Jacqueline of Golden River / Egbert, H. M., [pseud.], 1879-1960

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Title: Jacqueline of Golden River

Author: H. M. Egbert

Illustrator: Ralph Pallen Coleman

Release Date: September 28, 2005 [EBook #16771]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACQUELINE OF GOLDEN RIVER ***




Produced by Al Haines










[Frontispiece: He went without a backward glance . . . and I knew what
the parting meant to him.]






JACQUELINE OF GOLDEN RIVER

BY

H. M. EGBERT






FRONTISPIECE

BY

RALPH PALLEN COLEMAN





DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

GARDEN CITY ---------- NEW YORK

1920




COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF

TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES

INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN





COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY




CONTENTS

     I.  A DOG AND A DAMSEL
    II.  BACK IN THE ROOM
   III.  COVERING THE TRACKS
    IV.  SIMON LEROUX
     V.  M. LE CURE
    VI.  AT THE FOOT OF THE CLIFF
   VII.  CAPTAIN DUBOIS
  VIII.  DREAMS OF THE NIGHT
    IX.  THE FUNGUS
     X.  SNOW BLINDNESS
    XI.  THE CHATEAU
   XII.  UNDER THE MOUNTAINS
  XIII.  THE ROULETTE-WHEEL
   XIV.  SOME PLAIN SPEAKING
    XV.  WON--AND LOST
   XVI.  THE OLD ANGEL
  XVII.  LOUIS D'EPERNAY
 XVIII.  THE LITTLE DAGGER
   XIX.  THE HIDDEN CHAMBER
    XX.  AT SWORDS' POINTS
   XXI.  THE BAIT THAT LURED
  XXII.  SURRENDER
 XXIII.  LEROUX'S DIABLE
  XXIV.  FULL CONFESSION
   XXV.  THE END OF THE CHATEAU




JACQUELINE OF GOLDEN RIVER


CHAPTER I

A DOG AND A DAMSEL

As I sat on a bench in Madison Square after half past eleven in the
evening, at the end of one of those mild days that sometimes occur in
New York even at the beginning of December, a dog came trotting up to
me, stopped at my feet, and whined.

There is nothing remarkable in having a strange dog run to one nor in
seeing the creature rise on its hind legs and paw at you for notice and
a caress.  Only, this happened to be an Eskimo dog.

It might have been mistaken for a collie or a sheepdog by nearly
everybody who saw it, though most men would have turned to admire the
softness of its fur and to glance at the heavy collar with the silver
studs.  But I knew the Eskimo breed, having spent a summer in Labrador.

I stroked the beast, which lay down at my feet, raising its head
sometimes to whine, and sometimes darting off a little way and coming
back to tug at the lower edge of my overcoat.  But my mind was too much
occupied for me to take any but a perfunctory interest in its
manoeuvres.  My eight years of thankless drudgery as a clerk, following
on a brief adventurous period after I ran away to sea from my English
home, had terminated three days before, upon receipt of a legacy, and I
had at once left Tom Carson's employment.

Six thousand guineas--thirty thousand dollars--the will said.  I had
not seen my uncle since I was a boy.  But he had been a bachelor, we
were both Hewletts, and I had been named Paul after him.

I had seen for some time that Carson meant to get rid of me.  It had
been a satisfaction to me to get rid of him instead.

He had been alternately a prospector and a company promoter all the
working years of his rather shabby life.  He had organized some dubious
concerns; but his new offices on Broadway were fitted so
unostentatiously that anyone could see the Northern Exploitation
Company was not trying to glitter for the benefit of the small investor.

Coal fields and timber-land somewhere in Canada, the concession was
supposed to be.  But Tom was as secretive as a clam, except with Simon
Leroux.

Leroux was a parish politician from some place near Quebec, and his
clean-shaven, wrinkled face was as hard and mean as that of any city
boss in the United States.  His vile Anglo-French expletives were as
nauseous as his cigars.  He and old Tom used to be closeted together
for hours at a time.

I never liked the man, and I never cared for Carson's business ways.  I
was glad to leave him the day after my legacy arrived.

He only snorted when I gave him notice, and told the cashier to pay me
my salary to date.  He had long before summed me up as a spiritless
drudge.  I don't believe he gave another thought to me after I left his
office.

My plans were vague.  I had been occupying, at a low rental, a tiny
apartment consisting of two rooms, a bath, and what is called a
"kitchenette" at the top of an old building in Tenth Street which was
about to be pulled down.  Part of the roof was gone already, and there
was a six-foot hole under the eaves.

I had arranged to leave the next day, and a storage company was to call
in the morning for my few sticks of furniture.  I had half planned to
take boat for Jamaica.  I wanted to think and plan.

I had nobody dependent on me, and was resolved to invest my little
fortune in such a way that I might have a modest competence, so that
the dreadful spectre of poverty might never leer at me again.

The Eskimo dog was growing uneasy.  It would run from me, looking round
and uttering a succession of short barks, then run back and tug at my
overcoat again.  I began to become interested in its manoeuvres.

Evidently it wished me to accompany it, and I wondered who its master
was and how it came to be there.

I stooped and looked at the collar.  There was no name on it, except
the maker's, scratched and illegible.  I rose and followed the beast,
which showed its eager delight by running ahead of me, turning round at
times to bark, and then continuing on its way with a precision which
showed me that it was certain of its destination.

As I crossed Madison Square the light on the Metropolitan Tower flashed
the first quarter.  Broadway was in full glare.  The lure of electric
signs winked at me from every corner.  The restaurants were disgorging
their patrons, and beautifully dressed women in fine furs, accompanied
by escorts in evening dress, stood on the pavements.  Taxicabs whirled
through the slush.

I began to feel a renewal in me of the old, old thrill the city had
inspired when I entered it a younger and a more hopeful man.

The dog turned down a street in the Twenties, ran on a few yards,
bounded up a flight of stone steps, and began scratching at the door of
a house that was apparently empty.

I say apparently, because the shades were down at every window and the
interior was unlit, so far as could be seen from the street; but I knew
that at that hour it must contain from fifty to a hundred people.

This place I knew by reputation.  It was Jim Daly's notorious but
decently conducted gambling establishment, which was running full blast
at a time when every other institution of this character had found it
convenient to shut down.

So the creature's master was inside Daly's, and it wished me to get him
out.  This was evidence of unusual discernment in his best friend, but
it was hardly my prerogative to exercise moral supervision over this
adventurous explorer of a chillier country even than his northern
wastes.  I looked in some disappointment at the closed doors and turned
away.

I meant to go home, and I had proceeded about three paces when the lock
clicked.  I stopped.  The front door opened cautiously, and the gray
head of Jim's negro butler appeared.  Behind it was the famous grille
of cast-steel, capable, according to rumour, of defying the axes of any
number of raiding reformers.

Then emerged one of the most beautiful women that I had ever seen.

I should have called her a girl, for she could not have been more than
twenty years of age.  Her hair was of a fair brown, the features
modelled splendidly, the head poised upon a flawless throat that
gleamed white beneath a neckpiece of magnificent sable.

She carried a sable muff, too, and under these furs was a dress of
unstylish fashion and cut that contrasted curiously with them.  I
thought that those loose sleeves had passed away before the nineteenth
century died.  In one hand she carried a bag, into which she was
stuffing a large roll of bills.

As she stepped down to the street the dog leaped up at her.  A hand
fell caressingly upon the creature's head, and I knew that she had one
servant who would be faithful unto death.

She passed so close to me that her dress brushed my overcoat, and for
an instant her eyes met mine.  There was a look in them that startled
me--terror and helplessness, as though she had suffered some benumbing
shock which made her actions more automatic than conscious.

This was no woman of the class that one might expect to find in Daly's.
There was innocence in the face and in the throat, uplifted, as one
sees it in young girls.

I was bewildered.  What was a girl like that doing in Daly's at half
past twelve in the morning?

She began walking slowly and rather aimlessly, it seemed to me, along
the street in the direction of Sixth Avenue.  My curiosity was
unbounded.  I followed her at a decent interval to see what she was
going to do.  But she did not seem to know.

The girl looked as if she had stepped out of a cloister into an unknown
world, and the dog added to the strangeness of the picture.

The street loafers stared after her, and two men began walking abreast
of her on the other side of the road.  I followed more closely.

As she stood upon the curb on the east side of Sixth Avenue I saw her
glance timidly up and down before venturing to cross.  There was little
traffic, and the cars were running at wide intervals, but it was quite
half a minute before she summoned resolution to plunge beneath the
structure of the elevated railroad.  When she had reached the other
side she stood still again before continuing westward.

The two men crossed the street and planted themselves behind her.  They
were speaking in a tongue that sounded like French, and one had a patch
over his eye.  A taxicab was crawling up behind them.  I was sure that
they were in pursuit of her.

The four of us were almost abreast in the middle of the long block
between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.  We were passing a dead wall, and
the street was almost empty.

Suddenly the man with the patch turned on me, lowered his head, and
butted me off my feet.  I fell into the roadway, and at that instant
the second fellow grasped the girl by the arm and the taxicab whirled
up and stopped.

The girl's assailants seemed to be trying to force her into the cab.
One caught at her arm, the other seized her waist.  The bag flew open,
scattering a shower of gold pieces upon the pavement.

And then, before I could get upon my feet again, the dog had leaped at
the throat of the man with the patch and sent him stumbling backward.
Before he recovered his balance I was at the other man, striking out
right and left.

It was all the act of an instant, and in an instant the two men had
jumped into the taxicab and were being driven swiftly away.  I was
standing beside the terrified girl, while an ill-looking crowd,
gathering from God knows where, surrounded us and fought like harpies
for the coins which lay scattered about.

I laid my hands on one who had grabbed a gold piece from between my
feet, but the girl pulled at my arm distractedly.  She was white and
trembling, and her big grey eyes were full of fear.

"Help me!" she pleaded, clinging to my sleeve with her little gloved
hands.  "The money is nothing.  I have eight thousand dollars more in
my bag.  Help me away!"

She spoke in a foreign, bookish accent, as though she had learned
English at school.  Fortunately for us the mob was too busily engrossed
in its search to hear her words.

So I drew her arm through mine and we hurried toward Sixth Avenue,
where we took an up-town car.

We had reached Herald Square when it occurred to me that my companion
did not seem to know her destination.  So we descended there.  I
intended to order a taxicab for her, had forgotten the dog, but now the
beautiful creature came bounding up to us.

"Where are you going?" I asked the girl.  "I will take you to your
home--or hotel," I added with a slight upward intonation on the last
word.

"I do not know where I am going," she answered slowly.  "I have never
been in New York until to-day."

"But you have friends here?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"But are you really carrying eight thousand dollars about with you in
New York at night?" I asked in amazement.  "Don't you know this city is
full of thieves, and that you are in the worst district?"

For a moment it occurred to me that she might have been decoyed into
Daly's.  And yet I knew it was not that sort of place; indeed, Daly's
chief desire was to remain as inconspicuous as possible.  It was very
difficult to get into Daly's.

"Do you know the character of the place you came out of?" I asked,
trying to find some clue to her actions.

"The character?" she repeated, apparently puzzled at first.  "Oh, yes.
That is Mr. Daly's gaming-house.  I came to New York to play at
roulette there."

She was looking at me so frankly that I was sure she was wholly
ignorant of evil.

"My father is too ill to play himself," she explained, "so I must find
a hotel near Mr. Daly's house, and then I shall play every night until
our fortune is made.  Tonight I lost nearly two thousand dollars.  But
I was nervous in that strange place.  And the system expressly says
that one may lose at first.  To-morrow I raise the stakes and we shall
begin to win.  See?"

She pulled a little pad from her bag covered with a maze of figuring.

"But where do you come from?" I asked.  "Where is your father?"

Again I saw that look of terror come into her eyes.  She glanced
quickly about her, and I was sure she was thinking of escaping from me.

I hastened to reassure her.

"Forgive me," I said.  "It is no business of mine.  And now, if you
will trust me a little further I will try to find a hotel for you."

It would have disarmed the worst man to feel her little hand slipped
into his arm in that docile manner of hers.  I took her to the Seward,
the Grand, the Cornhil, and the Merrimac--each in turn.

Vain hope!  You know what the New York hotels are.  When I asked for a
room for her the clerk would eye her furs dubiously, look over his book
in pretense, and then inform me that the hotel was full.

At the Merrimac I sat down in the lobby and sent her to the clerk's
desk alone, but that was equally useless.  I realized pretty soon that
no reputable hotel in New York City would accommodate her at that hour.

We were standing presently in front of the _Herald_ office.  Her hand
still touched my arm, and I was conscious of an absurd desire to keep
it there as long as possible.

My curiosity had given place to deep anxiety on her account.  What was
this child doing in New York alone, what sort of father had let her
come, if her story were true?  What was she?  A European?  Too
unconventional for that.  An Argentine?  A runaway from some South
American convent?

Her skin was too fair for Spanish blood to flow beneath it.  She looked
French and had something of the French frankness.

Canadian?  I dared not ask her any more questions.  There was only one
thing to do, and, though I shrank from the suggestion, it had to be
made.

"It is evident that you must go somewhere to-night," I said.  "I have
two rooms on Tenth Street which I am vacating to-morrow.  They are
poorly furnished, but there is clean linen; and if you will occupy them
for the night I can go elsewhere, and I will call for you at nine in
the morning."

She smiled at me gratefully--she did not seem surprised at all.

"You have some baggage?" I asked.

"No, _monsieur_," she answered.

