ell, if she loves him and he's a good fellow, I 've no right to
complain," Trove answered.

"I don't believe that he's a good fellow," said the other.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, a detective is--is--"

"A necessary evil?" Trove suggested.

"Just that," said the other. "He must pretend to be what he isn't
and--well, a gentleman is not apt to sell himself for that purpose,
Now he's trying to convince people that you knew as much about the
crime as Darrel. In my opinion he isn't honest. Good looks and
fine raiment are all there is to that fellow--take my word for it."

"You're inclined to judge him harshly," said Trove. "But I'm
worried, for I fear he's unworthy of her and---and I must leave
town to-morrow."

"Shall you go to see her?"

"No; not until I know more about him. I have friends here and they
will give her good counsel. Soon they'll know what kind of a man
he is, and, if necessary, they'll warn her. I'm beset with
trouble, but, thank God, I know which way to turn."

XXXIII

The White Guard

Next morning Trove was on his way to Quebec--a long, hard journey
in the wintertime, those days. Leblanc had moved again,--so they
told him in Quebec,--this time to Plattsburg of Clinton County, New
York. There, however, Trove was unable to find the Frenchman. A
week of patient inquiry, then, leaving promises of reward for
information, he came away. He had yet another object of his
travels--the prison at Dannemora--and came there of a Sunday
morning late in February. Its towers were bathed in sunlight; its
shadows lay dark and far upon the snow. Peace and light and
silence had fallen out of the sky upon that little city of regret,
as if to hush and illumine its tumult of dark passions. He
shivered in the gloom of its shadow as he went up a driveway and
rang a bell. The warden received him kindly.

"I wish to see Roderick Darrel,---he is my friend,' said Trove, as
he gave the warden a letter.

"Come with me," said the official, presently. "He is talking to
the men."

They passed through gloomy corridors to the chapel door. Trove
halted to compose himself, for now he could hear the voice of
Darrel.

"Let me stand here a while--I cannot go in now," he whispered.

The words of the old man were vibrant with colour and dramatic
force.

"Night!" he was saying, "the guard passes; the lights are out; ye
lie thinking. Hark! a bell! 'Tis in the golden city o'
remembrance. Ye hear