Harold Bindloss

The Intriguers

Warsaw 2019

Contents

CHAPTER I. THE BLAKE AFFAIR

CHAPTER II. ON THE RIVER BOAT

CHAPTER III. THE COUSINS

CHAPTER IV. THE MAN FROM CONNECTICUT

CHAPTER V. CORNERING THE BOBCAT

CHAPTER VI. THE PRAIRIE

CHAPTER VII. THE OCCULT MAN

CHAPTER VIII. TROUBLE

CHAPTER IX. A SUSPICIOUS MOVE

CHAPTER X. THE MUSKEG

CHAPTER XI. KIDNAPPED

CHAPTER XII. THE FEVER PATIENT

CHAPTER XIII. A STAUNCH ALLY

CHAPTER XIV. DEFEAT

CHAPTER XV. THE FROZEN NORTH

CHAPTER XVI. THE TRAIL OF THE CARIBOU

CHAPTER XVII. A RESPITE

CHAPTER XVIII. THE BACK TRAIL

CHAPTER XIX. THE DESERTED TEPEES

CHAPTER XX. A STARTLING DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XXI. A MATTER OF DUTY

CHAPTER XXII. THE GIRL AND THE MAN

CHAPTER XXIII. SOLVING THE PROBLEM

CHAPTER XXIV. A WOMAN’S ADVICE

CHAPTER XXV. LOVE AND VICTORY

CHAPTER I. THE BLAKE AFFAIR

On a fine morning early in July Mrs. Keith sat with a companion, enjoying the sunshine, near the end of Dufferin Avenue, which, skirts the elevated ground above the city of Quebec. Behind her rose the Heights of Abraham where the dying Wolfe wrested Canada from France; in front, churches, banks, offices and dwellings, curiously combining the old and the very new, rose tier on tier to the great red Frontenac Hotel. It is a picturesque city that climbs back from its noble river; supreme, perhaps, in its situation among Canadian towns, and still retaining something of the exotic stamp set upon it by its first builders whose art was learned in the France of long ago.

From where she sat Mrs. Keith could not see the ugly wooden wharves. Her glance rested on the flood that flowed toward her, still and deep, through a gorge lined with crags and woods, and then, widening rapidly, washed the shores of a low, green island. Opposite her white houses shone on the Levis ridge, and beyond this a vast sweep of country, steeped in gradations of color that ended in ethereal blue, rolled away toward the hills of Maine.

Mrs. Keith and her companion were both elderly. They had played their part in the drama of life, one of them in a strenuous manner, and now they were content with the position of lookers-on. So far, however, nothing had occurred since breakfast to excite their interest.

“I think I’ll go to Montreal by the special boat tonight,” Mrs. Keith said with characteristic briskness. “The hotel’s crowded, the town’s full, and you keep meeting people whom you know or have heard about. I came here to see Canada, but I find it hard to realize that I’m not in London; I’m tired of the bustle.”

Mrs. Ashborne smiled. She had met Margaret Keith by chance in Quebec, but their acquaintance was of several years’ standing.

“Tired?” she said. “That is sorely a new sensation for you. I’ve often envied you your energy.”

Age had touched Mrs. Keith lightly, though she had long been a childless widow and had silvery hair. Tall and finely made, with prominent nose and piercing eyes, she was marked by a certain stateliness and a decided manner. She was blunt without rudeness, and though often forceful was seldom arrogant.

Careless of her dress, as she generally was, Margaret Keith bore the stamp of refinement and breeding, “Ah!” she said; “I begin to feel I’m old. But will you come to Montreal with me to-night?”

“I suppose I’d better, though the boat takes longer than the train, and I hear that the Place Viger is full. I don’t know anything about the other hotels; they might not be comfortable.”

“They’ll no doubt be able to offer us all that we require, and I never pamper myself,” Mrs. Keith replied. “In fact, it’s now and then a relief to do something that’s opposed to the luxuriousness of the age.”

