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?"

"You pretend not know? By Gar, eet queer. Vell, I tell you, M'sieur.
Ze hole back ov ze picture; I lie there one night an' leesten, week,
ten days ago. Ze Capitaine talk with Sallie. He hav' letter from
North--one, two sheet paper--an' eet tell heem how eet all vas.
Someone write heem--I link maybe Pierre Vonique who went way long time.
No matter; vat he told was zat M'sieur Philip die--die queek frum
accident. Nevah speak, an' when zey pick heem up, zar was noddin' in
hees pocket. See, M'sieur! He vas robbed. Vonique he hear about eet,
an' fin' ze body. No one know who ze man is, but Vonique know. To
prove eet he send ze ring--ze signet ring--off ze finger. Zen he
write, 'Look out, someone has ze papers. Watch who comes.' Zat vas
true, M'sieur."

I hung on his words, fascinated, never doubting, the very thought of
her freedom obscuring all else. It was only as he stopped speaking,
and resumed his meal, that I gained control of my voice. The affair
was clear enough now, except for some few corroborative details.

"And someone did come, Broussard?"

"Oui, damn queek--a fellow with a letter from Philip; eet was sign hees
name, hees handwrite, appoint heem overseer."

"And what became of him?"

The Creole shrugged his shoulders.

"'T is not my business, M'sieur. He go way somewhere queek. Maybe he
not like ze place."

The dead face of the bearded man in the rear room rose before me. But
Broussard went on.

"Zen you came, M'sieur, 'long wiz ze girl. Ze Capitaine he laugh, eet
was so easy. Why ze girl, M'sieur?"

"Philip Henley was married."

"Non, non, impossible;