“A clever ruse, Pendleton,” he said, “We can send her now, on this pretended journey, to Morrow’s house, after the sale.”

My father went over and sat down at the table.  He took a faded silk envelope out of his, coat, and laid it down before him.  Then he answered Zindorf.

“There will be no sale,” he said.

Mr. Lucian Morrow interrupted.

“And why no sale, Sir?”

“Because there is no slave to sell,” replied my father.  “This girl is not the daughter of the octoroon woman, Suzanne.”

Zindorf’s big jaws tightened.

“How did you know that?” he said.

My father answered with deliberation.

“I would have known it,” he said, “from the wording of the paper you exhibit from Marquette’s executors.  It is merely a release of any claim or color of title; the sort of legal paper one executes when one gives up a right or claim that one has no faith in.  Marquette’s executors were the ablest lawyers in New Orleans.  They were not the men to sign away valuable property in a conveyance like that; that they did sign such a paper is conclusive evidence to me that they had nothing — and knew they had nothing — to release by it.”  He paused.

“I know it also,” he said, “because I have before me here the girl’s certificate of birth and Ordez’s certificate of marriage.”

He opened the silk envelope and took out some faded papers.  He unfolded them and spread them out under his hand.

“I think Ordez feared for his child,” he said, “and stored these papers against the day of danger to her, because they are copies taken from the records in Havana.”

He looked up at the astonished Morrow.

“Ordez married the daughter of Pedro de Hernando.  I find, by a note to these papers, that she is dead.  I conclude that this great Spanish family objected to the adventurer, and he fled with his infant daughter to New Orleans.” he paused.

“The intrigue with the octoroon woman, Suzanne, came after that.”

Then he added: 

“You must renew your negotiations, Sir, in, a somewhat different manner before a Spanish Grandee in Havana!”

Mr. Lucian Morrow did not reply.  He stood in a sort of wonder.  But Zindorf, his face like iron, addressed my father: 

“Where did you get these papers, Pendleton?” he said.

“I got them from Ordez,” replied my father.

“When did you see Ordez?”

“I saw him to-day,” replied my father.

Zindorf did not move, but his big jaw worked and a faint spray of moisture came out on his face.  Then, finally, with no change or quaver in his voice, he put his query.

“Where is Ordez?”

“Where?” echoed my father, and he rose.  “Why, Zindorf, he is on his way here.”  And he extended his arm toward the open window.  The big man lifted his head and looked out at the men and horses now clearly visible on the distant road.