She _was_ French, then--Canadian-French, I had no doubt.  I was hardly
surprised at her answer.  I had ceased to be surprised at anything she
told me.

"To-morrow I shall show you where to make some purchases, then," I
said.  "And now, _mademoiselle_, suppose we take a taxicab."

As her hand tightened upon my arm I saw a man standing on the west side
of Broadway and staring intently at us.

He was of a singular appearance.  He wore a fur coat with a collar of
Persian lamb, and on his head was a black lambskin cap such as is worn
in colder climates, but it seldom seen in New York.  He looked about
thirty years of age, he had an aspect decidedly foreign, and I imagined
that he was scowling at us malignantly.

I was not sure that this surmise was not due to an over-active
imagination, but I was determined to get away from the man's scrutiny,
so I called a taxicab and gave the driver my address.

"Go through some side streets and go fast," I said.

The fellow nodded.  He understood my motive, though I fear he may have
misinterpreted the circumstances.  We entered, and the girl nestled
back against the comfortable cushions, and we drove at a furious speed,
dodging down side streets at a rate that should have defied pursuit.

During the drive I instructed my companion emphatically.

"Since you have no friends here, you must have confidence in me,
_mademoiselle_," I said.

"And you are my friend?  Well, _monsieur_, be sure I trust you," she
answered.

"You must listen to me attentively, then," I continued.  "You must not
admit anybody to the apartment until I ring to-morrow.  I have the key,
and I shall arrive at nine and ring, and then unlock the door.  But
take no notice of the bell.  You understand?"

"Yes, _monsieur_," she answered wearily.  Her eyelids drooped; I saw
that she was very sleepy.

When the taxicab deposited us in front of the house, I glanced hastily
up and down the road.  There was another cab at the east end of the
street, but I could not discern if it were approaching me or
stationary.  I opened the front door quickly and admitted my companion,
then preceded her up the uncarpeted stairs to my little apartment on
the top floor.  I was the only tenant in the house, and therefore there
would be no cause for embarrassment.

As I opened the door of my apartment the dog pushed past me.  Again I
had forgotten it; but it had not forgotten its mistress.

I looked inside my bare little rooms.  It was hard to say good-by.

"Till to-morrow, _mademoiselle_," I said.  "And won't you tell me your
name?"

She drew off her glove and put one hand in mine.

"Jacqueline," she answered.  "And yours?"

"Paul," I said.

"_Au revoir_, Monsieur Paul, then, and take my gratitude with you for
your goodness."

I let her hand fall and hurried down the stairs, confused and choking,
for there was a wedding-ring upon her finger.




CHAPTER II

BACK IN THE ROOM

The situation had become more preposterous than ever.  Two hours before
it would have been unimaginable; one hour ago I had merely been
offering aid to a young woman in distress; now she was occupying my
rooms and I was hurrying along Tenth Street, careless as to my
destination, and feeling as though the whole world was crumbling about
my head because she wore a wedding-ring.

Certainly I was not in love with her, so far as I could analyze my
emotions.  I had been conscious only of a desire to help her, merging
by degrees into pity for her friendlessness.

But the wedding-ring--what hopes, then, had begun to spring up in my
heart?  I could not fathom them; I only knew that my exaltation had
given place to profound dejection.

As I passed up the street the taxicab which I had seen at the east end
came rapidly toward me.  It passed, and I stopped and looked after it.
I was certain that it slackened speed outside the door of the old
building, but again it went on quickly, until it was lost to view in
the distance.

Had I given the pursuers a clue by my reappearance?

I watched for a few moments longer, but the vehicle did not return, and
I dismissed the idea as folly.  In truth, there was no reason to
suppose that the man I had seen in Herald Square was connected with the
two others, or that any of the three had followed us.  No doubt the
third man was but a street-loafer of the familiar type, attracted by
Jacqueline's unusual appearance.

And, after all, New York was a civilized city, and I could be sure of
the girl's safety behind the street door-lock and that of my apartment
door.  So I refused to yield to the impulse to go back and assure
myself that she was all right.  I must find a hotel and get a good
night's sleep.  In the morning, undoubtedly, I would see the episode in
a less romantic fashion.

As I went on, new thoughts began to press on my imagination.  Such an
event as this, told in any gathering of men, why, they would smile at
me and call me the victim of an adventuress.  The tale about the
father, the assumed ignorance of the conventions--how much could be
believed?

Had she not probably left her husband in some Canadian city and come to
New York to enjoy her holiday in her own fashion?  Could she innocently
have adventured to Daly's door and actually have succeeded in gaining
admission?  Why, many a would-be gambler had had the wicket of the
grille slammed in his face by the old colored butler.

Perhaps she was worse than I was even now imagining!

I had turned up Fifth Avenue, and had reached Twelfth or Thirteenth
Street when I thought I heard the patter of the Eskimo dog's feet
behind me.  I spun, around, startled, but there was only the long
stretch of pavement, wet from a slight recent shower, and the
reflection of the white arc-lights in it.

I had resumed my course when I was sure I heard the pattering again.
And again I saw nothing.

A moment later I was hurrying back toward the apartment-house.  My
nerves had suddenly become unstrung.  I felt sure now that some
imminent danger was threatening Jacqueline.  I could not bear the
suspense of waiting till morning.  I wanted to save her from something
that I felt intimately, but did not understand, and at which my reason
mocked in vain.

And as I ran I thought I heard the patter of the dog's feet, pacing
mine.

I was rounding the corner of Tenth Street now, and again the folly of
my behaviour struck home to me.  I stopped and tried to think.  Was it
some instinct that was taking me back, or was it the remembrance of
Jacqueline's beauty?  Was it not the desire to see her, to ask her
about the ring?

Surely my fears were but an overwrought imagination and the strangeness
of the situation, acting upon a mind eagerly grasping out after
adventure, being set free from the oppression of those dreadful years
of bondage!

I had actually swung around when I heard the ghostly patter of the feet
again close at my side.  I made my decision in that instant, and
hurried swiftly on my course back toward the apartment house.

I was in Tenth Street now.  It was half-past two in the morning, and
beginning to grow cold.  The thoroughfare was empty.  I fled, a tiny
thing, between two rows of high, dark houses.

When at last I found my door my hands were trembling so that I could
hardly fit the key into the lock.

I wondered now whether it had not been the pattering of my heart that I
had heard.

I bounded up the stairs.  But on the top story I had to pause to get my
breath, and then I dared not enter.  I listened outside.  There was no
sound from within.

The two rooms that I occupied were separated only by a curtain, which
fell short a foot from the floor and was slung on a wooden pole,
disclosing two feet between the top of it and the ceiling.  The rooms
were thus actually one, and even that might have been called small, for
the bed in the rear room was not a dozen paces from the door.

I listened for the breathing of the sleeping girl.  My intelligence
cried out upon my folly, telling me that my appearance there would
terrify her; and yet that clamorous fear that beat at my heart would
not be silenced.

If I could hear her breathe, I thought, I would go quietly away, and
find a hotel in which to sleep.  I listened minute after minute, but I
could not hear a sound.

At last I put my mouth to the keyhole and spoke to her.  "Jacqueline,"
I called.  The name sounded as strange and sweet on my own lips as it
had sounded on hers when she told it to me.  I waited.

There was no answer.

Then a little louder: "Jacqueline!"

And then quite loudly: "Jacqueline!"

I listened, dreading that she would cry out in alarm, but the same dead
silence followed.

Then, out of the silence, hammering on my eardrums, burst the loud
ticking of the little alarm-clock that I had left on the mantel of the
bedroom.  I heard that, and it must have been ticking minutes before
the sound reached me; perhaps if I waited a little longer I should hear
her breathing.

The alarm-clock was one of that kind which, when set to "repeat,"
utters a peculiar little click every two hundred and eighth stroke
owing to a catch in the mechanism.  Formerly it had annoyed me
inexpressibly, and I would lie awake for hours waiting for that tiny
sound.  Now I could hear even that, and heard it repeat and repeat
itself; but I could not hear Jacqueline breathe.

I took the key of the apartment door from my pocket at last and fitted
it noiselessly into the lock.  I stood there, trembling and irresolute.
I dared not turn the key.  The hall door gave immediately upon the
rooms without a private passage, and at the moment when I opened the
door I should be practically inside my bedroom save for the intervening
curtain.

Once more I ventured:

"Jacqueline!  Jacqueline!"

There was not the smallest answering stir within.  And so, with shaking
fingers, I turned the key.

The door creaked open with a noise that must have sounded throughout
the empty house.  I recollected then that it was impossible to keep it
shut without locking it.  The landlord had long ago ceased to concern
himself with his tumble-down property.

I caught at the door-edge, missed it and, tripping over a rent in the
cheap mat that lay against the door inside, stumbled against the
table-edge and clung there.

And even after I had caught at it, and stayed my fall, that infernal
door went creaking, creaking backward till it brought up against the
wall.

The room was completely dark, except for a little patch of light high
up on the bedroom wall, which came through the hole the workmen had
made when they began demolishing the building.  I hesitated a moment;
then I drew a match from my pocket and rubbed it softly into a flame
against my trouser leg.

I reached up to the gas above the table, turned it on, and lit the
incandescent mantle, lowering the light immediately.  But even then
there was no sound from behind the curtains.

They hung down close together, so that I was able to see only the
gas-blackened ceiling above them and, underneath, the lower edge of the
bed linen, and the bed-frame at the base, with its enamelled iron feet,
The sheets hung straight, as though the bed had not been occupied; but,
though there was no sound, I knew Jacqueline was at the back of the
curtains.

The oppressive stillness was not that of solitude.  She must be awake;
she must be listening in terror.

I went toward the curtains, and when I spoke I heard the words come
through my lips in a voice that I could not recognize as mine.

"Jacqueline!" I whispered, "it is Paul.  Paul, your friend.  Are you
safe, Jacqueline?"

Now I saw, under the curtains, what looked like the body of a very
small animal.  It might have been a woolly dog, or a black lambkin, and
it was lying perfectly still.

I pulled aside the curtains and stood between them, and the scene
stamped itself upon my brain, as clear as a photographic print, for
ever.

The woolly beast was the fur cap of a dead man who lay across the floor
of the little room.  One foot was extended underneath the bed, and the
head reached to the bottom of the wall on the other side of the room.
He lay upon his back, his eyes open and staring, his hands clenched,
and his features twisted into a sneering smile.

His fur overcoat, unbuttoned, disclosed a warm knit waistcoat of a
gaudy pattern, across which ran the heavy links of a gold chain.  There
was a tiny hole in his breast, over the heart, from which a little
blood had flowed.  The wound had pierced the heart, and death had
evidently been instantaneous.

It was the man whom I had seen staring at us across Herald Square.

Beside the window Jacqueline crouched, and at her feet lay the Eskimo
dog, watching me silently.  In her hand she held a tiny, dagger-like
knife, with a thin, red-stained blade.  Her grey eyes, black in the
gas-light, stared into mine, and there was neither fear nor recognition
in them.  She was fully dressed, and the bed had not been occupied.

I flung myself at her feet.  I took the weapon from her hand.
"Jacqueline!" I cried in terror.  I raised her hands to my lips and
caressed them.

She seemed quite unresponsive.

I laid them against my cheek.  I called her by her name imploringly; I
spoke to her, but she only looked at me and made no answer.  Still it
was evident to me that she heard and understood, for she looked at me
in a puzzled way, as if I were a complete stranger.  She did not seem
to resent my presence there, and she did not seem afraid of the dead
man.  She seemed, in a kindly, patient manner, to be trying to
understand the meaning of the situation.

"Jacqueline," I cried, "you are not hurt?  Thank God you are not hurt.
What has happened?"

"I don't know," she answered.  "I don't know where I am."

I kneeled down at her side and put my arms about her.

"Jacqueline, dear;" I said, "will you not try to think?  I am
Paul--your friend Paul.  Do you not remember me?"

"No, monsieur," she sighed.

"But, then, how did you come here, Jacqueline?" I asked.

"I do not know," she answered.  And, a moment later, "I do not know,
Paul."

That encouraged me a little.  Evidently she remembered what I had just
said to her.

"Where is your home, Jacqueline?"

"I do not know," she answered in an apathetic voice, devoid of interest.

There was something more to be said, though it was hard.

"Jacqueline, who--was--that?"

"Who?" she inquired, looking at me with the same patient, wistful gaze.

"That man, Jacqueline.  That dead man."

"What dead man, Paul?"

She was staring straight at the body, and at that moment I realized
that she not only did not remember, but did not even see it.

The shock which she had received, supervening upon the nervous state in
which she had been when I encountered her, had produced one of those
mental inhibitions in which the mind, to save the reason, obliterates
temporarily not only all memory of the past, but also all present
sights and sounds which may serve to recall it.  She looked idly at the
body of the dead man, and I was sure that she saw nothing but the worn
woodwork of the floor.

I saw that it was useless to say anything more upon this subject.

"You are very tired, Jacqueline?" I asked.

"Yes, _monsieur_," she answered, leaning back against my arm.

"And you would like to sleep?"

"Yes, _monsieur_."

I raised her in my arms and laid her on the bed, telling her to close
her eyes and sleep.  She was asleep almost immediately after her head
rested Upon the pillow.  She breathed as softly as an infant.

I watched her for a while until I heard a distant clock strike three.
This recalled me to the dangers of our situation.  I struck a match and
lit the gas in the bedroom.  But the yellow glare was so ghastly and
intolerable that I turned it down.

And then I set about the task before me.




