r 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 an