They now approached, and stood within a few feet of the place where Kinch was sitting, and Mr. Stevens said, with a great deal of emphasis, “Now, I want you to pay the strictest attention to what I say.  I had a list of places made out for you last night, but, somehow or other, I lost it.  But that is neither here nor there.  This is what I want you to attend to particularly.  Don’t attempt anything to-night; you can’t get a sufficient number of the boys together; but, when you do go, you are to take, first, Christian-street, between Eleventh and Twelfth,—­there are several nigger families living in that block.  Smash in their windows, break their furniture, and, if possible, set one of the houses on fire, and that will draw attention to that locality whilst you are operating elsewhere.  By that time, the boys will be ripe for anything.  Then you had better go to a house in Easton-street, corner of Shotwell:  there is a rich nigger living there whose plunder is worth something.  I owe him an old grudge, and I want you to pay it off for me.”

“You keep me pretty busy paying your debts.  What’s the name of this rich nigger?”

“Walters,” replied Mr. Stevens; “everybody knows him.  Now about that other affair.”  Here he whispered so low, that Kinch could only learn they were planning an attack on the house of some one, but failed in discovering the name.  McCloskey departed as soon as he had received full directions from Mr. Stevens, and his retreating steps might be still heard upon the stairs, when Mr. Stevens unlocked his office-door and entered.

After giving him sufficient time to get quietly seated, Kinch followed, and delivered the clothes left with him the evening previous.  He was very much struck with Mr. Stevens’s altered appearance, and, in fact, would not have recognized him, but for his voice.

“You don’t seem to be well?” remarked Kinch, inquiringly.

“No, I’m not,” he replied, gruffly; “I’ve caught cold.”  As Kinch was leaving the office, he called after him, “Did you find a paper in your shop this morning?”

“No, sir,” replied Kinch, “I didn’t;” but mentally he observed, “My daddy did though;” and, fearful of some other troublesome question, he took leave immediately.

Fatigued and out of breath, Kinch arrived at the house of Mr. Walters, where he considered it best to go and communicate what he had learned.

Mr. Walters was at dinner when he received from the maid a summons to the parlour to see a lad, who said his business was a matter “of life or death.”  He was obliged to smile at the air of importance with which Kinch commenced the relation of what he had overheard—­but the smile gave place to a look of anxiety and indignation long ere he had finished, and at the conclusion of the communication he was highly excited and alarmed.

“The infernal scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Walters.  “Are you sure it was my house?”

“Yes, sure,” was Kinch’s reply.  “You are the only coloured person living in the square—­and he said plain enough for anybody to understand, ‘Easton-street, corner of Shotwell.’  I heard every word but what they said towards the last in a whisper.”