The shadows of tree-top, thatch, and wall were lengthening as I walked along the Rue Bourbon.  Heedless of what the morrow might bring forth, the street was given over to festivity.  Merry groups were gathered on the corners, songs and laughter mingled in the court-yards, billiard balls clicked in the cabarets.  A fat, jolly little Frenchman, surrounded by tripping children, sat in his doorway on the edge of the banquette, fiddling with all his might, pausing only to wipe the beads of perspiration from his face.

“Madame Clive, mais oui, Monsieur, l’ petite maison en face.”  Smiling benignly at the children, he began to fiddle once more.

The little house opposite!  Mrs. Temple, mistress of Temple Bow, had come to this!  It was a strange little home indeed, Spanish, one-story, its dormers hidden by a honeycombed screen of terra-cotta tiles.  This screen was set on the extreme edge of the roof which overhung the banquette and shaded the yellow adobe wall of the house.  Low, unpretentious, the latticed shutters of its two windows giving it but a scant air of privacy,—­indeed, they were scarred by the raps of careless passers-by on the sidewalk.  The two little battened doors, one step up, were closed.  I rapped, waited, and rapped again.  The musician across the street stopped his fiddling, glanced at me, smiled knowingly at the children; and they paused in their dance to stare.  Then one of the doors was pushed open a scant four inches, a scarlet madras handkerchief appeared in the crack above a yellow face.  There was a long moment of silence, during which I felt the scrutiny of a pair of sharp, black eyes.

“What yo’ want, Marse?”

The woman’s voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of the American tide-water.

“I should like to see Mrs. Clive,” I answered.

The door closed a shade.

“Mistis sick, she ain’t see nobody,” said the woman.  She closed the door a little more, and I felt tempted to put my foot in the crack.

“Tell her that Mr. David Ritchie is here,” I said.

There was an instant’s silence, then an exclamation.

“Lan’ sakes, is you Marse Dave?” She opened the door—­furtively, I thought—­just wide enough for me to pass through.  I found myself in a low-ceiled, darkened room, opposite a trim negress who stood with her arms akimbo and stared at me.

“Marse Dave, you doan rec’lect me.  I’se Lindy, I’se Breed’s daughter.  I rec’lect you when you was at Temple Bow.  Marse Dave, how you’se done growed!  Yassir, when I heerd from Miss Sally I done comed here to tek cyar ob her.”

“How is your mistress?” I asked.