He put on his hat, and after a few words to his friend, hurried down-stairs to the bar of the hotel, where he ordered a vehicle to be got ready for him, without delay.
It was strange, that, though so evidently anxious to depart, he preferred waiting for this vehicle, to walking through the sunny streets.
He had, no doubt, some powerful motive for this line of conduct.
In ten minutes, a close carriage was at the door, and, slouching his hat over his eyes, the gold-digger hurried from the bar to the vehicle, into which he sprung, after giving a brief direction to the negro driver.
Meanwhile his companion lounged over his untasted breakfast. The New Orleans papers appeared to possess little interest for him. He looked at them for a few moments and then threw them carelessly aside.
He had shaved off the bushy whiskers he had worn in the California solitude, and his face was only adorned by a small brown mustache.
He was about five-and-thirty years of age, but so slim and elegant in figure as to look considerably younger; and it was easy to see that he was not a native of America.
Half an hour after the departure of his friend, the waiter brought him a note which had been left at the hotel by an elderly mulattress.
At the first glance at the superscription on this note, the face of the man who called himself Brown, was convulsed by a tumult of emotion.
The letter was addressed to "Monsieur Armand Tremlay."