“Matter enough. De debble’s own time, and all troo you, Peek. I’se been watchin’ fur yer all de time dese five days.”
“Explain yourself. How have I brought trouble on Antoine?”
“Dat night you borrid de ole man’s carriage,—dat was de mischief. Policeman come las’ week, an’ take Antoine off ter de calaboose. Tree times dey lash him ter make him tell whar dey can find you; but he tell ’em, so help him God, he dun know noting ’bout yer.”
Peek reflected for a moment, and then recalled the fact that Myers, the detective, had got sight of the coat-of-arms on the carriage. Yes! the clew was slight, but it was sufficient.
“My poor Antoine!” said Peek. “Must he, then, suffer for me? Tell me, mother, what has become of Victor, his dog?”
“Goramity! dat dog know more’n half de niggers. He wouldn’t stay in dat house ahfer Antoine lef; couldn’t make him do it, no how.”
“Where shall I be likely to find the dog?”
“’Bout de streets somewhar, huntin’ fur Antoine. Ef dat dumb critter could talk, he’d ’stonish us all.”
“Well, mother, thank you for all your trouble. Here’s a dollar to buy a pair of shoes with. Good by.”
The old woman’s eyes snapped as she clutched the money, and with a “Bress yer, Peek!” hobbled away.