"Where is this seigniory?"
"The seigniory of M. Charles Duchaine?" he answered, looking curiously at me. "You are evidently a stranger, monsieur, or you would have heard of it, especially now when people are saying that——" He checked himself at this point. "It is the oldest of the seigniories," he continued. "In fact, it has never passed out of the hands of the original owners, because it is almost uninhabitable in winter, except by Indians. I understand that M. Duchaine has built himself a fine château there; but then he is a recluse monsieur, and probably not ten men have ever visited it. But mademoiselle is too fine a woman to be imprisoned there long——"
"How could one reach the château?" I interpolated.
He looked at me inquiringly as though he wondered what my business there could be.
"In summer," he replied, "one might ascend the Rivière 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 Rivière 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 Rivière d'Or?" he asked.