“Have you ever been at Beaucaire, Captain?” I asked, eager for more intimate details.

“We always stop at the Landing, but I have only once been up the bluff to where the house stands.  It must have been a beautiful place in its day; it is imposing even now, but showing signs of neglect and abuse.  The Judge was away from home—­in St. Louis, I believe—­the day of my visit.  He had sold me some timber, and I went out with the family lawyer, a man named Haines living at the Landing, to look it over.”

“The house was closed?”

“No; it is never closed.  The housekeeper was there, and also the two daughters.”

“Daughters?”

“Certainly; hadn’t I told you about them?  Both girls are accepted as his daughters; but, if all I have heard is true, one must be a granddaughter.”  He paused reminiscently, his eyes on the river.  “To all appearances they are about of the same age, but differing rather widely in looks and character.  Both are attractive girls I judge, although I only had a glimpse of them, and at the time knew nothing of the difference in relationship.  I naturally supposed them to be sisters, until Haines and I got to talking about the matter on the way back.  Pshaw, Knox, you’ve got me gossiping like an old woman.”

I glanced aside at his face.

“This, then, is not common river talk? the truth is not generally known?”

“No; I have never heard it mentioned elsewhere, nor have I previously repeated the story.  However, now that the suggestion has slipped out, perhaps I had better go ahead and explain.”  He puffed at his pipe, and I waited, seemingly intent on the scene without.  The captain was a minute or two in deciding how far he would venture.  “Haines told me a number of strange things about that family I had never heard before,” he admitted at last.  “You see he has known them for years, and attended to most of Beaucaire’s legal business.  I don’t know why he chanced to take me into his confidence, only he had been drinking some, and, I reckon, was a bit lonely for companionship; then those two girls interested me, and I asked quite a few questions about them.  At first Haines was close as a clam, but finally loosened up, and this is about how the story runs, as he told it.  It wasn’t generally known, but it seems that Lucius Beaucaire has been married twice—­the first time to a Creole girl in New Orleans when he was scarcely more than a boy.  Nobody now living probably knows what ever became of her, but likely she died early; anyway she never came north, or has since been heard from.  The important part is that she gave birth to a son, who remained in New Orleans, probably in her care, until he was fourteen or fifteen years old.  Then some occurrence, possibly his mother’s death, caused the Judge to send for the lad, whose name was Adelbert, and had him brought to Missouri.  All this happened before Haines settled at the Landing, and previous to Beaucaire’s second marriage to Mademoiselle Menard.  Bert, as the boy was called, grew up wild, and father and son quarreled so continuously that finally, and before he was twenty, the latter ran away, and has never been heard of since.  All they ever learned was that he drifted down the river on a flatboat.”