It may be well to declare here and now that I do not intend to burden this story with the business which had brought me to New Orleans.  While in the city during the next few days I met a young gentleman named Daniel Clark, a nephew of that Mr. Clark of whom I have spoken.  Many years after the time of which I write this Mr. Daniel Clark the younger, who became a rich merchant and an able man of affairs, published a book which sets forth with great clearness proofs of General Wilkinson’s duplicity and treason, and these may be read by any who would satisfy himself further on the subject.  Mr. Wharton had not believed, nor had I flattered myself that I should be able to bring such a fox as General Wilkinson to earth.  Abundant circumstantial evidence I obtained:  Wilkinson’s intimacy with Miro was well known, and I likewise learned that a cipher existed between them.  The permit to trade given by Miro to Wilkinson was made no secret of.  In brief, I may say that I discovered as much as could be discovered by any one without arousing suspicion, and that the information with which I returned to Kentucky was of some material value to my employers.

I have to thank Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre for a great deal.  And I take this opportunity to set down the fact that I have rarely met a more remarkable man.

As I rode back to town alone a whitish film was spread before the sun, and ere I had come in sight of the fortifications the low forest on the western bank was a dark green blur against the sky.  The esplanade on the levee was deserted, the willow trees had a mournful look, while the bright tiles of yesterday seemed to have faded to a sombre tone.  I spied Xavier on a bench smoking with some friends of his.

“He make much rain soon, Michie,” he cried.  “You hev good time, I hope, Michie.”

I waved my hand and rode on, past the Place d’Armes with its white diagonal bands strapping its green like a soldiers front, and as I drew up before the gate of the House of the Lions the warning taps of the storm were drumming on the magnolia leaves.  The same gardienne came to my knock, and in answer to her shrill cry a negro lad appeared to hold my horse.  I was ushered into a brick-paved archway that ran under the latticed gallery toward a flower-filled court-yard, but ere we reached this the gardienne turned to the left up a flight of steps with a delicate balustrade which led to an open gallery above.  And there stood the gentleman whom we had met hurrying to town in the morning.  A gentleman he was, every inch of him.  He was dressed in black silk, his hair in a cue, and drawn away from a face of remarkable features.  He had a high-bridged nose, a black eye that held an inquiring sternness, a chin indented, and a receding forehead.  His stature was indeterminable.  In brief, he might have stood for one of those persons of birth and ability who become prime ministers of France.

“Monsieur de St. Gre?” I said.