Part 5

"It came of my passengers changing their minds," said the man. "We were in Chestnut Street near to Fourth when they suddenly bethought them that they'd do well to drop in on some one else before going home. Down among the wharves is no usual place to go visiting of a night; but, as that was their orders, there I went--or as far as I could; for after the horse fell they got out and I saw no more of them, for I was well occupied in getting back to the stable with a crippled beast on my hands." Here he turned to the apothecary and added confidently: "Yes, let it be pitch. I know that to work well. Don't be afraid that I'll mix the fly into it; I'm too old a horse-leech for that. Get your pitch just hot enough to run, do you see? Spread it upon a common cloth, sprinkle the blister upon the face of it, and clap it on the shoulder. Let him clump about as he will, there it is fixed; and in a day it will have drawn all the humors of the fall away."

"He will have fever from the shock," said Christopher. "His pulse will be heavy and his tongue rough. In that event I would advise pond-dogwood. A plain infusion of the bark makes a draft, bitter, but agreeable and efficacious."

What the man with the injured horse said in way of reply, Anthony did not hear; for his attention was being given to little groups of people who were hastily gathering and dissolving, gathering and dissolving, on the street; other people were hurrying along talking excitedly with each other. Christopher Dent, following Anthony's gaze, also saw them; he opened the door and spoke to a victualer who was passing, wiping his hands on his apron.

"What is it? What has happened?"

"They say a man has been killed," said the victualer. "Some merchant or other; killed in his own counting-room, below here on the river front, near to the fish-market--some time during the night."

VII

It was a day or two later, and Anthony went to the counting-house of Rufus Stevens' Sons and again inquired for his uncle. The same affable man who had spoken with him on his previous visit came forward, and once more regretted Mr. Stevens's absence.

"But," said he, "he is on his way. The vessel he named to sail in should be in the bay by this time, as the weather has been good, and she is a good sailer. Is there anything we can serve you in?"

"Nothing, thank you." Anthony was turning away.

"What name shall I say?" asked the affable man.

"Stevens."

The affable manner was instantly reinforced by one of much respect.

"It may be that you are related to Mr. Charles," ventured the man.

"His nephew," said Anthony.

The man at once produced a chair.

"I shall call Mr. Whitaker," he said.

Anthony would have asked him not to do so; but just then he caught sight of a woman's figure in another room, the door of which was open, and before he had taken his gaze away Whitaker came up.

"This is a pleasure," said Whitaker, shaking his hand. "Mr. Stevens has not returned, but we're glad to see you, anyhow."

"I'm told he's expected back shortly."

"Yes, but then you never can tell what the wind will do off the capes. Devil of an excitement going on in the city, isn't there? what with this fellow up the street being taken off as he was, and all that. I don't think I've seen anything but gossiping knots of people, coroners' juries, and city officials for the past two days."

Anthony nodded toward the open door.

"I thought," said he, "I recognized some one inside there."

"Oh, Mr. Weir?"

"No, the lady. Isn't it Mademoiselle Lafargue, daughter of your Monsieur Lafargue, of Brest?"

"Daughter of Lafargue!" Whitaker glanced, surprised, into the adjoining room. "Is that who it is?" He pulled at his neck-cloth to give it a better set and asked with interest: "How long have you known her?"

"Why, I can't say that I know her at all," said Anthony. "It just chanced a few days ago that I exchanged some words with her father."

"So he has a daughter," mused Whitaker in an injured tone. "And he never so much as mentioned the fact while I was at Brest; and I was there upwards of a month! I'd never have taken him for that kind. He seemed much more of the gentleman." As Anthony made no reply to this, Whitaker went on. "On the whole, I don't know what to make of Lafargue. He seems peculiar. Yesterday I happened to mention to Captain Weir--that's him talking to mademoiselle--that I'd seen Lafargue at the coffee-house, and I really think he didn't like it. I believe, in my soul," said Whitaker, "old Lafargue is here unexpectedly; and what he means by it I can't say."

The girl, as Anthony watched her, was standing with one hand resting upon the back of a chair; her head was held well up, and she was talking spiritedly.

"Who is Mr. Weir?" said Anthony, his gaze going toward the man to whom she was speaking.

He was above the average size, of angular, powerful frame, and his hair was sprinkled with gray. His face was well looking, but singularly mask-like; his eyes were deep-set and steady; they had the quality of cold, green stone. But it was his movements that attracted Anthony's attention. While the girl talked he paced backward and forward; each move had a peculiar deftness; each foot was put down much as a hand might be--a combination of sureness and power which reminded Anthony of some of the huge cat-like beasts of the wilderness. There was a fine dignity about Mr. Weir; his air was one of authority; across his left jaw was a red seam.

