Meanwhile, even as the blast howls along the deserted street, let us enter the mansion of Ezekiel Bogart, which, as you are aware, stands, with its old time exterior, alone and desolate, amid the huge structures devoted to traffic.
In the first of the seven vaults,—square in form, and lined with shelves from the ceiling to the floor,—Ezekiel Bogart sits alone. The hanging lamp diffuses its mild beams around the silent place. Ezekiel is seated in the arm-chair, by the table, his form enveloped in the wrapper or robe of dark cloth lined with scarlet. The dark skull-cap covers the crown of his head; his eyes are hidden by huge green glasses, and the large white cravat envelopes his throat and the lower part of his face. Leaning forward, his elbow on the table, and his cheek upon his hand, which, veined and sinewy, is white as the hand of a corpse, Ezekiel Bogart is absorbed in thought.
"I have not seen Gaspar Manuel since last night;" he utters his thoughts aloud. "This, indeed, is singular! The hour of the final settlement is near, and something definite must be known in regard to the lands in California, near the mission of San Luis. What can have prevented him from seeing me the second time? Can he have met with an accident?"
He rang the bell which lay near his hand; presently, in answer to the sound, the aged servant appeared; the same who admitted Gaspar Manuel last night, and whose spare form is clad in gray livery, faced with black.
"Michael, you remember the foreign gentleman, Gaspar Manuel, who was here last night?"
"That very pale man, with long hair, and such dark eyes? Yes, sir."
"You are sure that he has not called here to-day?"
"Sure, sir. I have not laid eyes upon him since last night."
"It is strange!" continued Ezekiel Bogart,—"You have attended to all my directions, Michael?"
"The banquet-room is prepared as you ordered it, and all your other commands have been carefully obeyed," answered Michael.