“I returned to Canada and resumed work for the British government. The demon of perversity still followed me. I deserted the flag of my native land, as I had deserted my wife and child. I became the Englishman’s spy—his tool—his dog. But I didn’t forget you, my son. My business led me among the Indians. From one end of the Northwest Territory to the other, I searched for you; but I could gain no tidings of you. I thought you dead, and gave up the fruitless quest. You know how I met you at last and learned your name. It’s unnecessary to say more.” “And La Violette?” Ross suggested. “You wish to know her history?” The son inclined his head. “About seventeen years ago,” John Douglas resumed, “I was stationed at Quebec. While there I made the acquaintance of a wealthy Englishman, Charles Brownlee, in this manner: He had a beautiful wife, and a little daughter one year old. One day the family was out driving, and their horses became frightened and got beyond their driver’s control. I caught the maddened animals, and, at the risk of my own life, brought them to a stop, receiving this wound for my temerity”—pointing to the puckered scar upon his cheek.—“Charles Brownlee became my fast friend. I visited at his house. I learned to love and respect the parents and to worship the angelic child. Also, I learned much of their family history. Charles Brownlee had inherited his wealth from his grandfather. A cousin, who felt that he had been wronged out of his rightful share of the estate, came to Quebec to demand restitution. My friend refused to listen to the claimant’s demands; and the disappointed and angry man left the house, vowing vengeance. A week later, Charles Brownlee and his beautiful wife died very suddenly. The murderous cousin had hired an unscrupulous domestic to poison them. This was never proven, but I know whereof I speak—for I have some knowledge of drugs, and I was in the house at the time.” The speaker stopped and wearily shifted his position. “Go on—father,” Ross whispered, his face alight with interest. The son hesitated at the paternal term, but resolutely used it. The father’s drawn features relaxed into a happy smile, as he took up the thread of his narrative.