“Capitally!” replied Hawks. “I took care to put him through his paces at our first meeting,—took the starch right out of him. He’d score his own mother now if I told him to. He’s a thorough nigger—is Peek. A nigger must fear a white man before he can like him. Peek would go through fire and water for me now. He has behaved so well, I have given him a pass to visit his sister at Carter’s.” “I never knew before that Peek had a sister,” said Barnwell. Peek did not come back from that visit. CHAPTER VII. AN UNCONSCIOUS HEIRESS. “She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near’; And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late’; The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear’; And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’” _Tennyson._ We left Peek (known in New York as Jacobs) in the little closet opening from the apartment where Charlton sat at his papers. The knock at the outer door was succeeded by the entrance of a person of rather imposing presence. Mr. Albert Pompilard stood upwards of six feet in his polished shoes and variegated silk stockings. He was bulky, and could not conceal, by any art of dress, an incipient paunch. But whether he was a youth of twenty-five or a man of fifty it was very difficult to judge on a hasty inspection. He was in reality sixty-nine. He affected an extravagantly juvenile and jaunty style of dress, and was never twenty-four hours behind the extreme fashions of Young America. On this occasion Mr. Pompilard was dressed in a light-colored sack or pea-jacket, with gaping pockets and enormous buttons, the cloth being a sort of shaggy, woollen stuff, coarse enough for a mat. His pantaloons and vest were of the same astounding fabric. He wore a new black hat, just ironed and brushed by Leary; a neckerchief of a striped red-and-black silk, loosely tied; immaculate linen; and a diamond on his little finger. A thick gold chain passed round his neck, and entered his vest pocket. He swung a gold-headed switch, and was followed by a little terrier dog of a breed new to Broadway. Mr. Pompilard’s complexion was somewhat florid, and presented few marks of age. He wore his own teeth, which were still sound and white, and his own hair, including whiskers, although the hue was rather too black to be natural. “I believe I have the honor of addressing Mr. Charlton,” said Pompilard, with the air of one who is graciously bestowing a condescension. “That’s my name, sir. What’s your business?” replied Charlton, in the curt, dry manner of one who gives his information grudgingly. “My name, sir, is Pompilard. You may not be aware that there is a sort of family connection between us.” “Ah! yes; I remember,” said Charlton, looking inquiringly at his visitor, but not asking him to sit down.