Southerner. “The black cattle change their names with their masters. This fellow would be called by mine, if he was called anything but William. I bought him and his brother with a lot of others off the estate of old Madame Roux.” “Roux? Hold on!” exclaimed Atkins. “Roux? By George, that’s the name of the colored man Serena—that’s my sister—recommended to us, and we got him to do some white-washing and window-cleaning this spring!” “Your sister?” interrogated Lafitte. “Yes, my sister, Mrs. Eastman. She’s the mother of the young lady you saw last night.” Mr. Lafitte leaned back in his chair, and shook with long, silent merriment, outward token of the raging floods of devilish joy which swelled within him. “There you have it, dear Atkins,” he chuckled, at length. “There you have it. Follow up Roux, my boy, follow up Roux. Set Bangham to look after the dear William. My own Bangham. Whom I love,” and Mr. Lafitte ogled the captain in a manner which would have been purely ridiculous if it had not been superlatively infernal. Bangham reddened, and looked foolish and uncomfortable under these affectionate regards. “I guess I’ll go out and see to the cargo,” he said, rising. “The stevedores are unlading, you know, Mr. Atkins.” “That’s right, Bangham,” returned the merchant. “Come back soon, and we’ll make arrangements for this other matter.” “_Au revoir_, Bangham. God bless you,” cried the Southerner, after the departing captain. “And now, Atkins,” he continued, drawing up his chair, “let’s have a talk about business, and get that off our minds, before we follow up that dear William and that dear Antony.” CHAPTER XIX. THE ROAR OF ST. DOMINGO.