I don't want any one--else to know--anything about it." He sighed audibly and looked as though he had gone to sleep, but whispered again, with his eyes closed--"'specially on culprit's own account." Frowenfeld was silent: but the invalid was waiting for an answer, and, not getting it, stirred peevishly.
"Do you wish me to go to-night ?" asked the apothecary.
"To-morrow morning.

Will you-- ?" "Certainly, Doctor." The invalid lay quite still for several minutes, looking steadily at his friend, and finally let a faint smile play about his mouth,--a wan reminder of his habitual roguery.
"Good boy," he whispered.
Frowenfeld rose and straightened the bedclothes, took a few steps about the room, and finally returned.

The Doctor's restless eye had followed him at every movement.
"You'll go ?" "Yes," replied the apothecary, hat in hand; "where is it ?" "Corner Bienville and Bourbon,--upper river corner,--yellow one-story house, doorsteps on street.

You know the house ?" "I think I do." "Good-night.

Here!--I wish you would send that black girl in here--as you go out--make me better fire--Joe!" the call was a ghostly whisper.
Frowenfeld paused in the door.
"You don't mind my--bad manners, Joe ?" The apothecary gave one of his infrequent smiles.
"No, Doctor." He started toward Number 19 rue Bienville, but a light, cold sprinkle set in, and he turned back toward his shop.