Could anything be gained by meddling?  I had begun to convince myself that nothing could, when suddenly I came face to face with the consequences of a possible marriage between Nick and Mademoiselle Antoinette.  In that event the disclosure of his mother’s identity would be inevitable.  Not only his happiness was involved, but Mademoiselle’s, her father’s and her mother’s, and lastly that of this poor hunted woman herself, who thought at last to have found a refuge.

An hour passed, and it became more and more evident to me that I must see and talk with Mrs. Temple.  But how was I to communicate with her?  At last I took out my portfolio and wrote these words on a sheet:—­

“If Mrs. Clive will consent to a meeting with Mr. David Ritchie, he will deem it a favor.  Mr. Ritchie assures Mrs. Clive that he makes this request in all friendliness.”

I lighted a candle, folded the note and sealed it, addressed it to Mrs. Clive, and opening the latticed door I stepped out.  Walking along the gallery until I came to the rear part of the house which faced towards the out-buildings, I spied three figures prone on the grass under a pecan tree that shaded the kitchen roof.  One of these figures was Benjy, and he was taking his siesta.  I descended quietly from the gallery, and making my way to him, touched him on the shoulder.  He awoke and stared at me with white eyes.

“Marse Dave!” he cried.

“Hush,” I answered, “and follow me.”

He came after me, wondering, a little way into the grove, where I stopped.

“Benjy,” I said, “do you know any of the servants here?”

“Lawsy, Marse Dave, I reckon I knows ’em,—­some of ’em,” he answered with a grin.

“You talk to them?”

“Shucks, no, Marse Dave,” he replied with a fine scorn, “I ain’t no hand at dat ar nigger French.  But I knows some on ’em, and right well too.”

“How?” I demanded curiously.

Benjy looked down sheepishly at his feet.  He was standing pigeon-toed.

“I done c’ressed some on ’em, Marse Dave,” he said at length, and there was a note of triumph in his voice.

“You did what?” I asked.

“I done kissed one of dem yaller gals, Marse Dave.  Yass’r, I done kissed M’lisse.”

“Do you think Melisse would do something for you if you asked her?” I inquired.

Benjy seemed hurt.

“Marse Dave—­” he began reproachfully.

“Very well, then,” I interrupted, taking the letter from my pocket, “there is a lady who is ill here, Mrs. Clive—­”

I paused, for a new look had come into Benjy’s eyes.  He began that peculiar, sympathetic laugh of the negro, which catches and doubles on itself, and I imagined that a new admiration for me dawned on his face.

“Yass’r, yass, Marse Dave, I reckon M’lisse ’ll git it to her ’thout any one tekin’ notice.”

I bit my lips.

“If Mrs. Clive receives this within an hour, Melisse shall have one piastre, and you another.  There is an answer.”