While this conversation was going on, Peek had dismounted from the driver’s seat. He had taken the precaution to cover both the horses and the carriage with oil-cloth, apparently as a protection against the rain, but really to prevent an identification. No sooner had his feet touched the side-walk, than a man carrying a bludgeon stepped up to him and said, “Whose turn-out have you here, darkey?” “Dis am massa’s turn-out, an’ nobody else’s, sure,” said Peek, disguising his voice. “Well, who’s massa?” “Massa’s de owner ob dis carriage. Thar, yer’v got it. So dry up, ole feller!” The inquirer tried to roll up the oil-cloth to get a sight of the panel. Peek interposed, telling him to stand off. The man raised his bludgeon and threatened to strike. Peek’s first impulse was to disarm him and choke him into silence, but, fearing the least noise might bring other officers to the spot, he prudently abstained. Just at this moment, Winslow issued from the side door of the hotel, and was about to enter the carriage, when the detective who had succeeded in rolling up the covering of the panel till he could see the coat-of-arms, politely stopped the old man, and begged permission to look at him closely by the gaslight, remarking that he had orders from head-quarters to arrest a certain suspected party. “Pooh! Everybody in New Orleans knows me,” said Winslow. “I can’t help that, sir,” said the detective, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “I must insist on your letting—” Before the speaker could finish his sentence, his arms were pinioned from behind by a lasso, and he was jerked back so as to lose his balance. But one articulation escaped from his lips, and that was half smothered in his throat. “O’Gorman!” he cried, calling to one of his companions; but before he could repeat the cry, a gag was inserted in his mouth, and he was lifted into the carriage and there held with a power that speedily taught him how useless was resistance. Kenrick made Peek and Onslow acquainted, and these two sprang on to the driver’s seat. The rest of the party took their places inside. “Down! down!” cried Peek, thrusting Onslow down on his knees and starting the horses. The next moment a pistol was discharged, and there was the whiz of a bullet over their heads. But the horses had now found out what was wanted of them, and they showed their blood by trotting at a two-fifty speed along St. Charles Street.