“And you were going to keep this from me, were you?” said Mr. Lafitte, blandly, all the tiger seeming to condense into his glossy, tawny orbs, while his smile remained serene and still. “Really, my dear Atkins, you were not frank.”
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed the merchant, “don’t talk so! What was the use of disturbing you? We were going to institute a search for the negro, and have him returned to you as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“Good friend! good Atkins!” said the Southerner, with gentle approval. “So considerate of you. I really hope you may find the runaway, for if you shouldn’t, and it gets noised on the Levee, your house will suffer. Of course, I wouldn’t mention it myself, but these things always get out. The sailors, you know! Very indiscreet those sailors—ah, very, very!”
“Depend on my doing everything I can, Lafitte,” hurriedly replied the merchant, uncertain whether the Southerner’s words held a menace or no. “We will ransack the city. Suppose you get a warrant out for him—how will that do?”
“No,” answered Mr. Lafitte, blandly. “I should prefer not. Since you lost him, you ought in justice to find him. If you don’t succeed, we may try the police. But, apropos, you do not tell me the boy’s name.”
“He called himself Antony,” replied Bangham.
They almost shuddered to see the silent change that came to the rich brunette visage of the Southerner. His complexion became purple and livid in spots, his nostrils dilated, his eyes were steady orbs of cruel gloss, with the blood-specks distinct upon their tawn. Slowly swaying in his chair for a moment, he stopped in this movement, and spoke.
“It is Antony, is it?” he said, in a low, smooth voice. “Gentlemen, I urge you to find that slave of mine. He is a wretch whom I wish to see once more. When you told me you had a boy of mine, I thought it must be one of my brother’s, who ran away the week before I left. I did not imagine it was Antony, for I thought he was done for in the swamp.”
“Where, Mr. Lafitte?” asked the merchant.
“In the swamp,” repeated Lafitte. “That scoundrel, Mr. Atkins, flew upon me, and left me for dead on the floor of my house. Then he ran for the swamp, half-killing my overseer on the way. We roused the neighbors and hunted for him three days and part of a fourth, and at last finding his clothes near a bayou, we concluded he was food for alligators. Though why we should find his clothes, and not him, was a mystery to me. And so he got to Boston, after all. Now where do you expect to find him, gentlemen?”