“I repeat that you are not handsome,”—­I think he emphasized this unduly,—­“that you are self-effacing, inconspicuous; in short, you are not a man to draw suspicion.  You might travel anywhere and scarcely be noticed,—­I have observed that about you.  In addition to this you are wary, you are discreet, you are painstaking.  I ask you to go first to St. Louis, in Louisiana territory, and this for two reasons.  First, because it will draw any chance suspicion from your real objective, New Orleans; and second, because it is necessary to get letters to New Orleans from such leading citizens of St. Louis as Colonel Chouteau and Monsieur Gratiot, and I will give you introductions to them.  You are then to take passage to New Orleans in a barge of furs which Monsieur Gratiot is sending down.  Mind, we do not expect that you will obtain proof that Miro is paying Wilkinson money.  If you do, so much the better; but we believe that both are too sharp to leave any tracks.  You will make a report, however, upon the conditions under which our tobacco is being received, and of all other matters which you may think germane to the business in hand.  Will you go?”

I had made up my mind.

“Yes, I will go,” I answered.

“Good,” said Mr. Wharton, but with no more enthusiasm than he had previously shown; “I thought I had not misjudged you.  Is your law business so onerous that you could not go to-morrow?”

I laughed.

“I think I could settle what affairs I have by noon, Mr. Wharton,” I replied.

“Egad, Mr. Ritchie, I like your manner,” said he; “and now for a few details, and you may go to bed.”

He sat with me half an hour longer, carefully reviewing his instructions, and then he left me to a night of contemplation.

CHAPTER VIII

TO ST. LOUIS

By eleven o’clock the next morning I had wound up my affairs, having arranged with a young lawyer of my acquaintance to take over such cases as I had, and I was busy in my room packing my saddle-bags for the journey.  The warm scents of spring were wafted through the open door and window, smells of the damp earth giving forth the green things, and tender shades greeted my eyes when I paused and raised my head to think.  Purple buds littered the black ground before my door-step, and against the living green of the grass I saw the red stain of a robin’s breast as he hopped spasmodically hither and thither, now pausing immovable with his head raised, now tossing triumphantly a wriggling worm from the sod.  Suddenly he flew away, and I heard a voice from the street side that brought me stark upright.

“Hold there, neighbor; can you direct me to the mansion of that celebrated barrister, Mr. Ritchie?”

There was no mistaking that voice—­it was Nicholas Temple’s.  I heard a laugh and an answer, the gate slammed, and Mr. Temple himself in a long gray riding-coat, booted and spurred, stood before me.