“What is there to say?” continued Jean Jacques. “I have searched till now, and have not found.”
“How have you lived?” asked the other.
“Keeping books in shops and factories, collecting accounts for storekeepers, when they saw they could trust me, working at threshings and harvests, teaching school here and there. Once I made fifty dollars at a railway camp telling French Canadian tales and singing chansons Canadiennes. I have been insurance agent, sold lightning-rods, and been foreman of a gang building a mill—but I could not bear that. Every time I looked up I could see the Cock of Beaugard where the roof should be. And so on, so on, first one thing and then another till now—till I came to Askatoon and fell down by the drug-store, and you played the good Samaritan. So it goes, and I step on from here again, looking—looking.”
“Wait till spring,” said the Young Doctor. “What is the good of going on now! You can only tramp to the next town, and—”
“And the next,” interposed Jean Jacques. “But so it is my orders.” He put his hand on his heart, and gathered up his hat and knapsack.
“But you haven’t searched here at Askatoon.”
“Ah?... Ah-well, surely that is so,” answered Jean Jacques wistfully. “I had forgotten that. Perhaps you can tell me, you who know all. Have you any news about my Zoe for me? Do you know—was she ever here? Madame Gerard Fynes would be her name. My name is Jean Jacques Barbille.”
“Madame Zoe was here, but she has gone,” quietly answered the Young Doctor.
Jean Jacques dropped the hat and the knapsack. His eyes had a glad, yet staring and frightened look, for the Young Doctor’s face was not the bearer of good tidings.
“Zoe—my Zoe! You are sure?... When was she here?” he added huskily.