winning the property at cards, and thus indirectly being the cause of her father’s death.  He would be quite likely to keep this hidden from the girl for a while, until he tried his luck at love.  If love failed, then the disclosure might be made to drive the young woman to him; a threat to render her complacent.  The negro evidently knew very little as to what had occurred, merely the floating gossip of the slave quarters, and some few things the doctor had mentioned.  But there was a man living at the Landing who would be informed as to all the facts.

“I believe the Judge left two daughters, did he not?”

“Yas, sah—­mighty pretty gals dey am too.”

“And they still remain in possession of the house?”

“I reckon dey do, sah.  Pears like the dochtar sed sumthin’ ’bout treating one ob ’em—­Miss Eloise—­one time he wus ober yere.  Sure, deys dere all right.”

“Do you know a lawyer named Haines?”

“Livin’ down at de Landin’?  Yas, sah.”

I lifted myself up in the bed, too deeply interested to lie still any longer.

“Now listen, Pete,” I explained earnestly.  “I’ve got sufficient money to pay you well for all you do, and, just as soon as you get me something to eat, I want you to go down to the Landing and bring Lawyer Haines back here with you.  Just tell him a sick white man wants to see him at once, and not a word to anyone else.  You might tell Haines this is a private matter—­you understand?”

“Yas, sah,” the whites of his eyes rolling.  “He done know ol’ Pete, an’ I’ll sure bring him back yere.”

It was dark when they came, the fire alone lighting up the interior of the dingy cabin with a fitful glow of red flame.  I had managed to get out of bed and partially dress myself feeling stronger, and in less pain as I exercised my muscles.  They found me seated before the fireplace, indulging in a pot of fresh coffee.  Haines was a small, sandy-complexioned man, with a straggling beard and light blue eyes.  He appeared competent enough, a bundle of nervous energy, and yet there was something about the fellow which instantly impressed me unfavorably—­probably his short, jerky manner of speech, and his inability to look straight at you.

“Pete has been telling me who you are, Lieutenant,” he said, as we shook hands, “and putting some other things together I can guess the rest.  You came south on the Warrior.”

“From Fort Armstrong—­yes; who told you this?”

“Captain Thockmorton.  I saw him in St. Louis, and he seemed deeply grieved by your sudden disappearance.  No one on board was able to explain what had occurred.”

“Yet there were two men on the boat who could have explained, if they had cared to do so,” I answered drily.  “I mean Kirby and Carver; they were the ones who threw me overboard.”

He dropped into a chair, his keen, ferret eyes on my face.

“Kirby and Carver?  They went ashore with the Judge’s body at the Landing.  So there is a story back of all this,” he exclaimed jerkily.  “Damn it, I thought as much.  Was Beaucaire killed?”