ourse, I did not expect you would."

"Why did you not?"

"Because it is an adventure, because it will take something of real
courage, I fancy, to meet a risk like that!"

"There would be some risk for us all," said I truly.

"There you go, balancing and not deciding. You are no pirate."

"What will you give me if I go, Helena?" said I.

"Nothing beyond thanking you. One thing, you must not think that I
would trick or trap you."

"Many a criminal has been trapped by a woman whom he loves," said I
slowly. "But you would not do that if I had your word, even though you
hated me. And you do hate me very much, do you not?"

"Yes, very much. But if you took me by New Orleans without a supper at
Luigi's, I should hate you even more."

"Jean--Jean Lafitte," I called out in a low tone of voice.

"Aye, aye, Sir!" he saluted, as he came to the place where we stood,
like some seasoned sailorman, regardless of youthful hours of sleep.

"I am going up-town with the captive maiden. Do you stand here on
watch. We shall be gone about three hours."

"Hully gee!" ejaculated Jean Lafitte, but at once he saluted again.
"'Tis well, Black Bart," said he.

"Tell Captain Peterson to let no one come on board this boat under any
pretense; nor must any one leave it until I get back. If any one asks
for me, say I'm up-town."

"Isn't Aunt Lucinda going, too?" demanded Helena.

"She certainly is not!"

"Is it--is it quite correct for me to go alone with you?"

"That is your part of the adventure, Helena," said I calmly. An
instant later I had led her across the dingy warehouse dock, over
dusty streets, to a crooked street-car line over which I could hear
approaching one of the infrequent cars.

CHAPTER XXV

IN WHICH WE MEET THE OTHER MAN, ALSO ANOTHER WOMAN

Luigi's place, as all men know, is situated upon a small, crooked and
very dirty street, yet none the less, it is an abode of contentment
for those who know good living. When Helena and I entered the door I
felt as one again at home. Here were the sanded floors, the old
water-bottles, the large chandelier with its cut glasses in the middle
of the room, the small tables with their coarse clean linen. The same
old French waiters stood here and there about, each with impeccable
apron and very peccable shoes, as is the wont of all waiters. But the
waiters at Luigi's are more than waiters; they are friends, and they
never forget a face. Therefore, as always, I had no oc