“Well, Mr. Lafitte, I don’t exactly know,” returned the merchant, dubiously; “but Bangham here will look round Nigger Hill, a quarter where the colored people herd together. The best way would be to get out a search warrant, and put the matter in the hands of the city marshal.”
“Listen to me, Atkins,” said the Southerner. “I’ve got a clue. Several months ago I received a letter offering to purchase this fellow. Now, eight or nine years ago his brother William ran away from me, and it was clear to me, when I received this letter, that whoever sent it knew where William was, and was probably put up to it by him.”
“Well, who did send it?” demanded Mr. Atkins.
“That letter,” pursued Lafitte, “was postmarked from Philadelphia, and the answer was to be sent to a Mr. Joseph House, who, it seems, was to act as agent in the matter. I called on House, and was told by him that the person who wrote the letter lived in London. In fact, he showed me the person’s name and address in a London Directory, and he was so serious about it, that I swear I was thrown off the track. But I had my misgivings afterward, and the more I thought of it the stronger they grew. Mr. Atkins, that letter was signed John Harrington.”
“John Harrington!” exclaimed the merchant, starting and scowling. “You don’t mean to say”—
“Mr. Atkins,” interrupted Lafitte, “when you told me that fellow’s name who came into the Abolition meeting last night with your lovely niece, it flashed upon me at once that he was the man that wrote the letter.”
“Upon my word,” said the merchant, “this is odd. But this Harrington’s poor as poverty. How should he be buying your negro?”
Mr. Lafitte shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows?” he returned. “Perhaps the dear William has earned the cash, and wants to treat himself to a bit of black brother in his old age. Perhaps,” he added, with a sly, sardonic smile, “your lovely niece wants to do a little philanthropy for him. She’s rich, you told me. Your Boston ladies are so fond of the philanthropy business, you know. And Harrington’s sweet upon her, isn’t he? Who knows but that he has put her up to it. He looks just like one of those noble fools we read of. Now, what will you wager he doesn’t know this dear William, and hasn’t been touched by the sorrows of that black angel? Atkins, keep your eye on Harrington to find William, and finding William, perhaps you’ll find Antony.”
“Upon my word, Lafitte, you’re the very devil,” cried the merchant, with a harsh laugh, looking at the visage of the Southerner, which was lit with an infernal smile.