"Go on."
"Well, suddenly Number Two became aware of the approaching carriage, and it's plain he didn't want to be seen after all; he was so bent on watching Number One, when he stepped so briskly into the light, that he was heedless of his own actions. He wheeled around, gave one glance toward the carriage, and disappeared down Tenth Street as quickly as the other man had. But during that brief look Stonewall had an opportunity to recognize him."
"And it was—"
"Lynden."
If Mr. Converse was surprised he showed it not at all; he said nothing, and McCaleb, after eyeing him a moment, continued:
"The darkies all had a lot to say; but there was only one thing more that struck me as being important, and I got it out of a little yellow wench—a sort of housemaid. She says General Westbrook was hoodooed last Monday night—the night of the De Sanchez inquest, Captain,—and her yarn has made quite an impression on the other darkies."
The speaker suddenly felt that his hearer's interest had quickened, and he paused an instant to marshal his thoughts. But Converse interposed with a quickness that indicated impatience to hear all there was to be related.
"You didn't let it go at that, I suppose?" he asked.
"Oh, no. Sally's story amounts to this. General Westbrook has not been sick at all; he was hoodooed by a black man that wasn't a nigger."
"'A black man not a nigger'?" Converse repeated, vaguely. "What the deuce!" He clapped McCaleb upon the shoulder with such suddenness that it startled him. "Mac, you're a jewel!" he ejaculated, with a very noticeable moderation of his sibilant voice. "Go on."