CHAPTER III

COVERING THE TRACKS

I thought quickly, and my consciousness seemed to embrace all the
details of the situation with a keenness foreign to my nature.

Once, I believe, I had been able to play an active part among the men
who were my associates in that adventurous life that lay so far behind
me.  But eight years of clerkship had reduced me to the condition of
one who waits on the command of others.  Now my irresolution vanished
for the time, and I was my old self once more.

The first task was the disposal of the body in such a way that
suspicion would not attach itself to me after I had vacated the rooms
next morning.

There was a fire-escape running up to the floor of that room on the
outside of the house, though there was no egress to it.  It had been
put up by the landlord to satisfy the requirements of some new law; but
had never been meant for use, and it was constructed of the flimsiest
and cheapest ironwork.  I saw that it would be possible by standing on
a chair to swing myself up to the hole in the wall and reach down to
the iron stairs up which, I assumed, the dead man had crept after I had
given him the hint of Jacqueline's abode by emerging from the front
door.

I raised the dead man in my arms, looking apprehensively toward the
bed.  I was afraid Jacqueline would awaken, but she slept in heavy
peace, undisturbed by the harsh creaking of the sagging floor beneath
its double burden.  I put the fur cap on the grotesque, nodding dead
head, and, pushing a chair toward the wall with my foot, mounted it and
managed with a great effort to squeeze through the hole, pulling up the
body with me as I did so.

Then I felt with my foot for the little platform at the top of the iron
stairs outside, found it, and dropped.  Afterward I dragged the
dreadful burden down from the hole.

I had not known that I was strong before, and I do not understand now
how I managed to accomplish my wretched task.

I carried the dead man all the way down the fire-escape, clinging and
straining against the rotting, rusting bars, which bent and cracked
beneath my weight and seemed about to break and drag down the entire
structure from the wall.

I hardly paused at the platforms outside the successive stories.  The
weather was growing very cold, a storm was coming up, and the wind
soughed and whined dismally around the eaves.

I reached the bottom at last and rested for a moment.

At the back of the house was a little vacant space, filled with heaps
of debris from the demolished portions of the building and with refuse
which had been dumped there by tenants who had left and had never been
removed.  This yard was separated only by a rotting fence with a single
wooden rail from a small blind alley.

The alley had run between rows of stables in former days when this was
a fashionable quarter, but now these were mostly unoccupied, save for a
few more pretentious ones at the lower end, which were being converted
into garages.

Everywhere were heaps of brick, piles of rain-rotted wood, and
rubbish-heaps.

I took up my burden and placed it at the end of the alley, covering it
roughly with some old burlap bags which lay there.  I thought it safe
to assume that the police would look upon the dead man as the victim of
some footpad.  It was only remotely possible that suspicion would be
directed against any occupant of any of the houses bordering on the
_cul-de-sac_.

I did not search the dead man's pockets.  I cared nothing who he was,
and did not want to know.  My sole desire was to acquit Jacqueline of
his death in the world's eyes.

That he had come deservedly by it I was positive.  I was her sole
protector now, and I felt a furious resolve that no one should rob me
of her.

The ground was as hard as iron, and I was satisfied that my footsteps
had left no track; there would be snow before morning, and if my feet
had left any traces these would be covered effectively.

Four o'clock was striking while I was climbing back into the room
again.  Jacqueline lay on the bed in the same position; she had not
stirred during that hour.  While she slept I set about the completion
of my task.

I took the knife from the floor where I had flung it, scrubbed it, and
placed it in my suit-case.  Then I scrubbed the floor clean, afterward
rubbing it with a soiled rag to make its appearance uniform.

I washed my hands, and thought I had finally removed all traces of the
affair; but, coming back, I perceived something upon the floor which
had escaped my notice.  It was the leather collar of the Eskimo dog,
with its big silver studs and the maker's silver name-plate.

All this while the animal had remained perfectly quiet in the room
crouching at Jacqueline's feet and beside the bed.  It had not
attempted to molest me, as I had feared might be the case during the
course of my gruesome work.

I came to the conclusion that there might have been a struggle; that it
had run to its mistress's assistance, and that the collar had been torn
from it by the dead man.

My first thought was to put the collar back upon the creature's neck;
but then I came to the conclusion that this might possibly serve as a
means of identification.  And it was essential that no one should be
able to identify the dog.

So I picked the collar up and carried it into the next room and held it
under the light of the incandescent gas-mantle.  The letters of the
maker's name were almost obliterated, but after a careful study I was
able to make them out.  The name was Maclay & Robitaille, and the place
of manufacture Quebec.  This confirmed my belief concerning
Jacqueline's nativity.

I pried the plate from the leather and slipped it into my pocket.  I
put the broken collar into my suitcase, together with the dagger, and
then I set about packing my things for the journey which we were to
undertake.

I had always accustomed myself to travel with a minimum of baggage, and
the suit-case, which was a roomy one, held all that I should need at
any time.  When I had finished packing I went back to Jacqueline and
sat beside her while she slept.  As I sat dawn I heard a city clock
strike five.

In a little while it would begin to lighten, and the advent of the day
filled me with a sort of terror.

I watched the sleeping girl.  Who was she?  How could she sleep calmly
after that night's deed?  The mystery seemed unfathomable; the girl
alone in the city, the robbers, the dog, the dead man, and the one who
had escaped me.

Jacqueline's bag lay on the bureau and disgorging bills.  There were
rolls and rolls of them--eight thousand dollars did not seem too much.

Besides these, the bag contained the usual feminine properties: a
handkerchief, sachet-bag, a pocket mirror, and some thin papers, coated
with rice-powder.

The thought crossed my mind that the bills might be counterfeit, and I
picked one up and looked carefully at it, comparing it with one from my
own pocketbook.  But I was soon satisfied that they were real.  Well--I
turned back to Jacqueline, ashamed of the suspicion that had crossed my
mind.

Her soft brown hair streamed over the pillow and hung down toward the
floor, a heavy mass, uncoiled from the wound braids upon her neck.  Her
breast rose and fell evenly with her breathing.  She looked even
younger than on the preceding evening.  I was sure now that she was
innocent of evil, and my unworthy thoughts made me ashamed.  Her
outstretched arm was extended beyond the edge of the bed.

I raised her hand and held in it my own, and I sat thus until the room
began to lighten, watching her all the while.

It was strange that as I sat there I began to grow comforted.  I looked
on her as mine.  When I had kissed her hands I had forgotten the ring
upon her finger; and now, holding that hand in mine and running my
fingers round and round the circlet of gold, I was not troubled at all.
I could not think of her as any other man's.  She was mine--Jacqueline.

Presently she stirred, her eyes opened, and she sat up.  I placed a
pillow at her back.  She gazed at me with apathy, but there was also
recognition in her look.

"Do you know me, Jacqueline?" I asked.

"Yes, Paul," she answered.

"Your friend?"

"My friend, Paul."

"Jacqueline, I am going to take you home," I said, hoping that she
would tell me something, but I dared ask her no more.  I meant to take
her to Quebec and make inquiries there.  Thus I hoped to learn
something of her, even if the sight of the town did not awaken her
memories.

"I am going to take you home, Jacqueline," I repeated.

"Yes, Paul," she answered in that docile manner of hers.

"It is lucky you have your furs, because the winter is cold where your
home is."

"Yes, Paul," she repeated as before, and a few more probings on my part
convinced me that she remembered nothing at all.  Her mind was like a
person's newly awakened in a strange land.  But this state brought with
it no fear, only a peaceful quietude and faith which was very touching.

"We have forgotten a lot of things that troubled us, haven't we, Paul?"
she asked me presently.  "But we shall not care, since we have each
other for friends.  And afterwards perhaps we shall pick them up again.
Do you not think so, Paul?"

"Yes, Jacqueline," I answered.

"If we remembered now the memory of them might make us unhappy," she
continued wistfully.  "Do you not think so, Paul?"

"Yes, Jacqueline."

There was a faint and vague alarm in her eyes which made me glad for
her sake that she did not know.

"Now, Jacqueline," I said, "we shall have to begin to make ready for
our journey."

I had just remembered that the storage company which was to warehouse
my few belongings was to call that day.  The van would probably be at
the house early in the morning, and it was essential that we should be
gone before it arrived.

Fortunately I had arranged to leave the door unlocked in case my
arrangements necessitated my early departure, and this was understood,
so that my absence would cause no surprise.

I showed Jacqueline the bathroom and drew the curtains.  Then I went
into the kitchenette and made coffee on the gas range, and, since it
was too early for the arrival of my morning loaf, which was placed just
within the street door by the baker's boy every day, I made some toast
and buttered it.

I remember reflecting, with a relic of my old forced economy, how
fortunate it was that my pound of butter had just lasted until the
morning when I was to break up housekeeping.

When I took in the breakfast Jacqueline was waiting for me, looking
very dainty and charming.  She was hungry, too, also a good sign.

She did not seem to understand that there was anything strange in the
situation in which we found ourselves.  I did not know whether this was
due to her mental state or to that strange unsophistication which I had
already observed in her.  At any rate, we ate our breakfast together as
naturally as though we were a married couple of long standing.

After the meal was ended, and we had fed the dog, Jacqueline insisted
on washing the dishes, and I showed her the kitchenette and let her do
so, though I should never have need for the cheap plates and cups again.

"Now, Jacqueline, we must go," I said.

I placed her neckpiece about her.  I closed her bag, stuffing the bills
inside, and hung it on her arm.  I could not resist a smile to see the
little pad covered with its maze of figures among the rolls of money.
I was afraid that the sight of it would awaken her memories, but she
only looked quietly at it and put it away.

I wanted her to let me bank her money for her, but did not like to ask
her.  However, of her own account she took out the bills and handed
them to me.

"What a lot of money I have," she said.  "I hardly thought there was so
much money in the world, Paul."

It was past eight when we left the house.  I carried my suit-case and,
stopping at a neighbouring express office, had it sent to the Grand
Central station.  And then I decided to take the dog to the animal's
home.

I did not like to do so, but was afraid, in the necessity of protecting
Jacqueline, that its presence might possibly prove embarrassing, so I
took it there and left it, with instructions that it was to be kept
until I sent for it.  I paid a small sum of money and we departed,
Jacqueline apparently indifferent to what I had done, though the
animal's distress at being parted from her disturbed my conscience a
good deal.

Still it seemed the only thing to do under our circumstances.

Quebec, then, was my objective, and with no further clue than the
dog-collar.  There were two trains, I found, at three and at nine.  The
first, which I proposed to take, would bring us to our destination soon
after nine the next day, but our morning was to be a busy one, and it
would be necessary to make our preparations quickly.

A little snow was on the ground, but the sun shone brightly, and I felt
that the shadows of the night lay behind us.




CHAPTER IV

SIMON LEROUX

With Jacqueline's arm drawn through mine I paid a visit to the bank in
which I had deposited my legacy, and drew out fifteen hundred dollars,
next depositing Jacqueline's money to my own account.  It amounted to
almost exactly eight thousand dollars.

The receiving teller must have thought me an eccentric to carry so
large a sum, and I know he thought that Jacqueline and I had just been
married, for I saw him smile over the entry that he made in my bank
book.

I wanted to deposit her money in her own name, but this would have
involved inquiries and explanations which I was not in a position to
satisfy.  So there was nothing to do but deposit it in my own, and
afterward I could refund it to her.

I said that the receiving teller smiled--he wore that indescribable
congratulatory look with which it is the custom to favor the newly
married.

In fact, we were exactly like a honeymoon couple.  Although I
endeavored to maintain an air of practical self-assurance there was now
a new shyness in her manner, an atmosphere of undefinable but very real
sweetness in the relationship between us which set my heart hammering
at times when I looked at her flushed cheeks and the fair hair, blown
about her face, and hiding the glances which she stole timidly at me.

It was like a honeymoon departure, only with another man's wife; and
that made the sentiment more elevated and more chivalrous, for it set a
seal of honour on me which must remain unbroken till the time arrived.

I wondered, as we strolled up Fifth Avenue together, how much she knew,
what she remembered, and what thoughts went coursing through her head.
That child-like faith of hers was marvellously sweet.  It was an
innocent confidence, but it was devoid of weakness.  I believed that
she was dimly aware that terrible things lay in the past and that she
trusted to her forgetfulness as a shield to shelter not only herself
but me, and would not voluntarily recall what she had forgotten.

It was necessary to buy her an outfit of clothes, and this problem
worried me a good deal.  I hardly knew the names of the things she
required.

I believe now that I had absurd ideas as to the quantity and
consistency of women's garments.  I was afraid that she would not know
what to buy; but, as the morning wore away, I realized that her mental
faculties were not dimmed in the least.

She observed everything, clapped her hands joyously as a child at the
street sights and sounds, turned to wonder at the elevated and at the
high buildings.  I ventured, therefore, upon the subject that was
perplexing me.

"Jacqueline," I said, "you know that you will require an outfit of
clothes before we start for your home.  Not too many things, you know,"
I continued cautiously, "but just enough for a journey."

"Yes, Paul," she answered.

"How much money shall I give you, Jacqueline?"

"Fifty dollars?" she inquired.

I gave her a hundred, and took ridiculous delight in it.

We entered a large department store, and I mustered up enough courage
to address the young woman who stood behind the counter that displayed
the largest assortment of women's garments.

"I want a complete outfit for--for this lady," I stammered.  "Enough
for,"--I hesitated again--"a two weeks' journey."

The young woman smiled in a very pleasant way, and two others, who were
near enough to have overheard, turned and smiled also.

