“More than a million of dollars,—so Ireton told me.”
“A million? The father and mother dead,—then prove that the child—But stop. I’m going too fast. Hyde couldn’t have been interested in having it supposed that the child was dead. How could he have known about the Berwick property?”
“But might he not have tried to kidnap the yellow girl?”
“There you hit it, Peek! Dolt that I’ve been not to think of that! I remember now that Hyde once said to me, the yellow girl would bring sixteen hundred dollars in New Orleans. Well, supposing he took the yellow girl, what could he do with the white child?”
“Can you, of all men, Mr. Vance, not guess? He could sell the child as a slave. Or, if he wanted to make her bring a little better price, he could tinge her skin just enough to give it a slight golden hue.”
Vance wet a towel in iced water, and pressed it on his forehead.
“But you pierce my heart, Peek, by the bare suggestion of such things,” he said. “That poor child! Clara was her name,—a bright, affectionate little lady! Should Hyde have given false testimony in regard to her death, I shudder to think what may have become of her. She, born to affluence, may be at this moment a wretched menial, or worse, a trained Cyprian, polluted, body and soul. Why was I not more thorough in my investigations? But perhaps ’t is not too late to prove the villany, if villany there has been.”
“Hyde may be able to put you on the right track,” suggested Peek.
Vance sat down, and for five minutes seemed lost in meditation. Then, starting up, he said: “Where would you next go in pursuit of your wife and child?”
“To Texas,” replied Peek.