sigh of relief. Mademoiselle
was about to continue, but I interrupted her.

"How long will your father be in New Orleans, Mademoiselle?" I asked.

"Until he finds Auguste," she answered. "It may be days, but he will
stay, for he is very angry. But will you not come into the house,
Messieurs, and be presented to my mother?" she asked. "I have been
very--inhospitable," she added with a glance at Nick.

We followed her through winding paths bordered by shrubs and flowers,
and presently came to a low house surrounded by a wide, cool gallery,
and shaded by spreading trees. Behind it were clustered the kitchens and
quarters of the house servants. Mademoiselle, picking up her dress,
ran up the steps ahead of us and turned to the left in the hall into
a darkened parlor. The floor was bare, save for a few mats, and in the
corner was a massive escritoire of mahogany with carved feet, and
there were tables and chairs of a like pattern. It was a room of
more distinction than I had seen since I had been in Charlestown, and
reflected the solidity of its owners.

"If you will be so kind as to wait here, Messieurs," said Mademoiselle,
"I will call my mother."

And she left us.

I sat down, rather uncomfortably, but Nick took a stand and stood
staring down at me with folded arms.

"How I have undervalued you, Davy," he said.

"I am not proud of it," I answered shortly.

"What the deuce is to do now!" he asked.

"I cannot linger here," I answered; "I have business with Monsieur de
Saint-Gre, and I must go back to New Orleans at once."

"Then I will wait for you," said Nick. "Davy, I have met my fate."

I laughed in spite of myself.

"It seems to me that I have heard that remark before," I answered.

He had not time to protest, for we heard footsteps in the hall, and
Mademoiselle entered, leading an older lady by the hand. In the light
of the doorway I saw that she was thin and small and yellow, but
her features had a regularity and her mien a dignity which made her
impressing, which would have convinced a stranger that she was a person
of birth and breeding. Her hair, tinged with gray, was crowned by a lace
cap.

"Madame," I said, bowing and coming forward, "I am David Ritchie, from
Kentucky, and this is my cousin, Mr. Temple, of Charlestown. Monsieur
Gratiot and Colonel Chouteau, of St. Louis, have been kind enough to
give us letters to Monsieur de Saint-Gre." And I handed her one of the
letters which I had ready.