"Have you never heard of him?" asked Whitaker. "He's been with the house since your grandfather's day; and, between ourselves, I don't see how your uncle could do without him. A fine, upstanding man, very fair, and with a great mind for detail. It's strange you haven't heard of him. It was Mr. Weir who commanded your grandfather's ship _Argus_, when she outran and outfought two English corvettes and a sloop-of-war. His name is written into the histories. A very capable person; it's a pleasure to work under him."

Just then the girl turned and came, agitated, toward the door of the room. There she paused.

"I shall repeat your words to my father," she said. "He is old and not in good health, and what you have said will be a shock to him."

"He is a man, and will understand the advisability of what I say," said Mr. Weir, his eyes cold, green, and unemotional. "Assure him of my consideration, and say that I hope to see him soon."

Without a word the girl came out into the counting-room. As she passed Anthony on her way to the street, her head was bent, her eyes upon the floor; for an instant the young man fancied that she raised them ever so little and saw him. He took off his hat, but she never paused. Mr. Weir opened the street door for her; Anthony heard her low voiced "Good-by," and she was gone.

"Mr. Weir," said Whitaker, "may I present Mr. Anthony Stevens?"

The cold, steady eyes of the man seemed to take in Anthony at a single glance; and he held out his hand.

"I had heard you were in the city," said he. "Dr. King mentioned it. In the absence of your uncle, permit me to welcome you."

Later Whitaker was called away, and Weir said:

"After your father's death I had all but forgotten that he had a son; then one day I received a report from our correspondent at New Orleans that brought you back to me in a way that insured your not slipping me in the future."

"What was that?" asked Anthony.

"It was an account of your affair with Alvaro," said Weir, and again his steady eyes took in the young man from head to foot.

Anthony smiled.

"There was a great deal of talk about that at the time," said he, "but it was, after all, a matter of no large consequence. Montufars had suffered greatly from the toll-takers who occupy the reefs and islands below New Orleans, and was hard put to it at the time to meet his business obligations. He feared to let a vessel go out, knowing the pirates would loot it; and in the end his spirit broke completely. I saw that something must be quickly done if he was to be rescued from his embarrassments, and the quickest method was to visit Alvaro.

"I found the old thief snug in his den, overlooking the principal street of New Orleans. There was not a merchant trading in the port who did not know this man was the agent of the pirates, that it was he who bribed the authorities to keep their hands off, and that every seafaring enterprise had to pay for his protection. Why men will permit such bloated old spiders to get the upper hand of them," said Anthony, "I cannot understand."

"What did you do?" asked Mr. Weir.

"I laid a loaded pistol on the table before him. I told him that two ships of Montufars were due within a week's time, and that one was to sail, outward bound, directly. And, further, I said, if any harm came to any one of them, be it ever so little, I would shoot him dead."

"And what followed?"

"All three were allowed to pass about their business, unmolested; and in consequence Alvaro still lives, fat as ever, and taking tribute from those who are afraid of him."

Mr. Weir laughed; and as he did the red seam across his jaw looked deeper and darker; the green, flint-like eyes seemed colder.

"That is a deal like your grandfather would have done it," said he. "But what action did the port officials take? for in preventing the looting of these ships you interfered sadly with one of their most cherished privileges."

Anthony made a wry face.

"They made me feel that," said he. "And, because of their hostility, any vessel I sailed in was marked; finally, it was impossible for me to get one; and so I took to the inland trade, which I have followed ever since."

Weir nodded.

"I've heard of some of your doings; it may be," seeing Anthony's questioning look, "that our agent, noting the interest of the house in the matter you've just described, was at some pains afterwards to keep himself in the way of tidings of you. At any rate, he'd often jot down bits of news concerning your enterprises." He studied Anthony for a few moments, and then asked, "Has your interest in land traffic taken away all your desire for the sea?"

"You are taking it for granted that I had such a desire," smiled Anthony.

"No one with a drop of Rufus Stevens's blood in his body could be without it." They talked about old Rufus for a space, and then Weir asked: "Have you seen your uncle since you left here as a boy?"

"No."

"You'll like him," said the other. "And I feel sure he'll like you." And then, after another little period of talk, "Have you ever sailed as master of a ship?"

"No, as mate only."

Mr. Weir nodded.

"Yes," said he, "I think your uncle will be greatly interested in you." And then when Anthony shook hands with him, about to go, he added: "The moment his vessel docks, you shall be notified. Are you lodged at one of the taverns?"

"The Half Moon."

"I shall remember that."

