The Creole sauntered across to the counter and nipped the herb which still lay there.

“Mr. Frowenfeld, you know what some very excellent people do with this?  They rub it on the sill of the door to make the money come into the house.”

Joseph stopped aghast with the drawer half drawn.

“Not persons of intelligence and—­”

“All kinds.  It is only some of the foolishness which they take from the slaves.  Many of your best people consult the voudou horses.”

“Horses?”

“Priestesses, you might call them,” explained the Creole, “like Momselle Marcelline or ’Zabeth Philosophe.”

“Witches!” whispered Frowenfeld.

“Oh no,” said the other with a shrug; “that is too hard a name; say fortune-tellers.  But Mr. Frowenfeld, I wish you to lend me your good offices.  Just supposing the possi_bil_ity that that lady may be in need of money, you know, and will send back or come back for the purse, you know, knowing that she most likely lost it here, I ask you the favor that you will not let her know I have filled it with gold.  In fact, if she mentions my name—­”

“To confess the truth, sir, I am not acquainted with your name.”

The Creole smiled a genuine surprise.

“I thought you knew it.”  He laughed a little at himself.  “We have nevertheless become very good friends—­I believe?  Well, in fact then, Mr. Frowenfeld, you might say you do not know who put the money in.”  He extended his open palm with the purse hanging across it.  Joseph was about to object to this statement, but the Creole, putting on an expression of anxious desire, said:  “I mean, not by name.  It is somewhat important to me, Mr. Frowenfeld, that that lady should not know my present action.  If you want to do those two ladies a favor, you may rest assured the way to do it is to say you do not know who put this gold.”  The Creole in his earnestness slipped in his idiom.  “You will excuse me if I do not tell you my name; you can find it out at any time from Agricola.  Ah!  I am glad she did not see me!  You must not tell anybody about this little event, eh?”

“No, sir,” said Joseph, as he finally accepted the purse.  “I shall say nothing to any one else, and only what I cannot avoid saying to the lady and her sister.”

“’Tis not her sister” responded the Creole, “’tis her daughter.”

The italics signify, not how the words were said, but how they sounded to Joseph.  As if a dark lantern were suddenly turned full upon it, he saw the significance of Citizen Fusilier’s transport.  The fair strangers were the widow and daughter of the man whom Agricola had killed in duel—­the ladies with whom Doctor Keene had desired to make him acquainted.

“Well, good evening, Mr. Frowenfeld.”  The Creole extended his hand (his people are great hand-shakers).  “Ah—­” and then, for the first time, he came to the true object of his visit.  “The conversation we had some weeks ago, Mr. Frowenfeld, has started a train of thought in my mind”—­he began to smile as if to convey the idea that Joseph would find the subject a trivial one—­“which has almost brought me to the—­”