“He’s after Miss Besançon, they say.”
I was now interested. I stepped to the door, and, placing my ear close to the keyhole, listened.
“I guess he’s arter the plantation,” said another; and the remark was followed by a significant laugh.
“Well, then,” rejoined a voice, in a more solemn and emphatic tone, “he’s after what he won’t get.”
“How? how?” demanded several.
“He may get thee lady, preehaps,” continued the same voice, in the same measured tones; “but not thee plantation.”
“How? What do you mean, Mr Moxley?” again demanded the chorus of voices.
“I mean what I say, gentlemen,” replied the solemn speaker; and then repeated again his former words in a like measured drawl. “He may get the lady, preehaps, but not thee plantation.”
“Oh! the report’s true, then?” said another voice, interrogatively. “Insolvent? Eh? Old Gayarre—”
“Owns thee plantation.”