tel and then walked on the Dufferin Terrace--the famous promenade
outside looking down over the lower city, the great sweep of the St.
Lawrence River and the gray-white distant Laurentian mountains.

"I was to meet her inside. I went in ahead of her. But she didn't
come. I went back to the terrace and she was gone. Wasn't in our
rooms. Nor the lobby--nor anywhere."

But it was early afternoon, in the public place of a civilized city.
In the daylight of the Dufferin Terrace, beside the long ice toboggan
slide, under the gaze of skaters on the ice-rink and several hundred
holiday merrymakers, a young girl could hardly be murdered, or
forcibly abducted, without attracting some attention! The Quebec
police thought the young American unduly excited over his sister, who
was missing only an hour. They would do what they could, if by dark
she had not rejoined him. They suggested that doubtless the young lady
had gone shopping.

"Maybe she did," I agreed. But in my heart, I felt differently.
"She'll be waiting for us in the hotel when we get there, Alan."

"But I'm telling you we saw Polter this morning. He lives here--not
thirty miles from Quebec. We saw him on the terrace after breakfast.
Recognized him at once."

"Did he see you?"

"I don't know. He was lost in the crowd in a minute. But I asked a
young French fellow who it was. He knew him. Told me, Frank Raskor.
That's the name he wears now. He's a famous man up here--well known,
immensely rich. I don't know if he saw us or not. What a fool I was to
leave Babs alone, even for a minute!"

We were speeding over a white-clad valley with a little frozen river
winding down its middle. Almost full night had come. The leaden sky
was low above us. It began snowing. The lights of the small villages
along the river were barely visible.

"Can you land us, Alan?"

"Yes, surely. Municipal field just beyond the Citadel. We can get to
the hotel in five minutes. Good landing lights."

* * * * *

It was a flight of only half an hour. During it, Alan told me about
Polter. The hunchback, known now as Frank Rascor, owned a mine in the
Laurentides, some thirty miles from Quebec City--a fabulously
productive mine of gold. It was an anomaly that gold should be
produced in this region. No vein oL gold-bearing rock had been found,
except the one on Polter's property. Alan had seen a newspaper account
of the strangeness of it; and just upon the chance had