“This box,” interposed Toussaint, “was the gift of his late father to his second wife, the present Mrs. Charlton.” “Ah! yes, I remember the connection now.” “Mrs. Charlton wishes me to deposit the box where, in the event of her death, it will reach the daughter of the present Mrs. Berwick. Here is the direction on the envelope.” Pompilard read the words: “For Clara Aylesford Berwick, daughter of Henry Berwick, Esq., to be delivered to her in the event of the death of the undersigned, Emily Charlton.” “I will tell you what to do,” said Pompilard. “Here come Isaac Jones of the Chemical and Arthur Schermerhorn. Isaac shall give a receipt for the box and deposit it in the safe of the bank, there to be kept till called for by Miss Clara Berwick or her representative.” “That will do,” said Toussaint. The two gentlemen were called in, and in five minutes the proper paper was drawn up, witnessed, and signed, and Mr. Jones gave a receipt for the box. Briefly Toussaint now explained to Charlton the manner in which the box had been disposed of. Charlton was nonplussed. It would not do to disgust the officials at the Chemical. It might hurt his credit. A consolatory reflection struck him. “Do you say my wife is suffering?” he asked. “Madame will need a physician,” replied the negro. “I have sent for Dr. Hull.” “Well, look here, old gentleman, I’m responsible for no debts of your contracting on her account. I call Mr. Blake to witness. If you keep her here, it must be at your own expense. Not a cent shall you ever have from _me_.” “That will not import,” replied Toussaint, with the hauteur of a prince of the blood. Felicitating himself on having got rid of a doctor’s bill, Charlton took his departure. “The exceedingly poor cuss!” muttered Blake, tossing after him the stump of a cigar. “Let me pay you for your trouble, Mr. Blake,” said Toussaint. “Not a copper, Marquis! I have been here only half an hour, and in that time have read the newspaper, smoked one regalia, quality prime, and pocketed another. If that is not pay enough, you shall make it up by curling my hair the next time I go to a ball.” “But take the rest of the cigars.” “There, Marquis, you touch me on my weak point. Thank you. Good by, Toussaint!” Toussaint closed the door, and called to his wife in a whisper, speaking in French, “How goes it, Juliette?” “Hist! She sleeps. She wishes you to put this letter in the post-office as soon as possible. If you can get the canary-bird, do it. I hope the doctor will be here soon.” Toussaint left at once to mail the invalid’s letter and get possession of her bird. CHAPTER IV. A FUGITIVE CHATTEL.