“Sorry to trouble you, sir,” said Jaspar, as the gentleman entered the apartment; “but I am much interested in the fate of several persons who were passengers on board the Chalmetta.”

“No trouble, Mr. Dumont, I am extremely happy to serve you,” replied Dalhousie, whose obsequious manners were ample evidence of his sincerity.

“My niece was on board of her,” continued Jaspar, “and I see her name in the list of missing.”

“Your niece!” replied Dalhousie, emphasizing the latter word.  He had a few days before come from New Orleans, and had there heard of the startling developments in the Dumont family.

“No matter,” returned Jaspar, sharply; “she went by the name of Dumont.  Did you find any bodies?”

“We picked up the remains of six men and two females.”

“Can you describe the females?  How were they dressed?” asked Jaspar, in an excited manner.

“One was dressed in black.  The other had on a common calico.”

“But the one in black,—­describe her,—­her hair,—­was she tall or short?” interrupted Jaspar, hurriedly.

“Her hair was in curls.  She was apparently about twenty-six or seven, and rather short in stature.”

“Curls,” muttered Jaspar; “she has not worn curls since the colonel died.  She may have put them on again to please that infernal Captain Carroll.  Twenty-six years old, you think?”

“She may have been younger.  Her features were terribly mangled,” and Mr. Dalhousie cast a penetrating glance at Jaspar, as though he would read out the beatings of his black heart.

Jaspar considered again the description, and, though it did not correspond to his niece’s, his anxiety had contributed to warp his judgment.  He was very willing to believe the Chalmetta’s fatal disaster had forever removed the only obstacle to the gratification of his ambition, and the only source of future insecurity.  He paced the room, muttering, in his abstraction, sundry broken phrases.

Dalhousie watched him, and endeavored to obtain the purport of his disjointed soliloquy.  A stranger, without some strong motive, could scarcely have had so much interest in him as he appeared to have.

“Had she any jewels—­ornaments of any kind?” asked Dalhousie, after the silence had grown disagreeable to him.

“She had,” replied Jaspar, stopping suddenly in his perambulation of the room, and speaking with an eagerness which betrayed his anxiety to obtain more evidence.  “Were any found upon her person?”

“You are a man of honor, Mr. Dumont, and, if I disclose to you a thoughtless indiscretion of my own, you will not, of course, expose me?” said Dalhousie, with, hesitation, and apparent want of confidence.

“Of course not,” replied Jaspar, impatiently.  “What has this to do with the matter?”

“Did your niece wear a ring?”

“Yes, a mourning ring.”

“Do you know the ring?  Could you identify it?”