University of Virginia Library

56. CHAPTER LVI.

On the next morning he was walking near the Court
House, when a man accosted him, touching his hat with one
hand, and holding out the other in the way of friendly salutation.
Morton, however, was at a loss to recognize him.
He had an air which may most conveniently be described as
raffish, a hat set on one side of his head, and a good-natured,
easy, devil-may-care face.

“Richards is my name,” said the stranger. “I met you at
Paris, just before you went into Austria.”

This was quite enough. Morton, who had repeatedly revolved
all the circumstances connected with his arrest, at
once recalled the accident by which he had discovered Richards
and Vinal, on their way together to visit Speyer. Morton
determined to cultivate this new acquaintance; which,
however, seemed likely to grow without much tillage.

“I went on two or three excursions about the city with
you, Mr. Vinal, and the rest. Perhaps you have not forgotten
it.”

“Not in the least; but you are changed since then.”

“Yes,” said Richards, touching the place where his moustaches

had once grown, “I cut them off when I went into
practice here in Boston. I found they were ruining my character
as a professional man.”

“How long were you in Paris after I saw you?”

“Two years, off and on. I wish I were there now.” And
taking Morton's arm, he proceeded to catechize him touching
his imprisonment and escape, of which he said he had first
read in the New York Herald. Morton satisfied his curiosity,
taking care to give him no suspicion of Speyer's connection
with the affair, and allowing him to infer that the arrest
was caused by an accidental concurrence of suspicious circumstances.
Richards, at the end, broke out into a savage,
red republican tirade against Metternich and the Austrian
government.

“By the way,” said Morton, when his companion's heat
had subsided, “do you happen to remember a man called
Speyer, or something like it, — a republican propagandist, at
Paris? I believe you knew him.”

“I never knew any body else,” replied Richards, adopting
a cis-Atlantic figure of speech for which rhetoricians have as
yet found no name.

“Do you know where he is now?”

“What, have you lent money to Speyer, too?”

“He is heavily in my debt,” said Morton, evasively.

“That's odd. He seems to have been borrowing money
all round. I remember, about a year or more ago, I met Mr.
Vinal, and he began to talk about Paris. `By the way,' said
he to me, `do you happen to remember a man named Spires,
or Speyers, or some such thing? I lent him five hundred

francs.' `I wish you may get it,' said I. `Well,' said Vinal,
`I have a friend going to Paris, who will try what can be done
for me.' So I set him on the track. I don't know whether
he got his money or not, but I saw him talking with Speyer
in the street, one evening last spring, and Vinal looked as
sour as if he had swallowed a bottle of vitriol.”

“Talking with Speyer last spring!” repeated Morton;
“has he been to Paris?”

“Speyer has come out to America. There is not a country
in Europe but has grown too hot for him. He was under
surveillance in Paris, all the time I knew him.”

“When did he come?”

“Six or eight months ago.”

“Where is he to be found?”

“In New York, chiefly. If you could have caught him
when he was here in Boston, in the spring, you might have
got something out of him; for he seemed flush of money.”

“What, after you saw him with Vinal?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen him more than once in Boston?”

“Yes, two or three times.”

“Is he in New York now?”

“I suppose so; but I would not advise your trying to do
any thing with him. You had better pocket your loss, and
let him go. However, if you want to try, I can refer you to
a man who can probably help you to find his whereabouts.”

“Thank you; there's no harm in making the attempt. I
don't know Speyer well. What kind of man is he?”

“Well, I will draw his portrait for you. He is sly as a

fox; always contriving, plotting, and working under ground.
Intrigue is his native element. He takes to it like a chameleon
to air, or a salamander to fire.”

“An artful, managing fellow, not bold enough to make a
direct attack?”

“Bold! There is nothing on the earth, or under it, that
he fears. He will not make a direct attack, if he can help it,
because it is against his instinct; but press upon him —
crowd him a little — and he will show his teeth like a Bengal
tiger. He is always in hot water; for he never could be
happy out of it. He has his weaknesses, though. A woman
whom he takes a fancy to can turn him round her finger. I
never knew a man so desperate in that way, or such a devil
incarnate when a fit of jealousy seizes him.”

“You draw a flattering likeness of your friend,” said
Morton.

“O,” said Richards, laughing, “I cut half my foreign acquaintance,
now that I am at home.”

Before leaving his new companion, Morton obtained from
him the name and direction of the person of whom he had
spoken as likely to know where Speyer was to be found.
Left alone at length, he pondered on what he had heard: —

“So Vinal applied to Richards, to learn Speyer's address,
when he wrote to him to report me dead. Speyer in America!
— having interviews with Vinal! — and flush of money!
Can it be possible that this agent of his villany has become
the instrument of his punishment? — that the Furies are already
on his track? If Speyer kept Vinal's letter, as, under
the circumstances, such a calculating knave would be apt to

do, he has that in his hands which would make my friend
open his purse strings; yes, make him coin his life blood, to
satisfy him. It is past doubting; Vinal has it now; this
cormorant is preying upon him.”

That afternoon Morton took the night train to New York,
in search of Speyer.