“Mr. Roland Cashel; Roland Cashel, Esq., I should call him now, sir.”
“That 's my name!” said the youth, forcing his way through the crowd, and standing in front of the traveller.
The little man put his hand into a breast-pocket, and drew out a little book, opening which he began to read, comparing the detail, as he went on, with the object before him:—
“Six foot and an inch in height, at least, olive-brown complexion, dark eyes and hair, straight nose, short upper lip, frowns slightly when he speaks;—just talk a little, will you?”
Cashel could not help smiling at the request; when the other added, “Shows his teeth greatly when he laughs.”
“Am I a runaway negro from New Orleans that you have taken my portrait so accurately, sir?”
“Got that at Demerara,” said the little man, putting up the book, “and must say it was very near indeed!”
“I have been at Demerara,” said Cashel, hoping by the admission to obtain some further insight into the traveller's intentions.
“I know that,” said the little man. “I tracked you thence to St Kitts, then to Antigua. I lost you there, but I got up the scent again in Honduras, but only for a short time, and had to try Demerara again; then I dodged down the coast by Pernambuco, but lost you entirely in June,—some damned Indian expedition, I believe. But I met a fellow at New Orleans who had seen you at St. Louis, and so I tracked away south—”
“And, in one word, having found me, what was the cause of so much solicitude, sir?” said Cashel, who felt by no means comfortable at such a hot and unwearied pursuit.