Vance had made preparations for the escape of Kenrick and himself. A little steam-tug called the Artful Dodger, carrying the Confederate flag, lay in the river. Everybody supposed she was a sort of spy on United States cruisers. For two days she had lain there with steam all up, ready to start at a moment’s warning. Her crew appeared to be all ashore, except the captain, mate, engineer, cook, and two stewards. The last three were black men. The other three, if they were not Yankees, had caught some peculiarities of pronunciation which the schoolmaster is vainly striving to extirpate at the North. These men said _beeyownd_ for _bounds_ and _neeyow_ for _now_. While Vance was meditating on his arrangements, a card was brought to him. It bore the name “Simon Winslow.” “Show him in,” said Vance to the servant. As Simon entered, Vance recognized him as the individual who had aided him the day of the rescue of Quattles from the mob. “There’s a sort of freemasonry, Mr. Vance,” said Winslow, “that assures me I may trust you. Your sympathies, sir, are with the Union.” Wary and suspicious, Vance bowed, but made no reply. “Do not doubt me,” continued Winslow. “True, I’ve been a slaveholder. But ’t is now several years since I owned a slave. Mr. Vance, I want your counsel, and, it may be, your aid. Still distrustful? How shall I satisfy you that I’m not a traitor knave?” “Enough, Mr. Winslow! I’ll trust your threescore years and your loyal face. Tell me what I can do for you. Be seated.” They sat down, and the old man resumed: “I have lived in this city more than forty years, Mr. Vance, but for some time I’ve foreseen that there would be little hope for a man of Northern birth unless he would consent to howl with the pack for secession and a slave confederacy. Now I’m too old to tune my bark to any such note. The consequence is, I am a marked man, liable at any moment to be seized and imprisoned. My property here is nearly all in real estate; so if that is confiscated, as it will be, I’ve no fear but Uncle Sam will soon come to give it back to me. The rest of my assets it will be hard for the keenest-scented inquisitor to find. To-day, by the death of Mrs. Ratcliff—” “Of what Mrs. Ratcliff?” inquired Vance. “Mrs. Carberry Ratcliff. By her death I become the legally irresponsible, and therefore all the more _morally_ the responsible, manager of an estate of more than half a million, of which a considerable portion is to be used by me for the benefit of two women at present slaves.” “But her husband will never consent to it!” interposed Vance.