"Bermuda or Niagara Falls?" asked the young woman.

"I beg your pardon?" I inquired, conscious that my face was
insufferably hot.

"If you are taking _madame_ to Bermuda she will naturally require
cooler clothing than if you are taking her to Niagara Falls," the young
woman explained, looking at me with benevolent patience.  And seeing
that I was wholly disconcerted she added:

"Perhaps _madame_ might prefer to make her own selection."

As I stood in the centre of the store, apparently a stumbling block to
every shopper, Jacqueline flitted here and there, until a comfortable
assortment of parcels was accumulated upon the counter.

"Where shall I send them, _madame_?" inquired the saleswoman.

There was a suit-case to be bought, so I had them transferred to the
trunk and leather-goods department, where I bought a neat sole-leather
suit-case which, at Jacqueline's practical suggestion, was changed for
a lighter one of plaited straw.

After that I abstained from misdirecting my companion's activities.

And everybody addressed her as _madame_, and everybody smiled on us,
and sometimes I reflected miserably upon the wedding ring, and then
again smiled too and forgot, watching Jacqueline's eager face flushed
with delight as she looked at the pretty things in the store.

I had meditated taking her into Tiffany's to buy her a trinket of some
kind.  A ring seemed forbidden, and I was weighing the choice between a
bracelet and a watch, my desire to acquire a whole counter of trinkets
rapidly getting the better of my judgment, when something happened
which put the idea completely out of my head.

It was while Jacqueline was examining the suitcases that my attention
was drawn to a tall, elderly man with a hard, drawn, and deeply lined
weather-beaten face, and wearing a massive fur overcoat, open in front,
who was standing in the division between the trunk department and that
adjoining it, immediately behind Jacqueline.  He was looking at me with
an unmistakable glance of recognition.

I knew that I had seen him several times before, but, though his
features were familiar, I had forgotten his name.

In fact, I had seen him only a week before, but the events of the past
night had made a week seem like a week of years.  I stared at him and
he stared back at me, and made an urgent sign to me.

Keeping an eye on Jacqueline, and not losing sight of her at any time,
I followed the tall man.  As I neared him my remembrance of him grew
stronger.  I knew that powerful, slouching gait, that heavy tread.
When he turned round I had his name on my lips.

It was Simon Leroux.

"So you've got her!" he began in a hoarse, forcible whisper.  "Where
did you pick her up?  I was hurrying away from Tom's office when I
happened to see you two entering Mischenbusch's."

I remembered then that the office in which I had drudged was only a
couple of blocks away.  I made no answer, but waited for him to lead
again--and I was thinking hard.

"There's the devil to pay!" he went on in his execrable accent.  "Louis
came on posthaste, as you know, and he hasn't turned up this morning
yet.  Ah, I always knew Tom was close, but I never dreamed _you_ knew
anything.  When I used to see sitting near the door in his office
writing in those _sacre_ books I thought you were just a clerk.  And
you were in the know all the time, you were!  You know what happened
last night?" he continued, looking furtively around.

"It was an unfortunate affair," I said guardedly.

"Unfortunate!" he repeated, staring at me out of his bloodshot eyes.
"It was the devil, by gosh!  Who was he?"

His face was fiery red, and he cast so keen a look at me that I almost
thought he had discovered he was betraying himself.

"It was lucky I was in New York when Louis wired us she had flown," he
continued--I omit the oaths which punctuated his phrases.  "Lucky I had
my men with me, too.  I didn't think I'd need them here, but I'd
promised them a trip to New York--and then comes Louis's wire.  I put
them on the track.  I guessed she's go to Daly's--old Duchaine was mad
about that crazy system of his, and had been writing to him.

"He used to know Daly when they were young men together at Saratoga and
Montreal, and in Quebec, in the times when they had good horses and
high-play there.  I tell you it was ticklish.  There was millions of
dollars worth of property walking up Broadway, and they'd got her, with
a taxi waiting near by, when that devil's fool strolls up and draws a
crowd.  If I'd been there I'd have----"

A string of vile expletives followed his last remark.

"They got on his track and followed them to the Merrimac," he
continued.  "And they never came out.  They waited all night till nine
this morning, and they never came out.  My God, I thought her a good
girl--it's awful!  Who was he?  Say, how much do you know?"

His face was dripping with sweat, and he shot an awful look at
Jacqueline as she bent over the suit-case.  I could hardly keep my
hands off him, but Jacqueline's need was too great for me to give vent
to my passion.

I remembered now that, after sending Jacqueline to the clerk's desk
alone, she had gone to a side entrance and I had joined her there and
left the hotel with her in that fashion.  At any rate, Simon's words
showed me that his hired men were not acquainted with the rest of the
night's work.

I gathered from what he had said that the possession of Jacqueline was
vitally important both to Leroux and to Tom Carson, for some reason
connected with the Northern Exploitation Company, and that they had
endeavoured to kidnap her and hold her till the man Louis arrived to
advise them.

"How much do you know?" hissed Simon at me.

"Leroux," I said, "I'm not going to tell you anything.  You will
remember that I was employed by Mr. Carson."

"Ain't I as good as Carson?  What are you going to do with her?"

"You'd better go back to the office and wait, unless you want to spoil
the game by letting her see you," I said.

I was sure he was hiding from her intentionally, and I could see that
he believed I was working for Carson, for though he scowled fearfully
at me he seemed impressed by my words.

"I don't know whether Tom's running straight or not," he said huskily;
"but let me tell you, young man, it'll pay you to keep in with me, and
if you've got any price, name it!"

He shook his heavy fist over me--I believe the clerks thought he was
going to strike me, for they came hurrying toward us.  But I saw
Jacqueline approaching, and, without another word, Leroux turned away.

Jacqueline caught sight of his retreating figure and her eyes widened.
I thought I saw a shadow of fear in them.  Then the memory was effaced
and she was smiling again.

I instructed the store to call a messenger and have the suit-case taken
at once to the baggage-room in the Grand Central station.

"Now, Jacqueline, I'm going to take you to lunch," I said.  "And
afterward we will start for home."

Outside the store I looked carefully around and espied Leroux almost
immediately lighting a cigar in the doorway of a shop.  I hit upon a
rather daring plan to escape him.

Carson's offices were in a large modern building, with many elevators
and entrances.  I walked toward it with Jacqueline, being satisfied
that Leroux was following us; entered about twenty-five yards before
him, and ascended in the elevator, getting off, however, on the floor
above that on which the offices were.

I was satisfied that Leroux would follow me a minute later, under the
impression that we had gone to the Northern Exploitation Company, and
so, after waiting a minute or two, I took Jacqueline down in another
elevator, and we escaped through the front entrance and jumped into a
taxicab.

I was satisfied that I had thrown Leroux off the scent, but I took the
precaution to stop at a gunsmith's shop and purchase a pair of
automatic pistols and a hundred cartridges.  The man would not sell
them to me there on account of the law, but he promised to put them in
a box and have them delivered at the station, and there, in due course,
I found them.

But I was very uneasy until we found ourselves in the train.  And then
at last everything was accomplished--our baggage upon the seats beside
us and our berths secured.  At three precisely the train pulled out,
and Jacqueline nestled down beside me, and we looked at each other and
were happy.

And then, at the very moment when the wheels began to revolve, Leroux
stepped down from a neighbouring train.  As he passed our window he
espied us.

He started and glared, and then he came racing back toward us, shaking
his fists and yelling vile expletives.  He tried to swing himself
aboard in his fury despite the fact that the doors were all shut.  A
porter pushed him back and the last I saw of him he was still pursuing
us, screaming with rage.

I knew that he would follow on the nine o'clock train, reaching Quebec
about five the following afternoon.  That gave us five hours' grace.
It was not much, but it was something to have Jacqueline safe with me
even until the morrow.

I turned toward her, fearful that she had recognized the man and
realized the situation.  But she was smiling happily at my side, and I
was confident then that, by virtue of that same mental inhibition, she
had neither seen nor heard the fellow.

"Paul, it is _bon voyage_ for both of us," she said.

"Yes, my dear."

She looked at me thoughtfully a minute.

"Paul, when we get home----"

"Jacqueline?"

"I do not know," she said, putting her palms to her head.  "Perhaps I
shall remember then.  But you--you must stay with me, Paul."

Her lips quivered slightly.  She turned her head away and looked out of
the window at the horrible maze of houses in the Bronx and the
disfiguring sign-boards.

New York was slipping away.  All my old life was slipping away like
this--and evil following us.  I slipped one of the automatics out of my
suit-case into my pocket and swore that I would guard Jacqueline from
any shadow of harm.

Each minute that I spent with her increased my passion for her.  I had
ceased to have illusions on that score.  One question recurred to my
mind incessantly.  Could she be ignorant that she had a husband
somewhere?  Would she tell me--or was this the chief of the memories
that she had laid aside?

I opened one of the newspapers that I had bought at the station
bookstand, dreading to find in flaring letters the headlines announcing
the discovery of the body.

I found the announcement--but in small type.  The murder was ascribed
to a gang battle--the man could not be identified, and apparently both
police and public considered the affair merely one of those daily
slayings that occur in that city.

Another newspaper devoted about the same amount of space to the
account, but it published a photograph of the dead man, taken in the
alley, where, it appeared, the reporter had viewed the body before it
had been removed.  The photograph looked horribly lifelike.  I cut it
out and placed it in my pocketbook.

For the present I felt safe.  I believed the affair would be forgotten
soon.  And meanwhile here was Jacqueline.

I turned toward her.  She was asleep at my side, and her head drooped
on my shoulder.  We sat thus all the afternoon, while the city
disappeared behind us, and we passed through Connecticut and approached
the Vermont hills.

Then we had a gay little supper in the dining car.  Afterward I walked
to the car entrance and flung the broken dog collar away--across the
fields.  That was the last link that bound us to the past.

Then the berths were lowered and made up; and fastening from my upper
place the curtain which fell before Jacqueline's, I knew that, for one
night more, at least, I held her in safe ward.




CHAPTER V

M. LE CURE

The very obvious decision at which I arrived after a night of
cogitation in my berth was that Jacqueline was to pass as my sister.  I
explained my plan to her at breakfast.

There had been the examination of baggage at the frontier and the
tiresome change to a rear car in the early morning, and most of us were
heavy-eyed, but she looked as fresh and charming as ever in her new
waist of black lace and the serge skirt which she had bought the day
before.  It seemed impossible to realize that I was really seated
opposite her in the dining car, talking amid the punctuating chatter of
a party of red-cheeked French-Canadian school children who had come on
the train at Sherbrooke, bound for their home on the occasion of the
approaching Christmas holidays.

"You see, Jacqueline," I explained, "it will look strange our
travelling together, unless some close relationship is supposed to
exist between us.  I might subject you to embarrassment--so I shall
call you my sister, Miss Hewlett, and you will call me your brother
Paul."  And I handed her my visiting card, because she had never heard
my surname before.

"I shall be glad to think of you as my brother Paul," she answered,
looking at the card.  She held it in her right hand, and it was not
until the middle of the meal that the left hand came into view.

Then I discovered that she had taken off her wedding ring.

I wondered what thought impelled her to do this, whether it was
coquetry or the same instinct which seemed to interpret the situation
at all times perfectly, though it never welled up into her
consciousness.

We sped northward all that morning, stopping at many little wayside
stations, and as we rushed along beside the ice-bound St. Francis the
air ever grew colder, and the land, deep in snow, and the tall pines,
white with frost, looked like a picture on a Christmas card.

At last the St. Lawrence appeared, covered with drifting floes; the
Isle of Orleans, with the Falls of Montmorency behind it; the ascending
heights which slope up to the Chateau Frontenac, the fort-crowned
citadel, the long parapet, bristling with guns.

Then, after the ferry had transferred us from Levis we stood in Lower
Quebec.

We had hardly gone on board the ferryboat when an incident occurred
that greatly disturbed me.  A slightly built, well-dressed man, with a
small, upturned mustache and a face of notable pallor, passed and
repassed us several times, staring and smiling with cool effrontery at
both of us.

He wore a lambskin cap and a fur overcoat, and I could not help
associating him with the dead man, or avoiding the belief that he had
travelled north with us, and that Leroux had been to see him off at the
station.

I was a good deal troubled by this, but before I had decided to address
the fellow we landed, and a sleigh swept us up the hill toward the
chateau to the tune of jingling bells.  It was a strange wintry
scene--the low sleighs, their drivers wrapped in furs and capped in
bearskin, the hooded nuns in the streets, the priests, soldiers, and
ancient houses.  The air was keen and dry.

"This is Quebec, Jacqueline," I said.

I thought that she remembered unwillingly, but she said nothing.

I dared ask her no questions.  I fancied that each scene brought back
its own memories, but not the ideas associated with the chain of scenes.

We secured adjacent rooms at the chateau, and leaving Jacqueline to
unpack her things, and under instructions not to leave her room and
promising to return as soon as possible, I started out at once to find
Maclay & Robitaille's.

This proved a task of no great difficulty.  It was a little shop where
leather goods were sold, situated on St. Joseph Street.  A young man
with a dark, clean-shaven face, was behind the counter.  He came
forward courteously as I approached.

"I have come on an unusual mission," I began foolishly and stopped,
conscious of the inanity of this address.  What a stupid thing to have
said!  I must have aroused his suspicions immediately.

He begged my pardon and called a man from another part of the shop.
And that gave me my chance over again, for I realized that he had not
understood my English.

"Do you remember," I asked the newcomer, "selling a collar to a young
lady recently--no, some long time ago--a dog-collar, I mean?"

