A corner of Marcel's mouth curled in a quizzical smile. "Wait, M'sieu
Gillies; I tell you later," and with a "Bon-soir!" he went out.

CHAPTER XXII

IN THE DEPTHS

Although it would have been pure suicide for anyone to attempt to take
Fleur from the stockade against her will, Marcel feared that some dark
night those who wished his disgrace might loose their venom in an injury
to his dog. So, refusing a room in the Mission House, he pitched his
tent on the grass inside the spruce pickets where Fleur might lie beside
him.

Here his staunch friend Jules sought Jean out. It seemed that Inspector
Wallace had been up the coast at Christmas, had stayed a week, and
although no one knew exactly what had transpired, whether he had as yet
become a Catholic, there was no doubt in the minds of the curious that
the Scotchman would shortly remove the sole obstacle to his marriage to
Julie Breton.

With head in hands, Jean Marcel listened to the news, none the less
bitter because anticipated. The loyal Jules' crude attempt to console
the brokenhearted hunter went unheard. Fate had made him its cat's-paw.
Not only had he lost his heart's desire, but his name was now a byword
at Whale River; the woman he held dear and his honor, both gone. There
was nothing left to lose. He was indeed bankrupt.

During supper, Jean was plied with questions by Julie, who, in his
absence, had had his story from her brother. To the half-breeds she
never once alluded, seemingly interested solely in the long hunt for
caribou on the barrens and in Fleur's rescue of her master from the
lake.

For the delicacy of the girl in avoiding the tragedy which was plainly
claiming his thoughts, he was deeply grateful. Clearly from the first,
she had believed in the honor of Jean Marcel. But with what was
evidently a forced gaiety, the girl sought, on the night of his return,
to banish from his mind thoughts of the cloud blackening the future--of
the trying days ahead.

"Come, Jean Marcel," she laughed, speaking to him, as always, in French,
"are you not glad to see us that you wear a face so dismal? You have not
told me how you like this muslin gown." She pirouetted on her shapely
moccasined feet challenging his approval. "Henri says I'm growing thin.
Is it not becoming? No? Then I shall eat and grow as fat as big Marie,
the Montagnais cook at the Gillies'."

The sober face of Jean Marcel lighted at her pleasantry. His brooding
eyes softened as the