"Your reply to my letter was handed me by the master of the ship Loadstar, about a month ago," he said.
"Yes, Señor Montufars said he gave it to him," said Anthony. "You see, when your word came concerning the affairs of the firm of Rufus Stevens' Sons, I was a week's journey up the river, and Montufars was in care of my affairs. As the matter seemed urgent, he wrote to you at once, it being his thought I'd return in time to take passage on the Bristol Pride."
The face of the West Indian merchant went a dirty gray as Anthony spoke.
"Do you tell me a third person answered my letter?" His voice lifted to almost a shriek; his hands were held out, clawing like talons. "Do you tell me that he read what I wrote for your eyes alone?"
The features of the man worked like one in a fit; startled, Anthony got up and went to him.
"What is it? Are you ill? Is there anything I can do?"
The frantic hands drummed upon Anthony's breast.
"Montufars is a damned Spaniard," said the trader. "He will talk. His like always does. He'll spread the matter all about New Orleans, and it'll come north on every ship. Good God, why did I undertake this matter!" He wrung his hands, and all but groveled in fear. "What madness induced me to put such a thing on paper—with my name to it, as a witness against me?"
The man's rat-like panic made Anthony's gorge rise, and he turned away, saying curtly:
"Try and get yourself in hand; a grown man don't give way like this, even with cause. And, God knows," impatiently, "there's little enough cause for agitation, or anything else, in that communication of yours, if that's what you're afraid of. It was only a bare line or two, and even those set down in such a way as would puzzle the devil himself."