The proprietor shrugged his shoulders.  "I sell a good many dog-collars
during the year," he answered.

I took the plate from my pocket and set it down on the counter.  "The
collar was set with silver studs," I said.  "This was the plate."  Then
I remembered the name Leroux had used and flung it out at random.  "I
think it was for a Mlle. Duchaine," I added.

The shot went home.

"Ah, _monsieur_, now I remember perfectly," answered the proprietor,
"both from the unusual nature of the collar and from the fact that
there was some difficulty in delivering it.  There was no post-office
nearer the _seigniory_ than St. Boniface, where it lay unclaimed for a
long time.  I think _madamoiselle_ had forgotten all about the order.
Or perhaps the dog had died!"

"Where is this _seigniory_?"

"The _seigniory_ of M. Charles Duchaine?" he answered, looking
curiously at me.  "You are evidently a stranger, _monsieur_, or you
would have heard of it, especially now when people are saying that----"
He checked himself at this point.  "It is the oldest of the
_seigniories_," he continued.  "In fact, it has never passed out of the
hands of the original owners, because it is almost uninhabitable in
winter, except by Indians.  I understand that M. Duchaine has built
himself a fine chateau there; but then he is a recluse _monsieur_, and
probably not ten men have ever visited it.  But _mademoiselle_ is too
fine a woman to be imprisoned there long----"

"How could one reach the chateau?" I interpolated.

He looked at me inquiringly as though he wondered what my business
there could be.

"In summer," he replied, "one might ascend the Riviere d'Or in a canoe
for half the distance, until one reached the mountains, and then----"
He shrugged his shoulders.  "I do not know.  Possibly one would inquire
of the first trapper who passed in autumn.  In winter one would fly.
It is strange that so little is known of the _seigniory_, for they say
the Riviere d'Or----"

"The Golden River?"

"Has vast wealth in it, and formerly the Indians would bring gold-dust
in quills to the traders.  But many have sought the source of this
supply in past times and failed or died, and so----"  He shrugged his
shoulders again.

"You see, M. Duchaine is a hermit," he continued.  "Once, so my father
used to say, he was one of the gayest young men in Quebec.  But he
became involved in the troubles of 1867--and then his wife died, and so
lie withdrew there with the little _mademoiselle_--what was her name?"

He called his clerk.

"Alphonse, what is the name of that pretty daughter of M. Charles
Duchaine, of Riviere d'Or?" he asked.

"Annette," answered the man.  "No, Nanette.  No Janette.  I am sure it
ends with 'ette' or 'ine,' anyway."

"_Eh bien_, it makes no difference," said the proprietor, "because,
since she left the Convent of the Ursulines here in Quebec, where she
was educated, her father keeps her at the chateau, and you are not
likely to set eyes on M. Charles Duchaine's daughter."

A sudden stoppage in his flow of words, an almost guilty look upon his
face, as a new figure entered the little shop, directed my attention
toward the stranger.

He was an old man of medium size, very muscularly built, stout, and
with enormous shoulders.  He wore a priest's _soutane_, but he did not
look like a priest--he looked like a man's head on a bull body.  His
smooth face was tanned to the colour of an Indian's--his bright blue
eyes, almost concealed by their drooping, wrinkled lids, were piercing
in their scrutiny.

He wore a bearskin hat and furs of surprising quality.  It was not so
much his strange appearance that attracted my interest as the singular
look of authority upon the face, which was yet deeply lined about the
mouth, as though he could relax upon occasion and become the jolliest
of companions.

And he spoke a pure French, interspersed with words of an uncouth
patois, which I ascribed to long residence in some remote parish.

"_Bo'jour_, Pere Antoine," said the shopkeeper deferentially, fixing
his eyes rather timidly upon the old priest's face.

"_Eh bien_, who is this with whom thou gossipest concerning the
daughter of M. Duchaine?" inquired Father Antoine, looking at me keenly.

"Only a customer--a stranger, _monsieur_," answered the proprietor,
rubbing his hands together.  "He wishes to see--a dog collar, was it
not?" he continued, turning nervously toward me.

"You talk too much," said Pere Antoine roughly.  "Now, _monsieur_," he
said, addressing me in fair English, "what is the nature of your
business that it can possibly concern either M. Duchaine or his
daughter?  Perhaps I can inform you, since he is one of my
parishioners."

"My conversation was not with you, _monsieur le cure_," I answered
shortly, and left the shop.  I had ascertained what I needed to know,
and had no desire to enter into a discussion of my business with the
old man.

I had not gone three paces from the door, however, when the priest,
coming up behind me, placed a huge hand upon my shoulder and swung me
around without the least apparent effort.

"I do not know what your business is, _monsieur_," he said, "but if it
were an honest one you would state it to me.  If you wish to see M.
Duchaine I am best qualified to assist you to do so, since I visit his
chateau twice each year to carry the consolations of religion to him
and his people.  But if your business is not honest it will fail.  End
it then and return to your own country."

"I do not intend to discuss my business with you, _monsieur_," I
answered angrily.  It is humiliating to be in the physical grip of
another man, even though he be a priest.

He let me go and stood eyeing me with his keen gaze.  I jumped on a
passing car, but looking back, I saw him striding along behind it.  He
seemed to walk as quickly as the car went through the crowded street,
and with no effort.

When I got off in the neighbourhood of the Place d'Armes it was nearly
dark; but though I could not see the old man, I was convinced that he
was still following me.

I found Jacqueline in her room looking over her purchases, and took her
down to dinner.

And here I had another disconcerting experience, for hardly were we
seated when the inquisitive stranger whom I had seen at the ferry came
into the dining-room, and after a careful survey which ended as his
eyes fell on us, he took his seat at an adjacent table.

I could not but connect him with our presence there.

Leroux was due to arrive at any moment.  I realized that great issues
were at stake, that the man would never cease in his attempts to get
hold of Jacqueline.  Only when I had returned her to her father's house
would I feel safe from him.

The chateau was the worst place to have made my headquarters.  If I had
realized the man's persistence, perhaps I would have sought less
conspicuous lodgings.  Leroux's behaviour at the railroad station had
betrayed both an ungovernable temper when he was crossed, and to a
certain extent, fearlessness.

Nevertheless I believed him to have also an elemental cunning which
would dissuade him from violent measures so long as we were in Quebec.
I resolved, therefore, not to avoid him, but to await his lead.

After dinner I had some conversation with one of the hotel clerks.  I
discovered that the Riviere d'Or flowed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence
from the north, in the neighbourhood of Anticosti.

It was a small stream, and except for a postal station at its mouth
named St. Boniface, was little known, the only occupants of those parts
being trappers and Indians.

When I told the clerk that I had business at St. Boniface I think he
concluded that I represented an amalgamation of fishing interests, for
he became exceedingly communicative.

"You could hire dogs and a sleigh at St. Boniface for wherever your
final destination is," he said, "because the dog mail has been
suspended owing to the new government mail-boats, and the sleighs are
idle.  I think Captain Dubois would take you on his boat as far as that
point, and I believe he makes his next trip in a couple of days."

He gave me the captain's address, and I resolved to call on him early
the following day and make arrangements.

I was just turning away when I saw the inquisitive stranger leave the
smoking-room.  He crossed the hall and went out, not without bestowing
a long look on me.

"Who is that man?" I asked.

"Why, isn't he a friend of yours?" inquired the clerk.

"Only by the way he stares at me," I said.

"Well, he said he thought he knew you and asked me your name," the
clerk answered.  "He didn't give me his, and I don't think he has been
in here before."

I took Jacqueline for a stroll on the Terrace, and while we walked I
pondered over the problem.

The night was too beautiful for my depression of mind to last.  The
stars blazed brilliantly overhead; upon our left the faint outlines of
the Laurentians rose, in front of us the lights of Levis twinkled above
the frozen gulf.  There was a flicker of Northern Lights in the sky.

We paced the Terrace, arm in arm, from the statue of Champlain that
overlooks the Place d'Armes to the base of the mighty citadel, and
back, till the cold drove us in.

Jacqueline was very quiet, and I wondered what she remembered.  I
dreaded always awakening her memory lest, with that of her home, came
that other of the dead man.

Our rooms were on the side of the Chateau facing the town, and as we
passed beneath the arch I saw two men standing no great distance away,
and watching us, it seemed to me.

One wore the cassock of a priest, and I could have sworn that he was
Pere Antoine; the other resembled the inquisitive stranger.  As we drew
near they moved behind a pillar.  Thus, inexorably, the chase drew near.

My suspicions received confirmation a few minutes later, for we had
hardly reached our rooms, and I was, in fact, standing at the door of
Jacqueline's, bidding her good night, when a bellboy came along the
passage and announced that the gentleman whom I was expecting was
coming up the stairs.

I said good-night to Jacqueline and went into my room and waited.  I
had thought it would be the stranger, but it was the priest.

I invited him to enter, and he came in and stood with his fur cap on
his head, looking direfully at me.

"Well, _monsieur_, what is the purpose of this visit?" I asked.

"To tell you," he thundered, "that you must give up the unhappy woman
who has accompanied you here."

"That is precisely what I intend to do," I answered.

"To me," he said.  "Her husband----"

I felt my brain whirling.  I knew now that I had always cherished a
hope, despite the ring--what a fool I had been!

"I married them," continued Pere Antoine.

"Where is he?" I demanded desperately.

He appeared disconcerted.  I gathered from his stare that he had
supposed I knew.

"This is a Catholic country," he went on, more quietly.  "There is no
divorce; there can be none.  Marriage is a sacrament.  Sinning as she
is----"

I placed my hand on his shoulder.  "I will not hear any more," I said.
"Go!"  I pointed toward the door.

"I am going to take her away with me," he said, and crossing the
threshold into the corridor, placed one hand on the door of
Jacqueline's room.

I got there first.  I thrust him violently aside--it was like pushing a
monument; turned the key, which happily was still outside, and put it
in my pocket.

"I am ready to deal with her husband," I said.  "I am not ready to deal
with you.  Leave at once, or I will have you arrested, priest or no
priest."

He raised his arm threateningly.  "In God's name--" he began.

"In God's name you shall not interfere with me," I cried.  "Tell that
to your confederate, Simon Leroux.  A pretty priest you are!" I raged.
"How do I know she has a husband?  How do I know you are not in league
with her persecutors?  How do I know you are a priest at all?"

He seemed amazed at the violence of my manner.

"This is the first time my priesthood has been denied," he said
quietly.  "Well, I have offered you your chance.  I cannot use
violence.  If you refuse, you will bring your own punishment upon your
head, and hers on that of the unhappy woman whom you have led into sin."

"Go!" I shouted, pointing down the passage.

He turned and went, his _soutane_ sweeping against the door of
Jacqueline's room as he went by.  At the entrance to the elevator he
turned again and looked back steadily at me.  Then the door clanged and
the elevator went down.

I unlocked the door of Jacqueline's room.  I saw her standing at the
foot of the bed.  She was supporting herself by her hands on the brass
framework.  Her face was white.  As I entered she looked up piteously
at me.

"Who--was--that?" she asked in a frightened whisper.

"An impudent fellow--that is all, Jacqueline."

"I thought I knew his voice," she answered slowly.  "It made
me--almost--remember.  And I do not want to remember, Paul."

She put her arms about my neck and cried.  I tried to comfort her, but
it was a long time before I succeeded.

I locked her door on the outside, and that night I slept with the key
beneath my pillow.




CHAPTER VI

AT THE FOOT OF THE CLIFF

The next morning, after again cautioning Jacqueline not to leave her
room until I returned, I went to the house of Captain Dubois on Paul
Street, in the Lower Town.

I was admitted by a pleasant-looking woman who told me that the captain
would not be home until three in the afternoon, so I returned to the
chateau, took Jacqueline for a sleigh ride round the fortifications,
and delighted her, and myself also, by the purchase of two fur coats,
heavy enough to exclude the biting cold which I anticipated we should
experience during our journey.

In the afternoon I went back to Paul Street and found M. Dubois at
home.  He was a man of agreeable appearance, a typical Frenchman of
about forty-five, with a full face sparsely covered with a black beard
that was beginning to turn grey at the sides, and with an air of
sagacious understanding, in which I detected both sympathy and a
lurking humour.

When I explained that I wanted to secure two passages to St. Boniface,
his brows contracted.

"So you, too, are going to the Chateau Duchaine!" he exclaimed.  "Is
there not room for two more on the boat of Captain Duhamel?"

I disclaimed all knowledge of Duhamel, but he looked entirely
unconvinced.

"It is a pity, _monsieur_, that you are not acquainted with Captain
Duhamel," he said dryly, "because I cannot take you to St. Boniface.
But undoubtedly Captain Duhamel will assist you and your friend on your
way to the Chateau Duchaine."

"Why do you suppose that I am going to the Chateau Duchaine?" I
inquired angrily.

He flared up, too.  "_Diable_!" he burst out, "do you suppose all
Quebec does not know what is in the wind?  But since you are so
ignorant, _monsieur_, I will enlighten you.  We will assume, to begin
then, that you are not going to the chateau, but only to St. Boniface,
perhaps to engage in fishing for your support.  Eh, _monsieur_?"

Here he looked mockingly at my fur coat, which hardly bore out this
presumption of my indigence.

