do," said Nick, placidly.

A vague trouble had been working in my mind, but now the full horror
of it dawned upon me. I was going to St. Louis. Mrs. Temple and Harry
Riddle were gone there, so Polly Ann had avowed, and Nick could not
help meeting Riddle. Sorely beset, I bent over to roll up a shirt, and
refrained from answering.

He came and laid a hand on my shoulder.

"What the devil ails you, Davy?" he cried. "If it is an elopement, of
course I won't press you. I'm hanged if I'll make a third."

"It is no elopement," I retorted, my face growing hot in spite of
myself.

"Then I go with you," said he, "for I vow you need taking care of.
You can't put me off, I say. But never in my life have I had such a
reception, and from my own first cousin, too."

I was in a quandary, so totally unforeseen was this situation. And then
a glimmer of hope came to me that perhaps his mother and Riddle might
not be in St. Louis after all. I recalled the conversation in the cabin,
and reflected that this wayward pair had stranded on so many beaches,
had drifted off again on so many tides, that one place could scarce hold
them long. Perchance they had sunk,--who could tell? I turned to Nick,
who stood watching me.

"It was not that I did not want you," I said, "you must believe that.
I have wanted you ever since that night long ago when I slipped out of
your bed and ran away. I am going first to St. Louis and then to
New Orleans on a mission of much delicacy, a mission that requires
discretion and secrecy. You may come, with all my heart, with one
condition only--that you do not ask my business."

"Done!" cried Nick. "Davy, I was always sure of you; you are the one
fixed quantity in my life. To St. Louis, eh, and to New Orleans? Egad,
what havoc we'll make among the Creole girls. May I bring my nigger?
He'll do things for you too."

"By all means," said I, laughing, "only hurry."

"I'll run to the inn," said Nick, "and be back in ten minutes." He got
as far as the door, slapped his thigh, and looked back. "Davy, we may
run across--"

"Who?" I asked, with a catch of my breath.

"Harry Riddle," he answered; "and if so, may God have mercy on his
soul!"

He ran down the path, the gate clicked, and I heard him whistling in the
street on his way to the inn.

After dinner we rode down to the ferry, Nick on the thoroughbred which
had beat Mr. Jackson's horse, and his man, Benjy, on a scraggly pony
behind. Benjy was a small, bla