“It wouldn’t pay ye,” he had said to a band of plunderers, “to bother with the loikes of this house when there’s plenty all furnished.”

With injunctions to maintain his vigilance and not to be surprised if Merwyn’s absence was prolonged, the young man hastened away, paving no heed to entreaties to remain and avoid risks.

It was still early, but the uneasy city was waking, and the streets were filling with all descriptions of people.  Thousands were escaping to the country; thousands more were standing in their doors or moving about, seeking to satisfy their curiosity; while in the disaffected districts on the east and the west side the hosts of the mob were swarming forth for the renewal of the conflict, now inspired chiefly by the hope of plunder.  Disquiet, anxiety, fear, anger, and recklessness characterized different faces, according to the nature of their possessors; but as a rule even the most desperate of the rioters were singularly quiet except when under the dominion of some immediate and exciting influence.

In order to save time, Merwyn had again hired a hack, and, seated with the driver, he proceeded rapidly, first towards the East River, and then, on another street, towards the Hudson.  His eyes, already experienced, saw on every side the promise of another bloody day.  He was stopped and threatened several times, for the rioters were growing suspicious, fully aware that detectives were among them, but he always succeeded in giving some plausible excuse.  At last, returning from the west side, the driver refused to carry him any longer, and gave evidence of sympathy with the mob.

Merwyn quietly showed him the butt of a revolver, and said, “You will drive till I dismiss you.”

The man yielded sullenly, and Merwyn alighted near Mr. Vosburgh’s residence, saying to his Jehu, “Your course lies there,” pointing east,—­and he rapidly turned a corner.

As Merwyn had surmised, the man wheeled his horses with the purpose of following and learning his destination.  Observing this eager quest he sprung out upon him from a doorway and said, “If you try that again I’ll shoot you as I would a dog.”  The fellow now took counsel of discretion.

Going round the block to make sure he was not observed, Merwyn reached the residence of Mr. Vosburgh just as that gentleman was rising from his breakfast, and received a cordial welcome.

“Why, Merwyn,” he exclaimed, “you look as fresh as a June daisy this morning.”

The young fellow had merely bowed to Marian, and now said, “I cannot wonder at your surprise, remembering the condition in which I presented myself last night.”

“Condition?  I do not understand.”

Marian laughed, as she said:  “Papa came in about midnight in scarcely better plight.  In brief, you were both exhausted, and with good reason.”

“But you did not tell me, Marian—­”

“No,” she interrupted; “nothing but a life-and-death emergency should have made me tell you anything last night.”