ey might, the fact was patent--they
were now in full chase of a will-of-the-wisp of most magnificent
dimensions.

There was not much difficulty, on enquiry, to find that the carriage
they were following (Leslie remembered that this was the _second_
carriage _he_ had followed, in that connection) had taken the road to
St. Catharine's; and thither the pursuers posted. Parties who bore the
description of those they named--one large, dark man and one very small
lady--had taken refreshments at the principal hotel there, two hours
before; and then they had apparently gone on to Toronto. They followed
to Toronto. Some hours were spent at Toronto, in discovering that they
had taken the rail to Montreal. The pursuers followed to Montreal, and
late at night, on the day following the departure from Niagara, were at
Donnegana's Hotel. No concealment had here been considered necessary by
the fugitives, whatever they might have practised before; and on the
register of Donnegana's, Leslie found an entry of the names of "Dexter
Ralston _and wife_!"

"Phew!" he said, calling the attention of Crawford to the book, "they
have been rapid. All my suspicious were correct, as usual. There never
was such a match; but they have now acquired a legal right to remain
together, even if there was power to separate them otherwise. They are
married!"

"The d--l they are!" said John Crawford, leaning over to examine the
register. "True enough! Then my guardianship is ended, with a witness.
But is _she_ his wife? Is it Marion Hobart, or may he not have been
married before?"

"No, said Leslie," remembering the picture, "she and no other."

They had not been aware that they were speaking loudly enough to be
easily overheard; but as the last words were spoken a well-known voice
sounded behind them, and Tom Leslie, as he turned, saw Dexter Ralston,
cigar in mouth, coming up from the door.

"You were speaking of my wife, gentlemen," he said, as he bowed to
Leslie. "Well, what of her?"

"If your wife is Marion Hobart," said John Crawford, turning, "we were
speaking of _my ward_, entrusted to my guardianship by her grandfather,
her last surviving relative, on his death-bed, and stolen away by you
from the Cataract House yesterday."

The words of Crawford were somewhat loud, and the face of the Virginian
flushed, though the office of the hotel was almost deserted and probably
no one but themselves understood what was being uttered. "_Stolen_ is a
har