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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

I almost leaped from the ground in consternation. My whole frame throbbed, my mouth fell open, my tongue was tied.

"I'm Miss Coralie Rothvelt," she added, and then how she sparkled in the dark as she said, "I see you remember me."

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