“At once,” replied my father, “to-day.” Then he crossed the room and opened the door for her to go out. He held the latch until the girl was down the stairway. Then he closed the door.
The big man, falsely in his aspect, like a monk, looking out at the far-off figures on the distant roads, now turned about.
“A clever ruse, Pendleton,” he said, “We can send her now, on this pretended journey, to Morrow's house, after the sale.”
My father went over and sat down at the table. He took a faded silk envelope out of his, coat, and laid it down before him. Then he answered Zindorf.
“There will be no sale,” he said.
Mr. Lucian Morrow interrupted.
“And why no sale, Sir?”
“Because there is no slave to sell,” replied my father. “This girl is not the daughter of the octoroon woman, Suzanne.”
Zindorf's big jaws tightened.
“How did you know that?” he said.