"Sallie! You cannot mean that mulatto woman back on the plantation?"
"Sure, the ol' rip."
"Then his name is not Henley?"
"Why not, M'sieur? The ol' Judge was his father."
The whole thing came to me in a flash, as I stared across at the mate, who scarcely realized yet the revelation made. He was brooding over his wrongs, and how he was to be avenged.
"Good God!" I breathed, "so that 's the way of it!"
Broussard looked up, a cunning smile on his face. "By Gar, I forget," he said softly. "You vas after ze monies too, hey! Bah! eet make no difference vat you know. He haf you here all right, var' you keep still or—" and he drew the back of a knife across his throat. "I vonder he not keel you furst, M'sieur; maybe he use you, an' then, hav' you shot in ze South. Oui, zat be ze easy vay. Why you ever cum down, an' claim to be Philip Henley—hey?"
"That was all a mistake," I returned deliberately. "I came merely to look after his interest?"
"Interest! Why a dead man hav' interest?"
"Do you mean Philip Henley is dead?"