Esha slipped out of the house, looking up and down the street to see if she were watched, and Peek soon afterwards passed out and walked rapidly in the direction of St. Genevieve Street. The great thoroughfares were filled with crowds of excited people. The stars and bars, emblem of the perpetuity of slavery, were flaunted in his face at every crossing. The newspapers that morning had boasted how impregnable were the defences. The hated enemy—the mean and cowardly Yankees—had received their most humiliating rebuff. Forts Jackson and St. Philip and the Confederate ram had proved too much for them.
Peek stopped at a small three-story brick house of rather shabby exterior and rang the bell. The door was opened by an obese black woman with a flaming red and yellow handkerchief on her head. In the entry-way a penetrating odor of fried sausages rushed upward from the kitchen and took him by the throat.
“Does Mr. Bender board here?”
“Yes, sar, go up two pair ob stairs, an’ knock at de fust door yer see, an’ he’ll come.”
Peek did as he was directed. “J. Bender, Consulting Medium,” appeared and asked him in. A young and not ill-looking man, in shabby-genteel attire. Shirt dirty, but the bosom ornamented with gold studs. Vest of silk worked with sprigs of flowers in all the colors of the rainbow. His coat had been thrown off. His pantaloons were of the light-blue material which the war was making fashionable. He was smoking a cigar, and his breath exhaled a suspicion of whiskey.
“How is business, Mr. Bender?” asked Peek.
“Very slim just now,” said Bender. “This war fills people’s minds. Can I do anything for you to-day?”
“Yes. You remember the young woman at the house I took you to the other day,—the one whose name you said was Clara?”
“I remember. She paid me handsomely. Much obliged to you for taking me. Will you have a sip of Bourbon?”
“No, thank you. I don’t believe in anything stronger than water. I want to know if you can tell me where in the city that young lady now is.”