r of that useful profession which lives upon the lives
and secrets and follies and crimes of others--in fine, a detective, and
having quite recently lost his wife (a cousin of Mme. Prefontaine) he
had given up his house and come to live at the Hotel Champlain. He had
been present when Ringfield first appeared in the rotunda with his
countrified carpet-bag, had heard him ask for his friend, had seen him
again later in the afternoon, and also in the morning, and having
naturally a highly-developed trait of curiosity, had sauntered out when
Ringfield did, and discovered that, instead of returning to the
country, the young man with the clergyman's tie and troubled face was
lodging in the next street. To anyone else, even to the Prefontaines,
this would have signified nothing, but Lalonde was good at his
business, and the discovery at least interested him; he could say
nothing more. He, too, knew Miss Clairville well, and was expecting to
see her on her wedding-day, so that it was quite natural he should
express a desire to meet Crabbe, even if the latter were scarcely in a
condition to receive callers. M. Prefontaine accordingly took him up,
but all they saw was an exceedingly stupid, fuddled, untidy wretch who
was not yet conscious of the great mistake he had made in giving way to
his deplorable appetite, and who did not realize the import of what was
said to him. Lalonde was sufficiently curious to examine the flask and
Crabbe's valise, but he retired satisfied that the guide had not been
tampered with. Drunkenness and that alone had caused the present sad
state of affairs.

CHAPTER XXV

THE TROUSSEAU AGAIN

"--the bitter language of the heart."

The shop over which Ringfield was lodging for the time was an emporium
of Catholic books, pictures and images, one of those peculiarly Lower
Canadian stores in the vicinity of the Rue Notre Dame, existing side by
side with Indian curio shops, and rendering it possible for the
emigrant and tourist to purchase maple sugar, moccasins, and birch bark
canoes at the same time that he invested in purple ribbon bookmarks,
gaily painted cards of the Virgin, and tiny religious valentines with
rosy bleeding hearts, silver arrows and chubby kneeling infants.
Amulets and crucifixes, Keys of Heaven and lives of the Blessed Saints,
cheap vases of ruby and emerald glass, candles and rosaries, would at
another time have afforded Ringfield much matter for speculation, but
the