It contained a full account of the slave auction of the previous day. The gold-digger's face blanched as he read the paragraph. "Gracious Providence," he ejaculated, solemnly, "how mysterious are Thy ways! I have but come in time. Cora, the beloved daughter of Gerald Leslie, sold in the public auction room! It is too horrible!" He put on his hat, and after a few words to his friend, hurried down-stairs to the bar of the hotel, where he ordered a vehicle to be got ready for him, without delay. It was strange, that, though so evidently anxious to depart, he preferred waiting for this vehicle, to walking through the sunny streets. He had, no doubt, some powerful motive for this line of conduct. In ten minutes, a close carriage was at the door, and, slouching his hat over his eyes, the gold-digger hurried from the bar to the vehicle, into which he sprung, after giving a brief direction to the negro driver. Meanwhile his companion lounged over his untasted breakfast. The New Orleans papers appeared to possess little interest for him. He looked at them for a few moments and then threw them carelessly aside. He had shaved off the bushy whiskers he had worn in the California solitude, and his face was only adorned by a small brown mustache. He was about five-and-thirty years of age, but so slim and elegant in figure as to look considerably younger; and it was easy to see that he was not a native of America. Half an hour after the departure of his friend, the waiter brought him a note which had been left at the hotel by an elderly mulattress. At the first glance at the superscription on this note, the face of the man who called himself Brown, was convulsed by a tumult of emotion. The letter was addressed to "Monsieur Armand Tremlay." He tore asunder the envelope, and perused the few lines it contained, then snatching up his hat, he rushed from the house, to the alarm of the waiters, who were inclined to think the stranger had suddenly lost his senses. A quarter of an hour afterward he was at the Villa Moraquitos. It was now ten o'clock, and eleven had been appointed for the performance of the marriage ceremony, but neither the bride nor bridemaid had as yet assumed the attire prepared for the occasion, and the elderly bridegroom, Don Juan Moraquitos, paced uneasily up and down his solitary chamber. The gold-digger was admitted by the mulattress, Pepita. It was she who had carried the note to his hotel. She conducted him to the elegant boudoir, usually occupied by Camillia Moraquitos and Pauline Corsi, but which was now untenanted. The stranger gazed around him in bewilderment, but before he could ask a question of Pepita, she had hurried from the room. He took the note from his waistcoat pocket, and once more devoured its contents. "If Armand Tremlay would ascertain the fate of her whom he once loved, let him call without delay at the Villa Moraquitos."