"_Eh bien_, to continue.  Let us suppose that the affairs of M. Charles
Duchaine have interested a gentleman of business and politics whom we
will call M. Leroux--just for the sake of giving him a name, you
understand," he resumed, looking at me maliciously.  "And that this M.
Leroux imagines that there is more than spruce timber to be found on
the seigniory.  _Bien_, but consider further that this M. Leroux is a
mole, as we call our politicians here.  It would not suit him to appear
openly in such an enterprise?  He would always work through his agents
in everything would he not being a mole?

"Let us say then that he arranges with a Captain Duhamel to convey his
party to St. Boniface to which point he will go secretly by another
route and that he will join them there and--in short, _monsieur_, take
yourself and your friend to the devil, for I won't give you passage."

His face was purple, and I assumed that he bore no love for Simon,
whose name seemed to be of considerable importance in Quebec.  I was
delighted at the turn affairs were taking.

"You have not a very kindly feeling for this mythical person whom we
have agreed to call Leroux," I said.

Captain Dubois jumped out of his chair and raised his arms passionately
above him.

"No, nor for any of his friends," he answered.  "Go back to him--for I
know he sent you to me--and tell him he cannot hire Alfred Dubois for
all the money in Canada."

"I am glad to hear you say that," I answered, "because Leroux is no
friend of mine.  Now listen to me, Captain Dubois.  It is true that I
am going to the chateau, if I can get there, but I did not know that
Leroux had made his arrangements already.  In brief, he is in pursuit
of me and I have urgent reasons for avoiding him.  My companion is a
lady----"

"Eh?" he exclaimed, looking stupidly at me.

"And I am anxious to take her to the chateau, where we shall be safe
from the man----"

"A lady!" exclaimed the captain.  "A young one?  Why didn't you tell me
so at first, _monsieur_?  I'll take you.  I will do anything for an
enemy of Leroux.  He put my brother in jail on a false charge because
he wouldn't bow to him--my brother died there, _monsieur_--that was his
wife who opened the door to you.  And the children, who might have
starved, if I had not been able to take care of them!  And he has tried
to rob me of my position, only it is a Dominion one--the rascal!"

The captain was becoming incoherent.  He drew his sleeve across his
eyes.

"But a lady!" he continued, with forced gaiety a moment later, "I do
not know your business, _monsieur_, but I can guess, perhaps----"

"But you must not misunderstand me," I interposed.  "She is not----"

"It's all right!" said the captain, slapping me upon the back.  "No
explanations!  Not a word, I assure you.  I am the most discreet of
men.  Madeleine!"

This last word was a deep-chested bellow, and in response a little girl
came running in, staggering under the weight of the captain's overcoat
of raccoon fur.

"That is my overcoat voice," he explained, stroking the child's head.
"My niece, _monsieur_.  The others are boys.  I wish they were all
girls, but God knows best.  And, you see, a man can save much trouble,
for by the tone in which I call Madeleine knows whether it is my
overcoat or my pipe or slippers that I want, or whether I am growing
hungry."

I thought that the captain's hunger voice must shake the rafters of the
old building.

"And now, _monsieur_," he continued seriously, when we had left the
house, "I am going to take you down to the pier and show you my boat.
And I will tell you as much as I know concerning the plans of that
scoundrel.  In brief, it is known that a party of his friends has been
quartered for some time at the chateau; they come and go, in fact, and
now he is either taking more, or the same ones back again, and God
knows why he takes them to so desolate a region, unless, as the rumour
is, he has discovered coal-fields upon the seigniory and holds M.
Duchaine in his power.  Well, _monsieur_, a party sails with Captain
Duhamel on tonight's tide, which will carry me down the gulf also.

"You see, _monsieur_," he continued, "it is impossible to clear the ice
unless the tide bears us down; but once the Isle of Orleans is past we
shall be in more open water and independent of the current.  Captain
Duhamel's boat is berthed at the same pier as mine upon the opposite
side, for they both belong to the Saint-Laurent Company, which leases
them in winter.

"We start together, then, but I shall expect to gain several hours
during the four days' journey, for I know the _Claire_ well, and she
cannot keep pace with my _Sainte-Vierge_.  In fact it was only
yesterday that the government arranged for me to take over the
_Sainte-Vierge_ in place of the _Claire_, which I have commanded all
the winter, for it is essential that the mails reach St. Boniface and
the maritime villages as quickly as possible.  So you must bring your
lady aboard the _Sainte-Vierge_ by nine to-night.

"I shall telegraph to my friend Danton at St. Boniface to have a sleigh
and dogs at your disposal when you arrive, and a tent, food, and
sleeping bags," continued Captain Dubois, "for it must be a hundred and
fifty miles from St. Boniface to the Chateau Duchaine.  It is not a
journey that a woman should take in winter," he added with a
sympathetic glance at me, "but doubtless your lady knows the way and
the journey well."

The question seemed extraordinarily sagacious; it threw me into
confusion.

"You see, M. Danton carried the mails by dog-sleigh before the
steamship winter mail service was inaugurated," he went on, "and now he
will be glad of an opportunity to rent his animals.  So I shall wire
him tonight to hold them for you alone, and shall describe you to him.
And thus we will check M. Leroux's designs, which have doubtless
included this point.  And so, with half a day's start, you will have
nothing to fear from him--only remember that he has no scruples.
Still, I do not think he will catch you and Mlle. Jacqueline before you
reach Chateau Duchaine," he ended, chuckling at his sagacity.

"Ah, well, _monsieur_, who else could your lady be?" he asked, smiling
at my surprise.  "I knew well that some day she must leave those wilds.
Besides, did I not convey her here from St. Boniface on my return, less
than a week ago, when she pleaded for secrecy?  I suspected something
agitated her then.  So it was to find a husband that she departed thus?
When she is home again, kneeling at her old father's feet, pleading for
forgiveness, he will forgive--have no fear, _mon ami_."

So Jacqueline had left her home not more than a week before!  And the
captain had no suspicion that she was married then!  Yet Pere Antoine
claimed to have performed the ceremony.

To whom?  And where was the man who should have stood in my place and
shielded her against Leroux?

I made Dubois understand, not without difficulty, that we were still
unmarried.  His face fell when he realized that I was in earnest, but
after a little he made the best of the situation, though it was evident
that some of the glamour was scratched from the romance in his opinion.

By now we had arrived at the wharf.  It was a short pier at the foot of
one of the numerous narrow streets that run down from the base of the
mighty cliff which ascends to the ramparts and Park Frontenac.  On
either side, wedged in among the floes, lay a small ship of not many
tons' burden--the _Claire_ and the _Sainte-Vierge_ respectively.  The
latter vessel lay upon our right as we approached the end of the wharf.

"Hallo!  Hallo, Pierre!" shouted Dubois in what must have resembled his
dinner voice, and a seaman with a short black beard came running up the
deck and stopped at the gangway.

"It is all right," said Dubois, after a few moments' conversation.
"Pierre understands all that is necessary, and he will tell the men.
And now I will show you the ship."

There was a small cabin for Jacqueline and another for myself
adjoining.  This accommodation had been built for the convenience of
the passengers whom the Saint-Laurent Company, though its boats were
built for freight, occasionally accepted during its summer runs.  I was
very well satisfied and inquired the terms.

"If it were not for the children there should be no terms!" exclaimed
the captain.  "But it is hard, _monsieur_, with prices rising and the
hungry mouths always open, like little birds."

He was overjoyed at the sight of the fifty dollars which I tendered
him.  However, my generosity was not wholly disingenuous.  I felt that
it would be wise to make one stanch friend in that unfriendly city; and
money does bind, though friendship exist already.

"By the way," I said, "do you know a priest named Pere Antoine?"

"An old man?  A strong old man?  Why, assuredly, _monsieur_," answered
the captain.  "Everybody knows him.  He has the parish of the Riviere
d'Or district, and the largest in Quebec.  As far as Labrador it is
said to extend, and he covers it all twice each year, in his canoe or
upon snowshoes.  A saint, _monsieur_, as not all of our priests are,
alas!  You will do well to make his acquaintance."

He placed one brawny hand upon my shoulder and swung me around.

"Now at last I understand!" he bellowed.  "So it is Pere Antoine who is
to make you and mademoiselle husband and wife!  And you thought to
conceal it from me, _monsieur_!" he continued reproachfully.

His good-humour being completely restored by this prospective
consummation of the romance, the captain parted from me on the wharf on
his way to the telegraph-office, repeating his instructions to the
effect that we were to be aboard the boat by nine, as he would not be
able to remain later than that hour on account of the tide.

It had grown dark long before and, looking at my watch, I was surprised
to see that it was already past six o'clock.  I had no time to lose in
returning to the chateau.

But though I could see it outlined upon the cliff, I soon found myself
lost among the maze of narrow streets in which I was wandering.  I
asked the direction of one or two wayfarers, but these were all men of
the labouring class, and their instructions, given in the provincial
patois, were quite unintelligible to me.

A man was coming up the street behind me, and I turned to question him,
but as I decreased my pace, he diminished his also, and when I
quickened mine, he went faster as well.  I began to have an uneasy
sense that he might be following me, and accordingly hastened onward
until I came to a road which seemed to lead up the hill toward the
ramparts.

The chateau now stood some distance upon my left, but once I had
reached the summit of the cliff it would only be a short walk away.

The road, however, led me into a blind alley, the farther extremity
being the base of the cliff; but another street emerged from it at a
right angle, and I plunged into this, believing that any of the byways
would eventually take me to the top of the acclivity.

As I entered this street I heard the footsteps behind me quicken and,
looking around, perceived that the man was close upon me.  He stopped
at the moment I did and disappeared in a small court.

There was nothing remarkable in this, only to my straining eyes he
seemed to bear a resemblance to the man with the patch whom I had
encountered at the corner of Sixth Avenue on that night when I met
Jacqueline.

I knew from Leroux's statement to me that the man had been a member of
his gang.  I was quite able to take care of myself under normal
circumstances.

But now--I was afraid.  The mighty cliff before me, the silence of the
deserted alleys in which I wandered helplessly, the thought of
Jacqueline alone, waiting anxiously for my return, almost unmanned me.
I felt like a hunted man, and my safety, upon which her own depended,
attained an exaggerated importance in my mind.

So I almost ran forward into the byway which seemed to lead toward the
summit, and as I did so I heard the footsteps close behind me again.

I had entered one of the narrowest streets I had ever seen, and the
most curious.  It was just wide enough to admit the passage of a sleigh
perhaps; the crumbling and dilapidated old houses, which seemed
deserted, were connected overhead by a succession of wooden bridges,
and those on my left were built into the solid rock, which rose sheer
overhead.

In front of me the alley seemed to widen.  I almost ran; but when I
reached it I found that it was merely a bend in the passage, and the
alley ran on straight as before.

On my left hand was a tiny unfenced courtyard, not more than six yards
in area, and I turned into this quickly and waited.  I was confident
that the bend in the street had hidden me from my pursuer and, as I
anticipated, he came on at a swifter rate.

He was abreast of me when I put out my hand and grasped him by the
coat, while with the other I felt in my pocket for my automatic pistol.

It was not there.  I had left it in the pocket of the overcoat which I
had changed at the furrier's shop and had sent to the chateau.  And I
was looking into the villainous face of the ruffian who had knocked me
down on Sixth Avenue.

"What are you following me for?" I cried furiously.

He wrenched himself out of my grasp and pulled a long knife from his
pocket.  I caught him by the wrist, and we wrestled to and fro upon the
snow.  He pummelled me about the face with his free hand, but though I
was no match for him in strength, he could not get the knife from me.
The keen steel slashed my fingers, but the thought of Jacqueline helped
me.

I got his hand open, snatched the knife, and flung it far away among
the stunted shrubs that clung to the cliffside.  And we stood watching
each other, panting.

He did not try to attack me again, but stood just out of my reach,
grinning diabolically at me.  His gaze shifted over my shoulder.
Instinctively I swung around as the dry snow crackled behind me.

I was a second too late, for I saw nothing but the looming figure of a
second ruffian and his upraised arm; then painless darkness seemed to
enfold me, and I was conscious of plunging down into a fathomless abyss.




CHAPTER VII

CAPTAIN DUBOIS

Clang!  Clang!

It sounded as though some titanic blacksmith were pounding on a mighty
anvil to a devil's chorus of laughter.  And I was bound to the steel,
and each blow awakened hideous echoes which went resounding through my
brain forever.

Clang!  Clang!

The blows were rhythmical, and there was a perceptible interval between
each one and the next; they were drawn out and intolerably slow, and
seemed to have lasted through uncountable eons.

I strove to free myself.  I knew that it was a dream from which I must
awaken, for the fate of the whole world depended on my awakening from
the bonds of sleep.

It would be so easy to sink down into a deeper slumber, where even the
clanging of the anvil beneath those hammer strokes would not longer be
heard; but against this was the imperative need to save--not the world
now, but----

The name was as sweet as honey upon my lips.  It was something worth
living for.  It was--Jacqueline!

The remembrance freed me.  Dimly consciousness began to return.  I knew
the hammering was my own heart, forcing the blood heavily through the
arteries of the brain.

That name--Annette--Jeannette--Jacqueline!

I had gone back to my rooms and saw a body upon the floor.  Jacqueline
had killed somebody, and I must save her!

All through the mist-wrapped borderland of life I heard her voice
crying to me, her need of me dragging me back to consciousness.  I
struggled up out of the pit, and I saw light.

Suddenly I realized that my eyes were wide open and that I was staring
at the moon over the housetops.  With consciousness came pain.  My head
throbbed almost unbearably, and I was stiff with cold.  I raised myself
weakly, and then I became aware that somebody was bending over me.

