topped to listen to the weird song of a negro, which I
have heard many times since.

CAROLINE.

In, de, tois, Ca-ro-line, Qui ci ca ye, comme ca ma chere? In, de tois,
Ca-ro-line, Quo fair t'-apes cri--e ma chere? Mo l'-aime toe con-ne ca,
C'est to m'ou--le, c'est to mo prend, Mo l'-aime toe, to con-ne ca--a
c'est to m'oule c'est to mo prend.

Gaining the promenade, I came presently to the new hotel which had been
built for the Governor, with its balconied windows looking across the
river--the mansion of Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet. Even as I sat on
the bench in the shadow of the willows, watching the sentry who paced
before the arched entrance, I caught sight of a man stealing along the
banquette on the other side of the road. Twice he paused to look behind
him, and when he reached the corner of the street he stopped for some
time to survey the Governor's house opposite.

Suddenly I was on my feet, every sense alert, staring. In the moonlight,
made milky by the haze, he was indistinct. And yet I could have taken
oath that the square, diminutive figure, with the head set forward on
the shoulders, was Gignoux's. If this man were not Gignoux, then the
Lord had cast two in a strange mould.

And what was Gignoux doing in New Orleans? As if in answer to the
question two men emerged from the dark archway of the Governor's house,
passed the sentry, and stood for an instant on the edge of the shadow.
One wore a long Spanish cloak, and the other a uniform that I could not
make out. A word was spoken, and then my man was ambling across to meet
them, and the three walked away up Toulouse Street.

I was in a fire of conjecture. I did not dare to pass the sentry and
follow them, so I made round as fast as I could by the Rue St. Pierre,
which borders the Place d'Armes, and then crossed to Toulouse again by
Chartres. The three were nowhere to be seen. I paused on the corner for
thought, and at length came to a reluctant but prudent conclusion that I
had best go back to my lodging and seek Monsieur early in the morning.

Madame Gravois was awaiting me. Was Monsieur mad to remain out at night?
Had Monsieur not heard of the yellow fever? Madame Gravois even had
prepared some concoction which she poured out of a bottle, and which I
took with the docility of a child. Monsieur Vigo had called, and there
was a note. A note? It was a small note. I glanced stupidly at the seal,
recognized the swan of the St. Gre crest, broke it,