“Judges and juries! Thou forgettest, man, that a clumsy galliot could sail through the tightest clause, of these extra-legal compacts. The courts receive the evidence of this sort of traffic, as the grave receives the dead; to swallow all, and be forgotten.” “I care not for the courts, and little desire do I feel to enter them. But the presence of la belle Barbérie may serve to prevent any misconceptions, that might bring our connexion to a premature close. Let her be summoned.” “The girl is altogether ignorant of traffic, and it might unsettle her opinions of her uncle’s stability. If a man does not maintain credit within his own doors, how can he expect it in the streets?” “Many have credit on the highway, who receive none at home. But thou knowest my humor; no niece—no traffic.” “Alida is a dutiful and affectionate child, and I would not willingly disturb her slumbers. Here is the Patroon of Kinderhook, a man who loves English legislation as little as myself;—he will be less reluctant to see an honest shilling turned into gold. I will awake him: no man was ever yet offended at an offer to share in a profitable adventure.” “Let him sleep on. I deal not with your lords of manors and mortgages. Bring forth the lady, for there will be matter fit for her delicacy.” “Duty and the ten commandments! You never had the charge of a child, Master Seadrift, and cannot know the weight of responsibility—” “No niece—no traffic!” interrupted the wilful dealer in contraband, returning his invoice to his pocket, and preparing to rise from the table, where he had already seated himself.—“The lady knows of my presence; and it were safer for us both, that she entered more deeply into our confidence.” “Thou art as despotic as the English navigation-law! I hear the foot of the child still pacing her chamber, and she shall come. But there need be no explanations, to recall old intercourse.—The affair can pass as a bit of accidental speculation—a by-play, in the traffic of life.” “As thou pleasest. I shall deal less in words than in business. Keep thine own secrets, burgher, and they are safe. Still, I would have the lady, for there is a presentiment that our connexion is in danger.” “I like not that word presentiment,” grumbled the Alderman, taking a light, and snuffing it with deliberate care; “drop but a single letter, and one dreams of the pains and penalties of the Exchequer.—Remember thou art a trafficker, who conceals his appearance on account of the cleverness of his speculations.” “That is my calling, to the letter. Were all others as clever, the trade would certainly cease.—Go, bring the lady.” The Alderman, who probably saw the necessity of making some explanation to his niece, and who, it would seem, fully understood the positive character of his companion, no longer hesitated; but, first casting a suspicious glance out of the still open window he left the room. CHAPTER X.