It was a roughly dressed, rough-looking denizen of the low quarter into
which I had strayed.  His arms were beneath my neck, raising my head,
and he was looking into my face with an expression of great concern
upon his own good-natured one.

"I thought you were dead!" I could make out amid the stream of his
dialect, but the remainder of his speech was beyond my understanding.

"Help me!" I muttered, reaching for his hand.

He understood the gesture, for he assisted me to my feet, and, after I
had leaned weakly against the wall of a house for a minute or two, I
found that I could stand unassisted.

I looked round in bewilderment.

"Where am I?" I asked, still bound by that first memory of New York.

"In Sous-le-Cap, _m'sieur_," answered the man.

I felt in my pocket for my watch and drew it out.  It was strange that
the men had not robbed me, but I suppose they had become terrified at
their work and had run off.  However, I did not think of that at the
time.

I think my action was an automatic one, the natural refuge for a
perplexed man.  But the sight of the time brought back my memory, and
the events of the day rushed back into my mind with a force that seemed
to send an accession of new strength through my limbs.

It was a few minutes past eight.  And the boat sailed at nine.  I must
have lain stunned in Sous-le-Cap Street for an hour and a half, at
least, and only the supreme necessity of awakening, realized through
unconsciousness, had saved me from dying under the snows.

I found that I could walk, and having explained to the man that I
wished to go to the chateau, was taken by him to the top of a winding
road near at hand, from which I could see my destination at no great
distance from me.

Dismissing my friendly guide, and sending him back rejoicing with
liberal largesse, I hurried as quickly as I could make my way along the
ramparts, past the frowning, ancient cannon skirting the park, until I
burst into the chateau at half past the hour.

I must have presented a dreadful spectacle, for my hair and collar were
matted with blood, and I saw the guests stare and shrink from me.  The
clerk came toward me and stopped me at the entrance to the elevator.

"Where as Miss Hewlett?" I gasped.

"Didn't you meet her?  She left here nearly an hour ago."

I caught him by the arm, and I think he imagined that I was going to
seize him by the throat also, for he backed away from me, and I saw a
look of fear come into his eyes.  The elevator attendant came running
between us.

"Your friend----" he began.

"My _friend_?" I cried.

"He came for her and said that you had met with an accident," the clerk
continued.  "She went with him at once.  He took her away in a sleigh.
I was sure that you had missed her when you came in."

But already I was half-way across the hall and running for the door.  I
raced wildly across the court and toward the terrace.

The meaning of the scheme was clear.  Jacqueline was on Captain
Duhamel's boat, which sailed at nine.  And only twenty minutes remained
to me.  If I had not had the good luck to meet Dubois!

I must have noticed a clock somewhere during the minute that I was in
the chateau, and though I had not been conscious of it, the after-image
loomed before my eyes.  As I ran now I could see a huge phantom clock,
the dial marked with enormous Roman letters, and the hands moving with
dreadful swiftness toward the hour of nine.

I had underestimated Leroux's shrewdness.  He must have telegraphed
instructions from New York before my train was out of the county,
secured the boat, laid his plans during his journey northward, and had
me struck down while Jacqueline was stolen from my care.  And he had
spared no details, even to enlisting the aid of Pere Antoine.

If he had known that my destination was the same as his, he might have
waited.  But it was not the character of the man to wait, any more than
it was to participate personally in his schemes.  He worked through
others, sitting back and pulling the strings, and he struck, each blow
on time.

I ought to have known that.  I should have read him better.  I had
always dawdled.  I trusted to the future, instead of acting.  What
chance had I against a mind like his?

I was a novice at chess, pitting myself against a master at the game.

I must have been running aimlessly up and down the terrace, blindly
searching for a road down to the lower town, for a man seized me by the
sleeve, and I looked into the face of the hotel clerk again.  He seemed
to realize that more was the matter even than my appearance indicated,
for he asked no questions, but apparently divined my movements.

"This way!" he said, and hurried me to a sort of subway entrance, and
down a flight of steps.  Before me I saw the turnstile which led to a
cable railway.  He paid my fare and thrust me into a car.  A boy came
to close the latticed door.

"Wait!" I gasped.  "Who was it that called?"

"The man with the mustache who asked for you--about whom you inquired."

I turned away.  I had thought it was Leroux.  Of course it had not been
he.

The car glided down the cliff, and stopped a few seconds later, I
emerged through another turnstile and found myself in the lower town
again at the foot of the precipice, above which rose the chateau with
its imposing facade, the ramparts, and the towering citadel.

The hands of the phantom clock pointed to ten minutes of nine.  But I
knew the gulf lay before me at the end of the short, narrow street that
led down to it, up which I had passed two hours before upon that
journey which so nearly ended in the snow-drifts of Souse-le-Cap.

I reached the wharf and raced along the planks.  I was in time,
although the engines were throbbing in the _Sainte-Vierge_.  But it was
not she, but the dark _Claire_ I sought at that moment, and I dashed
toward her.

A man barred my approach.  He caught me in his strong arms and held me
fast.  I dash my fists against his face, but he would not let me go.

"Are you mad, _monsieur_?" he burst out as I continued to struggle.
And then I recognized my captor as Captain Dubois.

"Jacqueline is on the _Claire_!" I cried, trying to make him
understand.  "They took her there.  They----"

"It is all right," answered Dubois, holding me with one hand, while
with the other he wiped a blood drop from his lip where I had struck
him.  "It is all right.  I have her."

I stared wildly at him.  "She is on the _Claire_!" I cried again.

"No, _mon ami_.  She is aboard the _Sainte-Vierge_," replied Dubois,
chuckling, "and if you wish to accompany _mademoiselle_ you must come
with me at once, for we are getting up steam."

I could not believe him.  I thought that Leroux had tampered with the
honest man.  It was not until he had taken me, half forcibly, aboard,
and opened the cabin door, that I saw her.  She was seated upon her
berth, and she rose and came toward me with a glad little cry.

"Jacqueline!" I cried, and clasped her in my arms for joy, and quite
forgot.

A dancing shadow fell upon the wall behind the oil-lamp.  The honest
captain was rubbing his hands in the doorway and chuckling with delight.

"It is all right, it is all right; excuse me, _monsieur_," he said, and
closed the door on us.  But I called him, and he returned, not very
reluctantly.

"What has happened, captain?" I asked.  "You are not going to leave me
in suspense?"

"But what has happened to you, _monsieur_?" he asked, with great
concern, as he saw the blood on my coat-collar, "You have met with an
accident?"

Jacqueline cried out and ran for water, and made me sit down, and began
bathing my head.  I contrived to whisper something of what had occurred
during the moments when Jacqueline flitted to and fro.  Dubois swore
roundly.

"It is my fault, _monsieur_," he said.  "I should have known.  I should
have accompanied you home.  It would be a tough customer who would
venture to meddle with Alfred Dubois!  But I was anxious to get to the
telegraph office to inform M. Danton of your coming.  And I suspected
something, too, for I knew that Leroux had something more in his mind
than simply to convey some of his men to St. Boniface at such expense.

"So as soon as I had finished telegraphing I hurried home and bade
adieu to Marie and the little Madeline and the two nephews, and then I
came back to the boat--and that part I shall tell you later, for
_mademoiselle_ knows nothing of the plot against her, and has been
greatly distressed for you.  So it shall be understood that you fell
down and hurt your head on the ice--eh?"

I agreed to this.  "But what did she think?" I asked, as Jacqueline
went back for some more water.

"That you had sent her to the _Sainte-Vierge_," he answered, "and that
you were to follow her here--as you did.  Even now the nephews are
searching the lower town for you."

"But if I had not come before nine?"

"I should have waited all night, _monsieur_, even though I had lost my
post for it," he said explosively, and I reached out and gripped his
hand.

"You may not have seen the baggage here," continued the captain slyly.

I glanced round me.  Upon the floor stood the two suit-cases, which
should have been in our rooms in the chateau, and Jacqueline was busily
tearing up some filmy material in hers for bandages.

I looked at Dubois in astonishment.

"Ah, _monsieur_, I sent for those," he said, "and paid your bill also.
When I fight Simon Leroux I do not do things by halves.  You see,
_monsieur_, wise though he is, there are other minds equal to his own,
and since he killed my brother, I----"

Here he nearly broke down, and I looked discreetly away.

"One question of curiosity, _monsieur_, if it is permissible," he said
a little later.  "Why does Leroux wish so much to stop your marriage
with _mademoiselle_ that he is ready to stoop to assassination and
kidnapping?"

My heart felt very warm toward the good man.  I knew how that loose end
in the romance that he had built up troubled him.  And, though I hardly
knew myself, I must give him some satisfactory solution of his problem.

"Because he is himself in love with her," I said.

The captain clenched his fists.  "God forbid!" he muttered.  "They say
his wife died of a broken heart.  Ah, _monsieur_, swear to me that this
shall never come about, that mademoiselle become his wife.  Swear it to
me, _mon ami_!"

I swore it, and we shook hands again.  I was sorry for my deception
then, and afterward I had occasion to remember it.

Five minutes later we had cast off, and the _Sainte-Vierge_ steamed
slowly through the drift ice that packed the gulf.  There were no
lights upon the _Claire_, and I surmised that the conspirators were
keeping quietly hidden in expectation of Jacqueline's arrival, though
how Dubois had outwitted them I could not at the time surmise.

However, there was little doubt that once the trick was discovered the
_Claire_ would follow on our heels.

Standing on deck, I watched the lights of Levis and Quebec draw
together as we steamed eastward.  I cast a last look at the chateau and
the ramparts.  I felt it would be many days before I set eyes on them
again.

Then I sought my cabin and fell asleep, dreaming of Jacqueline.




CHAPTER VIII

DREAMS OF THE NIGHT

Jacqueline and I were together, the only human beings within a score of
miles.  We were seated side by side in the sleigh at which the dogs
pulled steadily.

We glided with slow, easy monotony along the snow-covered trail,
through the sparse forest that fringed the ice-bound waters of the
Riviere d'Or.  Seen through our tinted snow-glasses, the landscape was
a vast field of palest blue, dotted with scattered clusters of spruce
and pine trees.

The mystery of Jacqueline's rescue by Captain Dubois had been a simple
one.  The young man with the mustache was a certain Philippe Lacroix,
well known to Dubois, a member of a good family, but of dissolute
habits--just such a one as Leroux found it convenient to attach to his
political fortunes by timely financial aid.

Having acquired power over him, Leroux was in this way enabled to
obtain political influence through his family connections.

There was no doubt that he had been in New York with Leroux, and that
they had hatched the plot to kidnap Jacqueline after I had been struck
down.

Fortunately for us, Lacroix, ignorant, as was Leroux himself, that the
two ships had exchanged roles and duties, took Jacqueline aboard the
_Sainte-Vierge_, where Captain Dubois, who was waiting in anticipation
of just such a scheme, seized him and marched him at pistol point to
the house on Paul Street, in which Lacroix was kept a prisoner by
friends of Dubois until the _Sainte-Vierge_ had sailed.

The gulf was fairly free from ice, and our journey to St. Boniface,
where we arrived on the fifth morning after our departure from Quebec,
had been an uneventful one.  We had not seen the smoke of the _Claire_
behind us at any period during the voyage, and Dubois had not spared
his coal to show the other vessel his heels.

He left us at St. Boniface with a final caution against Leroux, and
proceeded along the shore with his bags of mail; but first he had a
satisfactory conversation with M. Danton concerning us.

I had given Dubois to understand that Jacqueline had been ill.  I was
apprehensive that he might question her and so discover her mental
state; but the good man readily understood that an elopement causes
much mental anguish in the case of the feminine party--at least this
supposition was in line with the romantic requirements of the case,
according to all the books that the captain had ever read; and he
leaped at the hypothesis.

He not only forbore to question Jacqueline, but he explained the
situation to Danton, a friendly but taciturn old man who kept the store
and post-office at St. Boniface.

Danton, who of course knew Jacqueline, took the opportunity of assuring
me that her father, though a recluse and a misanthrope who had not left
his seigniory for forty years, was said to be a man of heart, and would
undoubtedly forgive us.  He was clearly under the impression that we
were married, and, since Dubois had not enlightened him on this point,
I did not do so.

In fact, his ignorance again aroused in me elusive hopes--for if a
marriage _had_ occurred would he not have known, of it?  At any rate, I
should know soon; and with this reflection I had to console myself.

Since Jacqueline was supposed to know the route, I could ask no direct
questions; but I gathered that the _chateau_ lay about a hundred and
twenty miles north-westward.  For the first part of the journey we were
to travel along the right bank of the Riviere d'Or; at the point where
the mountains began there were some trappers' huts, and there doubtless
I could gain further information.

M. Danton had his sleigh and eight fine-looking dogs ready for us.  I
purchased these outright in order to carry no hostages.  We took with
us several days' supply of food, a little tent, sleeping-bags, and
frozen fish for the animals.

I must record that a small wharf was in course of construction, and
that the contractor's sign read: "Northern Exploitation Company."  M.
Danton informed me that this was a lumber company which had already
begun operations, and that the establishment of its camps accounted for
the absence of inhabitants.

In fact, our arrival was almost unobserved, and two hours afterward we
had set forth upon our journey.

I wondered what Jacqueline remembered.  Vague and unquiet thoughts
seemed to float up into her mind, and she sat by my side silent and
rather sad.  I think she was afraid of the knowledge that was to come
to her.

God knows I was, and for this reason was resolved to ask no questions
unless they should become necessary.  Whether or not she even knew the
route I had no means of discovering.

