ful
panel was. With a strange sense that her wrong-doing was modified by
the fact, she had left the will where she had found it. She had a
superstition that fate would deal less harshly with her if she did. It
was not her way to temporise. She had concealed the discovery of the
will with an unswerving determination. It was for Louis, it was for his
peace, for the ease of his fading life, and she had no repentance. Yet
there it was, that curious, useless concession to old prejudices, the
little touch of hypocrisy--she left the will where she had found it. She
had never looked at it since, no matter how great the temptation, and
sometimes this was overpowering.

To-day it overpowered her. The house was very still and the blinds were
drawn to shut out the heat, but the soft din of the locusts came through
the windows. Her household were all engaged elsewhere. She shut the
doors of the little room, and kneeling on the table touched the spring.
The panel came back and disclosed the cupboard. There lay the will.
She took it up and opened it. Her eyes went dim on the instant, and she
leaned her forehead against the wall sick at heart.

As she did so a sudden gust of wind drove in the blind of the window.
She started, but saw what it was, and hastily putting the will back,
closed the panel, and with a fast-beating heart, left the room.

Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself.
It ran:

You've shipped me off like dirt. You'll be shipped off, Madame,
double quick. I've got what'll bring the right owner here. You'll
soon hear from
Tardif.

In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the panel. The will was
gone.

Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel.

CHAPTER VII. THE PURSUIT

There was but one thing to do. She must go straight to George Fournel at
Quebec. She knew only too well that Tardif was speeding thither as fast
as horses could carry him. He had had several hours' start, but there
was still a chance of overtaking him. And suppose she overtook him?
She could not decide definitely what she should do, but she would do
anything, sacrifice anything, to secure again that fatal document which,
in George Fournel's hands, must bring a collapse worse than death. A
dozen plans flashed before her, and now that her mind was set upon the
thing, compunction would not stay her. She had gone so far, she was
prepared to go further to save this Seigne