“This was a favorite topic, but she broke off as a man came toward her, carrying one or two small parcels which apparently belonged to the girl at his side. He was a handsome man, tall and rather spare, with dark eyes and a soldierly look. His movements were quick and forceful, but a hint of what Mrs. Keith called swagger somewhat spoiled his bearing. She thought he allowed his self-confidence to be seen too plainly. The girl formed a marked contrast to him; she was short and slender, her hair and eyes were brown, while her prettiness, for one could not have, called her beautiful, was of an essentially delicate kind. It did not strike one at first sight, but grew upon her acquaintances. Her manner was quiet and reserved and she was plainly dressed in white, but when she turned and dismissed her companion her pose was graceful. Then she handed Mrs. Keith some letters and papers.

“I have been to the post-office, and Captain Sedgwick made them search for our mail,” she said. “It came some time ago, but there was a mistake through its not being addressed to the hotel.”

Mrs. Keith took the letters and gave Mrs. Ashborne an English newspaper.

“The bobcat has torn a hole in the basket,” the girl went on, “and I’m afraid it’s trying to get at the mink.”

“Tell some of the hotel people to take it out at once and see that the basket is sent to be mended.”

The girl withdrew and Mrs. Ashborne looked up.

“Did I hear aright?” she asked in surprise. “She said a bobcat?”

Mrs. Keith laughed.

“I am making a collection of the smaller American animals. A bobcat is something like a big English ferret. It has high hindquarters, and walks with a curious jump–I suppose that is how it got its name. I’m not sure it lives in Canada; an American got this one for me. I find natural history very interesting.”

“I should imagine you found it expensive. Aren’t some of the creatures savage?”

“Millicent looks after them; and I always beat the sellers down. Fortunately, I can afford to indulge in my caprices. You can consider this my latest fad, if you like. I am subject to no claims, and my means are hardly large enough to make me an object of interest to sycophantic relatives.”

“Is your companion fond of attending to wild animals?” Mrs. Ashborne inquired. “I have wondered where you got her. You have had a number, but she is different from the rest.”

“I suppose you mean she is too good for the post?” Mrs. Keith suggested. “However, I don’t mind telling you that she is Eustace Graham’s daughter; you must have heard of him.”

“Eustace Graham? Wasn’t he in rather bad odor–only tolerated on the fringe of society? I seem to recollect some curious tales about him.”

“Toward the end he was outside the fringe; indeed, I don’t know how he kept on his feet so long; but he went downhill fast. A plucker of plump pigeons, an expensive friend to smart young subalterns and boys about town. Cards, bets, loans arranged, and that kind of thing. All the same, he had his good points when I first knew him.”

“But after such a life as his daughter must have led, do you consider her a suitable person to take about with you? What do your friends think? They have to receive her now and then.”

“I can’t say that I have much cause to respect my friends’ opinions, and I’m not afraid of the girl’s contaminating me,” Mrs. Keith replied. “Besides, Millicent lost her mother early and lived with her aunts until a few months before her father’s death. I expect Eustace felt more embarrassed than grateful when she came to take care of him, but, to do him justice, he would see that none of the taint of his surroundings rested on the girl. He did wrong, but I think he paid for it, and it is better to be charitable.”

She broke off, and glanced down at the big liner with cream-colored funnel that was slowly swinging across the stream.

“I must send Millicent to buy our tickets for Montreal,” she said. “The hotel will be crowded before long with that steamer’s noisy passengers. I shall be glad to escape from it all. Let us hope that Montreal will be quieter, and we shall have a chance to see a bit of Canada.”

Mrs. Ashborne opened the Morning Post, and presently looked up at her companion.

“ "A marriage–between Blanche Newcombe and Captain Challoner–at Thornton Holme, in Shropshire,’ ” she read out. “Do you know the bride?”

“I know Bertram Challoner better,” Mrs. Keith replied, and was silent for a minute or two, musing on former days. “His mother was an old friend of mine–a woman of imagination, with strong artistic tastes; and Bertram resembles her. It was his father, the Colonel, who forced him into the army, and I’m somewhat astonished that he has done so well.”

“They were all soldiers, I understand. But wasn’t there some scandal about a cousin?”

“Richard Blake?” said Mrs. Keith, making room for Millicent Graham, her companion, who rejoined them. “It’s getting an old story, and I always found it puzzling. So far as one could Judge, Dick, Blake should have made an excellent officer; his mother, the Colonel’s sister, was true to the Challoner strain, his father a reckless Irish sportsman.”

“But what was the story? I haven’t heard it.”

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