“There you hit it, Peek! Dolt that I’ve been not to think of that! I remember now that Hyde once said to me, the yellow girl would bring sixteen hundred dollars in New Orleans. Well, supposing he took the yellow girl, what could he do with the white child?” “Can you, of all men, Mr. Vance, not guess? He could sell the child as a slave. Or, if he wanted to make her bring a little better price, he could tinge her skin just enough to give it a slight golden hue.” Vance wet a towel in iced water, and pressed it on his forehead. “But you pierce my heart, Peek, by the bare suggestion of such things,” he said. “That poor child! Clara was her name,—a bright, affectionate little lady! Should Hyde have given false testimony in regard to her death, I shudder to think what may have become of her. She, born to affluence, may be at this moment a wretched menial, or worse, a trained Cyprian, polluted, body and soul. Why was I not more thorough in my investigations? But perhaps ’t is not too late to prove the villany, if villany there has been.” “Hyde may be able to put you on the right track,” suggested Peek. Vance sat down, and for five minutes seemed lost in meditation. Then, starting up, he said: “Where would you next go in pursuit of your wife and child?” “To Texas,” replied Peek. “To Texas you shall go. Would you venture to face Colonel Hyde?” “With these green goggles I would face any of my old masters; and the scalds upon my face would alone prevent my being known.” “I can get you a pass from the Mayor himself, so that you’d not be molested. Find Hyde, and bring him to me at any cost. Money will do it. When can you start?” “By the next boat,—in half an hour.” “All right. Make your home at Bernard’s when you return. The house is mine. Here’s the direction. Here’s a pass from the Mayor which I’ve filled up for you. And here’s money, which you needn’t stop to count. Good by!” And, with a grasp of the hand, they parted, and Peek quitted the hotel to take the boat for Galveston. He had no sooner gone than Vance went down-stairs to the dining-hall. Most of the guests had finished their dinners; but at a small table near that at which he took his seat were a company of four, lingering over the dessert. Senator Wigman, a puffy, red-faced man, had been holding forth on the prospective glories of the Confederacy. “Yes, sir,” said he, refilling his glass with Burgundy, “with the rest of the world we’ll trade, but never, never with the Yankees. Not one pound of cotton shall ever go from the South to their accursed cities; not one ounce of their steel or their manufactures shall ever cross our borders.” And Wigman emptied his glass at a single gulp.