"You're inclined to judge him harshly," said Trove. "But I'm worried, for I fear he's unworthy of her and—-and I must leave town to-morrow."
"Shall you go to see her?"
"No; not until I know more about him. I have friends here and they will give her good counsel. Soon they'll know what kind of a man he is, and, if necessary, they'll warn her. I'm beset with trouble, but, thank God, I know which way to turn."
XXXIII
The White Guard
Next morning Trove was on his way to Quebec—a long, hard journey in the wintertime, those days. Leblanc had moved again,—so they told him in Quebec,—this time to Plattsburg of Clinton County, New York. There, however, Trove was unable to find the Frenchman. A week of patient inquiry, then, leaving promises of reward for information, he came away. He had yet another object of his travels—the prison at Dannemora—and came there of a Sunday morning late in February. Its towers were bathed in sunlight; its shadows lay dark and far upon the snow. Peace and light and silence had fallen out of the sky upon that little city of regret, as if to hush and illumine its tumult of dark passions. He shivered in the gloom of its shadow as he went up a driveway and rang a bell. The warden received him kindly.
"I wish to see Roderick Darrel,—-he is my friend,' said Trove, as he gave the warden a letter.
"Come with me," said the official, presently. "He is talking to the men."
They passed through gloomy corridors to the chapel door. Trove halted to compose himself, for now he could hear the voice of Darrel.
"Let me stand here a while—I cannot go in now," he whispered.