The sun shone brightly; the air, intensely cold, chilled our faces, but
could not penetrate our furs.  Sometimes we rubbed each other's cheeks
with snow when they grew threateningly white, laughing to see the blood
rush to the under surface of the skin, and jested about our journey to
drive away our fears.

And it was wonderful.  It was as though we were the first man and woman
in the world, wandering in our snow-garden, and still lost in amazement
at each other.  The prospect of meeting others of our kind began to be
a fantastic horror to me.

We were happy with each other.  If we could travel forever thus!  I
watched her beautiful, serene face; the brown hair, brought low over
the ears to guard them against the cold; the big grey eyes that were
turned upon mine sometimes in puzzled wonder, but very real content.

I held her small gloved hand inside the big sable muff, and we would
sit thus for hours in silence while the dogs picked their way along the
trail.  When I looked back I could see the tiny pad-prints stretching
away toward the far horizon, an undeviating black blur upon the
whiteness of the snow.

It was a strange situation.  It might easily have become an impossible
one.  But it was a sacred comradeship, refined above the love of friend
for friend, or lover for lover, by her faith, her helplessness, and
need.

We tried so hard to be merry.  When we had fed the dogs at noon and
eaten our meal we would strap on the _raquettes_, the snow-shoes with
which Danton had furnished us, and travel over the crusted drifts
beside the stream.  We ran out on the surface of the river and made
snowballs, and pelted each other, laughing like school children.

But after the journey had begun once more we would sit quietly beside
each other, and for long we would hardly utter a word.

I think that she liked best to sit beside me in the narrow sleigh and
lean against my shoulder, her physical weariness the reflection of her
spiritual unrest.  She did not want to think, and she wanted me to
shield her.

But even in this solitude fear drove me on, for I knew that a
relentless enemy followed hard after us, camping where we had camped
and reading the miles between us by the smouldering ashes of our old
fires.

At nightfall I would pitch the tent for Jacqueline and place her
sleeping-bag within, and while she slept I would lie by the huge fire
near the dogs, and we kept watch over her together.

So passed three days and nights.

The fourth short day drew toward its end a little after four o'clock.
I remember that we camped late, for the sun had already dipped to the
level horizon and was casting black, mile-long shadows across the snow.

A whistling wind came up.  The dogs had been showing signs of distress
that afternoon, pulling us more and more reluctantly, and walking with
drooping ears and muzzles depressed.

I hammered in the pegs and built a fire with dry boughs, collecting a
quantity of wood sufficient to last until morning.  Then Jacqueline
made tea, and we ate our supper and crept into our sleeping-bags and
lay down.

"Three more days, dear, at most, and our journey and our troubles will
all be at an end," I had said.  "Let us be happy together while we have
each other, and when our mutual need is past I shall stay with you
until you send me away."

"That will never be, Paul," she answered simply.  "But I shall be happy
with you while our day lasts."

And I thought of the text: "For soon the long night cometh."

I lay outside the tent, trying to sleep; but could not still my mind.
The uncertainty ahead of us, the knowledge of Leroux behind, tried me
sorely, and only Jacqueline's need sustained my courage.

As I was on the point of dropping asleep I heard a lone wolf howl from
afar, and instantly the pack took up the cry.  One of the dogs, a
great, tawny beast who led them, crept toward me and put his head down
by mine, whimpering.  The rest roamed ceaselessly about the fire,
answering the wolf's challenge with deep, wolf-like baying.

I drew my pistols from the pockets of my fur coat.  It was pleasant to
handle them.  They gave me assurance.  We were two fugitives in a land
where every man's hand might be against us, but at least I had the
means to guard my own.

And looking at them, I began to yield to that temptation which had
assailed me ceaselessly, both at Quebec and since we left St. Boniface,
not to yield up Jacqueline, never to let her go.

Why should I bear the yoke of moral laws here in this wilderness, with
our pursuing enemy behind--a day's journey perhaps--but leaving me only
a breathing spell, a resting space, before I must fight for Jacqueline?
Or when her own had abandoned her?

Jacqueline glided out of the tent and knelt beside me, putting her arms
about the dog's neck and her head upon its furry coat.  The dogs loved
her, and she seemed always to understand their needs.

"Paul, there is something wrong with them," she said, her hand still
caressing the mane of the great beast, who looked at her with pathetic
eyes.

I had noticed that they did not eat that night, but had imagined that
they would do so later when they had recovered from their fatigue.

"What is wrong with them, Jacqueline?" I asked.

She raised her head and looked sadly at me.  "It is I, Paul," she
answered.

"You, Jacqueline?"

"Yes, it is I!" she cried with sudden, passionate vehemence.  "It is
_I_ who am wrong and have brought trouble on you.  Paul, I do not even
know how you came into my life, nor who I am, nor anything that
happened to me at any time before you brought me to Quebec, except that
my home is there."  She pointed northward.  "Who am I?  Jacqueline, you
say.  The name means nothing to me.  I am a woman without a past or
future, a shadow that falls across your life, Paul.  And I could
perhaps remember, but I know--I _know_--that I must never remember."

She began weeping wildly.  I surmised that she must have been under an
intense strain for days.  I had not dreamed that this girl who walked
by my side and paid me the tribute of her docile faith suffered and
knew.

I took her hand in mine.  "Dear Jacqueline," I answered, "it is best to
forget these things until the time comes to remember them.  It will
come, Jacqueline.  Let us be happy till then.  You have been ill, and
you have had great trouble.  That is all.  I am taking you home.  Do
you not remember anything about your home, Jacqueline?"

She clapped her hands to her head and gave a little terrified cry.

"I--think--so," she murmured.  "But I dare not remember, Paul.

"I have dreamed of things," she went on in agitated, rapid tones, "and
then I have seemed to remember everything.  But when I wake I have
forgotten, and it is because I know that I must forget.  Paul, I dream
of a dead man, and men who hate and are following us.  Was
there--ever--a dead man, Paul?" she asked, shuddering.

"No, dear Jacqueline," I answered stoutly.  "Those dreams are lies."

She still looked hopelessly at me, and I knew she was not quite
convinced.

"Oh, it was not true, Paul?" she asked pleadingly, gathering each word
upon each indrawn breath.

I placed one arm around her.

"Jacqueline, there never was any dead man," I said.  "It is not true.
Some day I will tell you everything--some day----"

I broke off helplessly, for my voice failed me, I was so shaken.  I
knew that at last I was conquered by the passion that possessed me,
long repressed, but not less strong for its repression.  I caught her
in my arms.

"I love you, Jacqueline!" I cried.  "And you--you?"

She thrust her hands out and turned her face away.  There was an awful
fear upon it.  "Paul," she cried, "there is--somebody--who----

"I have known that," she went on in a torrent of wild words.  "I have
known that always, and it is the most terrible part of all!"

I laid a finger on her lips.

"There is nobody, Jacqueline," I said again, trying to control my
trembling voice.  "He was another delirium of the night, a fantom of
your illness, dear.  There was never anybody but me, and there shall
never be.  For to-morrow we shall turn back toward St. Boniface again,
and we shall take the boat for Quebec--and from there I shall take you
to a land where there shall be no more grief, neither----"

I broke off suddenly.  What had I said?  My words--why, the devil had
been quoting Scripture again!  The bathos of it!  My sacred task
forgotten and honour thrown to the winds, and Jacqueline helpless
there!  I hung my head in misery and shame.

But very sweetly she raised hers and spoke to me.

"Paul, dear, if there never was anyone--if it is nothing but a
dream----"  Here she looked at me with doubtful scrutiny in her eyes,
and then hastened to make amends for doubting me.  "Of course, Paul, if
there had been you could not have known.  But though I know my heart is
free--if there was nobody--why, let us go forward to my father's home,
because there will be no cause there to separate us, my dear.  So let
us go on."

"Yes, let us go on," I muttered dully.

But when the issue came I knew that I would let no man stand between us.

"And some day I am going to tell you everything I know, and you shall
tell me," she said.  "But to-night we have each other, and will not
think of unhappy things--nor ever till the time comes."

She leaned back against my shoulder and held out her hands to the
fire-light.  She had taken off her left glove, and now again I saw the
wedding-ring upon her finger.

She was asleep.  I drew her head down on my knees and spread my coat
around her, and let her rest there.  She was happy again in sleep, as
her nature was to be always.  But, though I held her as she held my
heart, my soul seemed dead, and I waited sleepless and heard only the
whining of the heavy wind and scurry of the blown snow.

The wolf still howled from afar, but the dogs only whimpered in answer
among the trees, where they had withdrawn.

At last I raised her in my arms and carried her inside the tent.  She
did not waken, but only stirred and murmured my name drowsily.  I stood
outside the tent and listened to her soft breathing.

How helpless she was!  How trusting!

That turned the battle.  I loved her madly, but never again dare I
breathe a word of love to her so long as that shadow obscured her mind.
But if sunlight succeeded shadow----

The fire had sunk to a heap of red-grey ashes.   I piled on fresh
boughs till the embers caught flame again and the bright spears danced
under the pines.  The reek of smoking pine logs is in my nostrils yet.




CHAPTER IX

THE FUNGUS

My rest was miserable.  In a succession of brief dreams I fled with
Jacqueline over a wilderness of ice, while in the distance, ever
drawing nearer, followed Leroux, Lacroix, and Pere Antoine.  I heard
Jacqueline's despairing cries as she was torn from me, while my
weighted arms, heavier than lead, drooped helplessly at my sides, and
from afar Simon mocked me.

Then ensued a world without Jacqueline, a dead eternity of ice and snow.

I must have fallen sound asleep at last, for when I opened my eyes the
sun was shining brightly low down over the Riviere d'Or.  The door of
the tent stood open and Jacqueline was not inside.

With the remembrance of my dream still confusing reality, I ran toward
the trees, shouting for her in fear.

"Jacqueline!  Jacqueline!" I called.

She was coming toward me.  She took me by the arm.  "Paul!" she began
with quivering lips.  "Paul!"

She led me into the recesses of the pines.  There, in a little open
place, clustered together upon the ground, were the bodies of our dogs.
All were dead, and the soft forms were frozen into the snow, which the
poor creatures had licked in their agony, so that their open jaws were
stuffed with icicles.

Jacqueline sank down upon the ground and sobbed as though her heart
would break.  I stood there watching, my brain paralyzed by the shock
of the discovery.

Then I went back to the sleigh, on the rear of which the frozen fish
was piled.  I noticed that it had a faint, slightly aromatic odor.  I
flung the hard masses aside and scooped up a powdery substance with my
hands.

Mycology had been a hobby of mine, and it was easy to recognize what
that substance was.

It was the _amanita_, the deadliest and the most widely distributed of
the fungi, and the direst of all vegetable poisons to man and beast
alike.  The alkaloid which it contains takes effect only some hours
after its ingestion, when it has entered the blood-streams and begun
its disintegrating action upon the red corpuscles.  The dogs must have
partaken of it on the preceding afternoon.

Jacqueline joined me.  The tears were streaming down her cheeks; she
slipped her arm through mine and looked mutely at me.

I knew this was Leroux's work.  He had tricked me again.  I had seen
clusters of the frozen fungus outside St. Boniface.  I suppose that,
when winter comes suddenly, such growths remain standing till spring
thaws and rots them, retaining in the meanwhile all their noxious
qualities.

It would have been an easy matter for one of Leroux's agents to have
cast a few handfuls of the deadly powder over the fish while the sleigh
stood waiting outside Danton's door, and the jolting of the vehicle
would have shaken the substance down into the middle of the heap, so
that it would be three or four days before the dogs got to the poisoned
fish.

I was mad with anger.  The white landscape seemed to swim before my
eyes.  I meant to kill the man now, and without mercy.  I would be as
unscrupulous as he.  He would be in this place by the afternoon; I
would wait for him outside the trail.  My pistols----

Jacqueline was looking up into my face in terror.  The sight of her
recalled me to my senses.  Leroux afterward--first my duty to her!

"Paul!  What is the matter, Paul?" she cried.  "I never saw you look
like that before."

I calmed myself and led her away, and presently we were standing before
the fire again.

"Jacqueline," I said, "it is easier to go on than to turn back now."

She watched me like a lip-reader.  "Yes, Paul; let us go on," she
answered.

So we went on.  But our journey was to be very different now.  There
was no possibility of taking much baggage with us.  We took a few
things out of our suit-cases and disposed them about us as best they
could.

The heavy sleeping-bags would have made our progress, encumbered as we
were with our fur coats, too slow; but I had hopes that we would reach
the trappers' huts that afternoon, and so decided to discard them in
favour of the fur-lined sleigh-rug, which would, at least, keep
Jacqueline warm.

So we strapped on our snow-shoes, and I made a pack and put three days'
supplies of food in it and fastened it on my shoulders, securing it
with two straps from the harness.  I rolled the rug into a bundle and
tied it below the pack; and thus equipped, we left the dead beasts and
the useless sleigh behind us for Leroux's satisfaction, and set out
briskly upon our march.

It is a strange thing, but no sooner had I passed out of sight of the
sleigh than, weighted though I was, I felt my spirits rising rapidly.
The freedom of movement and the exhilarating air gave my mind a new
sense of liberty, and Jacqueline, who had been watching me anxiously,
seeing the gloom disappear from my face, tried, first to tempt me to
mirth, and then to match me in it.  Sometimes we would run a little
way, and then we would fall back into our steady, ambling plod once
more.

The cold was less intense, but, looking at the sky, which was heavily
overcast, I knew that the rise in temperature betokened the advent of a
heavy fall of snow, probably bef