Anthony left the counting-room and started up Water Street. Directly ahead, a carriage was drawn up close to the foot-path, and the traffic of the street was ill-humoredly skirting it. As the young man was on the point of passing, he heard a woman's voice; turning his head he saw Mademoiselle Lafargue leaning from the open window of the vehicle, her eyes wide, her face white.

"Mademoiselle!" said Anthony, shocked.

"I have been awaiting you," she said. He was about to speak, but she gestured him not to do so. "The other day my father and myself gained by your good will. You showed yourself a friend, though a stranger. If you saw us again in need of help, would you come forward, once more, to give it?"

"I would," said Anthony.

"We are in danger," she said. "How great, and how immediate, I do not know, and there is not a soul in the whole world to whom we can appeal but you." She spoke to the coachman and the carriage started. "Thank you," she said to Anthony, gratitude in her frightened eyes. "To-morrow you shall hear from me." With that she was gone; and Anthony, his tall hat in his hand, stood staring after her.

VIII

It was fairly well into the afternoon; Anthony had shaved, dressed his hair, and attired himself smartly. He sat in the public room of the Half Moon, rather cherishing the hope that Mademoiselle Lafargue might show some early sign of requiring his service. A pursy-looking man in top-boots, and with his pockets stuffed with papers, occupied a bench near to a window, and talked with a gentleman wrapped in a greatcoat and with a rug across his knees.

"The watch," said the pursy man, "is all but useless. They cannot prevent wrong-doing, and when it is done they are unable to bring the malefactors to justice."

The man in the greatcoat drew the rug more closely about his knees and seemed unhappy.

"It is very distressing," said he. "A crime like this, and no one to place it upon. For what are we taxed if it is not for the punishment of offenders?"

"No goods were taken," said the pursy man. "No harm was done save to Magruder's life. That alone seems to have been the purpose of the criminal. A stab-wound, says the surgeon; a stab-wound in the neck, and struck not so shrewdly! 'Twas a clumsy hand that did the deed; but," and here the speaker wagged his head, "an apprentice is as good as a journeyman, so long as the task is accomplished."

"There are city lights," said the man in the greatcoat; "there are safeguards for life and property; the watch is well paid. But the streets are not safe; prowlers can go to and fro as they will; houses, places of business are entered, blows are struck, lives are taken. Yet the prisons are unoccupied; the gallows are unused."

"I have heard a whisper," said the pursy man, "that some one is suspicioned." He nodded his head, and panted, as though the thing excited him. "It was not the watch who came upon the thing; the watch is too slow-going for that. But, when all was confusion and every one at his wit's end, it bobs up unexpectedly of its own accord."

"Some one suspicioned?" said the man in the greatcoat, hungrily. "Who is it?"

But the other shook his head.

"I don't know," said he. "It was only a whisper I got, and it was not meant for my ears. This Magruder had a ship in that day, and there was much to occupy him at his place of business. He remained after his clerks and porters had gone, so they tell; and, about eight, went to a tavern for a chop and a glass of ale, for he was none of your great eaters, having a slim stomach and a none too liberal hand. The people of the tavern say he left there before nine, and it's thought that he went straightaway back to his counting-room and there remained."

"But the suspicioned person?" said the man in the greatcoat, anxiously, not caring to miss this chance of putting the prisons and gallows to their proper use. "How came it to fall upon him?"

"Some one," said the pursy man, "was seen to leave Magruder's place by the counting-room door, which is in the back. Very quietly is the manner in which the person is said to have left, and at an hour that was unusual."

"There should be no difficulty in apprehending the villain," said the other man. "All the evilly disposed in the city should be taken charge of; and the man could be picked from among them."

But the pursy man seemed to doubt this method.

"That would not suffice," said he, "for we could not be sure the crime was done by one given to public villainy."

"You would not think of suspecting any honest man!" said the other, aghast.

"What would you say if you heard--only in a whisper, however, and the whisper not meant for you--that the criminal was not a man at all, but a woman?"

Anthony felt his blood chill; he waited to hear no more, but arose and went into the passage. Here, just entering, he encountered Whitaker, who was most gracefully attired in cream-colored pantaloons, a blue coat with dull copper buttons, a frilled neck-cloth, and a fawn-hued beaver, the brim of which curled magnificently.

"I thought I'd chance upon you," said this young gentleman, as he shook Anthony's hand. "I'm on my way to Mrs. Newell's, here in Fourth Street. Charming woman, and loves music. She usually has some one who can finger a harp, or a pianoforte; there's a German who plays upon a flute most excellently; and some of her guests always sing. Come along; Mrs. Newell will be delighted."

Just at that moment Anthony had desire for neither music nor light company; he'd much rather have talked if Whitaker had been a person with whom he could have discussed what was in his mind. But, at the same time, he had no desire to be alone with his thoughts; so, with his arm in that of the fop, he was led away to Fourth Street.

