"Come, come, Bowen, don't excite yourself," said Silas, "You shall have the money."
"Listen to what people say of Mr. Treverton's death; he lost heavily at play; he could not pay up; he was insulted by a stranger, and stabbed in a kind of duel. The murderer's party carrying off the body. A fortnight afterward the body was found in the Mississippi; the face could not be recognized, but from papers found in the pocket, the corpse was known to be that of Treverton—it was therefore buried in the Treverton vault. The police failed to discover the murderer. On Gerald Leslie's return from Europe, he examined the papers of his late partner—which had been sealed up. That for which Leslie looked most anxiously was a certain document, the receipt for one hundred thousand dollars, paid to Mr. Silas Craig, attorney and money lender. He did not find it!"
"You shall have the money, William!"
"I ain't in no hurry," replied Bowen. "Now I want to take a squint at whatever lies behind yonder map." Silas suppressed a half-muttered oath; but reluctantly touched a spring. A door flew back. They entered a long, narrow passage. At its end was a window having a view of a large gambling saloon!
CHAPTER VII.
PRIDE OF CASTE.
Nearly a month had elapsed since the arrival of the Virginia in the harbor of New Orleans, and still Adelaide Horton and Cora Leslie had not met.
The young creole, generous-hearted as she was, had never felt the same affection for her old school-fellow since the fatal revelation made by Silas Craig. It was in vain that the generosity of her nature would have combated with the prejudices of her education; pride of caste was the stronger, and she could not but despise Cora, the lovely descendant of slaves. In the meantime the two girls had ceased to meet. The nature of Adelaide Horton was capricious, and volatile, and, in a few days, she had almost dismissed Cora's image from her memory.
Indolent, like all creoles, Adelaide spent the greater part of her days in a rocking-chair, reading a novel, while fanned by her favorite slave, Myra. Mortimer Percy was, as we know, by no means the most attentive of lovers, although living in the same house as that occupied by his fair cousin. He saw her but seldom, and then evinced an indifference and listlessness which often wounded the volatile girl.
"How weary and careless he is," she thought; "how different to Gilbert Margrave, the artist, the poet, the enthusiast!"