“That is a favor which can hardly be refused you, who may be said to have a right, now, to enter the pavilion at pleasure,” returned the Alderman, unhesitatingly leading the way through the long passage to the deserted apartments of his niece, and continuing the blind allusions to the affairs of the preceding night, in the same indirect manner as had distinguished the dialogue during the whole interview.  “I shall not be unreasonable, young gentleman, and here is the pavilion of my niece; I wish I could add, and here also is its mistress!”

“And is la belle Barberie no longer a tenant of la Cour des Fees!” demanded Ludlow, in a surprise too natural to be feigned.

Alderman Van Beverout regarded the young man in wonder; pondered a moment, to consider how far denying a knowledge of the absence of his niece might benefit the officer, in the pending negotiation; and then he dryly observed, “Boats passed on the water, during the night.  If the men of Captain Ludlow were at first imprisoned, I presume they were set at liberty at the proper time.”

“They are carried I know not whither—­the boat itself is gone, and I am here alone.”

“Am I to understand, Captain Ludlow, that Alida Barberie has not fled my house, during the past night, to seek a refuge in your ship?”

“Fled!” echoed the young man, in a voice of horror.  “Has Alida de Barberie fled from the house of her uncle, at all?”

“Captain Ludlow, this is not acting.  On the honor of a gentleman, are you ignorant of my niece’s absence?”

The young commander did not answer; but, striking his head fiercely, he smothered words that were unintelligible to his companion.  When this momentary burst of feeling was past, he sunk into a chair, and gazed about him in stupid amazement.  All this pantomime was inexplicable to the Alderman, who, however, began to see that more of the conditions of the arrangement in hand were beyond the control of his companion, than he had at first believed.  Still the plot thickened, rather than grew clear; and he was afraid to speak, lest he might utter more than was prudent.  The silence, therefore, continued for quite a minute; during which time, the parties sat gazing at each other in dull wonder.

“I shall not deny, Captain Ludlow, that I believed you had prevailed on my niece to fly aboard the Coquette; for, though a man who has always kept his feelings in his own command, as the safest manner of managing particular interests, yet I am not to learn that rash youth is often guilty of folly.  I am now equally at a loss with yourself, to know what has become of her, since here she is not.”

“Hold!” eagerly interrupted Ludlow.  “A boat left your wharf, for the city, in the earlier hours of the morning.  Is it not possible that she may have taken a passage in it?”

“It is not possible.  I have reasons to know—­in short, Sir, she is not there.”

“Then is the unfortunate—­the lovely—­the indiscreet girl for ever lost to herself and us!” exclaimed the young sailor, actually groaning under his mental agony.  “Rash, mercenary man! to what an act of madness has this thirst of gold driven one so fair—­would I could say, so pure and so innocent!”