Mrs. Newell's house stood in a little court, just above Chestnut, a brick-paved place, with handsome trees, little spaces about the door-steps for growing plants in summer-time, and trellises for rose-vines under each window. Mrs. Newell herself, as Whitaker had said, was charming, a little mouse of a woman with dark eyes and an engaging manner.

"You are just in time to hear Tosini," she told Anthony. "A fine performer. He will play one of his own sonatas."

Mrs. Newell's drawing-room was crowded, and Anthony was presented here and there to little groups of ladies. Tosini was a dark, Latin-looking man with curly black hair, shot with gray; from the box of his violin he drew sounds that melted and thrilled, and left the ladies fluttering with delight.

"Astonishing tone," commented Whitaker, as he patted approvingly with his gloves. "Wonderful vibrations. Sometimes I think strings and wood have magic in them when brought together. Remarkable playing."

A round-faced man then blew a melody of Blanck's out of a German flute, and a young lady with a small, sweet voice sang "Love in a Village," to the tinkling of a harpsichord. Then another young lady with a harp, and an enterprising youth who bore a violoncello, joined forces with the flute and violin and made their way through a quartet of Bach's, to the gratification of every one. This done, there was a great chattering and clamoring and exclaiming. Anthony stood at one side rather disconsolately, Whitaker having deserted him, when he saw Mrs. King smiling at him from across the room. At once he made his way to her side.

"I saw you as you came in," she said, "but you did not permit your look to go anywhere but straight ahead, and so I couldn't catch your eye until now. I'm sure you enjoyed the music; you looked as though you did."

"It was a treat to me," he returned. "A Spanish sailor thrumming a guitar in the forecastle, or some indifferent fiddling at a trading-post, has been the only music I've listened to for a long time."

"Your mother was a beautiful musician; too beautiful, I'm afraid, for the city of her day. We rather resented finish," with a smile. "Have you made up your mind to remain with us?"

"I have not yet seen my uncle."

"Oh, that wonderful uncle," laughed Mrs. King. "So much depends upon what he does or says. A mere nod of his head will change the plans of hundreds. If he speaks, his intimates seem to expect a magical occurrence. But," and she nodded her assurance, "you'll like him. Charles has not been spoiled by adulation, for the reason that he has not noticed it. In many things he is still a boy. You are twenty-five, and he is fifty; but you are his elder in temperament."

They talked of New Orleans, of Anthony's experiences, of his mother and father; then they returned to music, and Mrs. King, pleased, commented upon the growing taste in such things.

"It must be the large number of people from continental Europe who have come among us, because of the revolutions and disorders going on there. Some of them are so charming that their accomplishments cannot help being imitated. Yesterday at de Lannoy's--Monsieur de Lannoy was a count in France--I heard a young French girl sing in a way that was extraordinary. And she was quite free and self-possessed; not at all like our girls who take a feeling of something like guilt into everything that is not usual. She is here with her father; they are strangers in the city. Monsieur de Lannoy had known her father in a business way at Brest."

"At Brest!" said Anthony. "What was her name?"

"Lafargue. A very beautiful creature, and, it seemed, in the short time I talked with her, with a mind as wonderful as her voice. But in spite of all the sparkle in her manner I could see she felt but little of it. At times her eyes actually seemed to have a look of fear in them. So many of the _émigrés_ have that look. Their experiences must have been dreadful."

"No doubt."

"She said she was a stranger," said Mrs. King, "and had been here less than a week. And yet," amusedly, "at five o'clock young Tarrant called for her. A handsome girl can't be a stranger for long anywhere."

Anthony felt a flush of resentment rise to his face; he fumbled with the fringe upon the arm of the chair in which he sat and glowered at the floor.

"It had been arranged that he should call for her," added Mrs. King. "She, being so newly arrived, was not sure that she'd find her way back to her lodging-place."

"I have met with this Tarrant," said Anthony. "But our dealings were brief. What manner of man is he?"

"He is very well known," said Mrs. King. "And inclined, I think, to play the part of a ruffling blade, such as is common in London. He was once in the navy, a lieutenant, and also in the merchant service."

Just then Whitaker came up; with him was a lady who laughed and talked incessantly.

"We were just speaking of Mr. Tarrant," said Mrs. King. "Perhaps you can tell Anthony more about him than I."

"About Bob?" said Whitaker importantly. "Quite right. I know him like a book. Astonishingly clever fellow. Great ability. And has a real talent for clothes. No better dressed man in the city. Takes his hints from Europe. They say he has correspondents who keep him posted."

The lady who held Whitaker's arm here began to laugh once more.