“In summer,” he replied, “one might ascend the Riviere d’Or in a canoe for half the distance, until one reached the mountains, and then——­” He shrugged his shoulders.  “I do not know.  Possibly one would inquire of the first trapper who passed in autumn.  In winter one would fly.  It is strange that so little is known of the seigniory, for they say the Riviere d’Or——­”

“The Golden River?”

“Has vast wealth in it, and formerly the Indians would bring gold-dust in quills to the traders.  But many have sought the source of this supply in past times and failed or died, and so——­” He shrugged his shoulders again.

“You see, M. Duchaine is a hermit,” he continued.  “Once, so my father used to say, he was one of the gayest young men in Quebec.  But he became involved in the troubles of 1867—­and then his wife died, and so lie withdrew there with the little mademoiselle—­what was her name?”

He called his clerk.

“Alphonse, what is the name of that pretty daughter of M. Charles Duchaine, of Riviere d’Or?” he asked.

“Annette,” answered the man.  “No, Nanette.  No Janette.  I am sure it ends with ‘ette’ or ‘ine,’ anyway.”

“Eh bien, it makes no difference,” said the proprietor, “because, since she left the Convent of the Ursulines here in Quebec, where she was educated, her father keeps her at the chateau, and you are not likely to set eyes on M. Charles Duchaine’s daughter.”

A sudden stoppage in his flow of words, an almost guilty look upon his face, as a new figure entered the little shop, directed my attention toward the stranger.

He was an old man of medium size, very muscularly built, stout, and with enormous shoulders.  He wore a priest’s soutane, but he did not look like a priest—­he looked like a man’s head on a bull body.  His smooth face was tanned to the colour of an Indian’s—­his bright blue eyes, almost concealed by their drooping, wrinkled lids, were piercing in their scrutiny.

He wore a bearskin hat and furs of surprising quality.  It was not so much his strange appearance that attracted my interest as the singular look of authority upon the face, which was yet deeply lined about the mouth, as though he could relax upon occasion and become the jolliest of companions.

And he spoke a pure French, interspersed with words of an uncouth patois, which I ascribed to long residence in some remote parish.

“Bo’jour, Pere Antoine,” said the shopkeeper deferentially, fixing his eyes rather timidly upon the old priest’s face.

“Eh bien, who is this with whom thou gossipest concerning the daughter of M. Duchaine?” inquired Father Antoine, looking at me keenly.

“Only a customer—­a stranger, monsieur,” answered the proprietor, rubbing his hands together.  “He wishes to see—­a dog collar, was it not?” he continued, turning nervously toward me.