"Oh, no secret at all," replied my Norfolk friend. "One of those matters of business which occur every day--a gentleman, who owes to me and my Boston partners certain banks of ducats, as that funny old fellow, Shakspeare, would call them, which he neglected to pay; he promised them the day before yesterday morning, on the nail, in the city of Portsmouth, at the hour of the arrival of the stage; but neither he nor the dollars ever appeared. I had warned him that this was the last time--it was about the fiftieth--that he should break his promise, and I pointed out to him that though habits of intimacy and some kindness shown to me, a long time ago, when he was a man of about forty, and I a youth of twenty-two or twenty-three, had induced me to forbear, notwithstanding the after-conduct which had severed our friendship; yet, as there were other persons concerned, who had befriended him, at my request, I was now bound to see them paid." "But who is he--who is he?" asked the sheriff. "Oh, your neighbour, Mr. William Thornton," replied Mr. Wheatley. "He told me he was to receive thirty thousand dollars this week, and would pay them over immediately; but he was like Hope, that told the flattering tale, which turned out untrue." "He has had his hands somewhat too full of business lately," replied the sheriff gravely. "Yes, my dear sir," answered Mr. Wheatley. "I dare say there has been a little bustle in the country; but I cannot allow the sports and pastimes of a number of coloured gentlemen to interfere with regular commercial transactions." "You are not aware, my good friend," replied the sheriff, "that this unfortunate gentleman was, himself, severely wounded yesterday, and his son shot dead on the spot, by some of the revolted negroes. These are the latest victims of Nat Turner's insurrection. I trust they will also be the last." Mr. Wheatley looked aghast. "Poor devil!" he exclaimed. "Of his son I know nothing; but of himself I saw very much in my young days, when this Robert was a boy." "I trust, under the circumstances, Mr. Wheatley," said the sheriff, "that you will not judge it right to disturb this unfortunate man on his death-bed." "I must see that the property is some way adequately secured," said Mr. Wheatley, gravely, after a moment's thought. "For myself, I should not care, sheriff. I could make up my mind to lose the fifteen thousand dollars, which is my share of the business; but there is another gentleman concerned, who never knew him, and is greatly irritated at his conduct." "He has been very unfortunate, you know," urged the sheriff. "Nay, sir, nay," replied Mr. Wheatley, drawing himself up with a sterner look than I ever thought his face could assume. "Unfortunate, truly, in being destitute alike of principle, and honour, and generosity; but in nothing else. The base and scandalous transaction which broke off my intimacy with him was the beginning of what you call his misfortunes."