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Updated: May 28, 2025
"What?" Macartney never spoke loud, yet it cracked out. I nodded. "I mean he's dead, poor chap! They found his body in Lac Tremblant this morning." And suddenly I knew I was staring at Macartney. His capable face was always pale, but in one second it had gone ghastly. It came over me that he had known old Thompson all his life, and I blurted involuntarily, "I'm sorry, Macartney!"
"What on earth is Skunk's Misery?" "A village at least, a den of dirt, chiefly; off this road, between Caraquet and Lac Tremblant." I was thankful to have something to think about that was neither her, or me, or Dudley.
"I'm a fool Lac Tremblant never bears, of course," she said quite quietly. "Go on, Mr. Stretton. Only don't stop, if anything goes wrong with me!" "Nothing will go wrong," said I, just as if I believed it.
After I'd used him, two of my men drowned him in Lac Tremblant and you'd never have guessed a word about it, if it hadn't been for his cursed card they overlooked in the shack here, where you found it. It was I put that bottle in your wagon the day it broke there. I did it before I knew Paulette was going to drive with you; that was the only thing in the whole business that ever gave me a scare!
Only I don't see how he ever got there unless he was coming back, from wherever he'd been outside, by Lac Tremblant instead of your road!" "Where was his canoe?" "He didn't have any! But you know that lake it might have smashed his canoe on him like an egg, and then just by chance put him ashore!"
The Frenchwoman's son was one of the men arrested in Quebec province for using wolf dope: a handsome, elusive devil who sometimes haunted the lumber woods at the lower end of Lac Tremblant, trapping or robbing traps as seemed good to him, and paying back interruptions with such interest that no one was keen to interfere with him.
Her warm arms hold me convulsively.... O tremblant coeur humain.... Who could resist such an embrace, amid the soft perfumes, in the langorous night? I feel myself a being without will. Is this my voice, the voice which is murmuring: "Ask me what you will, and I will do it, I will do it." My senses are sharpened, tenfold keen. My head rests against a soft, nervous little knee.
The deuce of hearts was written on closely, finely and legibly with indelible pencil. And as I read the short sentences, word by word, I knew Thompson had never got to Caraquet, never got anywhere but to the cave under the very lean-to I knelt in till he had been brought up from it, here to be taken away and drowned in Lac Tremblant, as a decent man would not drown a dog!
In the beginning of this story I said what Lac Tremblant was like. It was a lake that was no lake; that should have been our water-way out of the bush instead of miles of expensive road; and was no more practicable than a rope ladder to the stars. For the depth of Lac Tremblant, or its fairway, were two things no man might count on.
"Billy Jones found him drowned in Lac Tremblant; it was an accident," I exclaimed sharply, before she could come out with more about shooting and wolf bait, and perhaps herself, than I chose any one to know, till I knew it first. And I saw the blood flash into her face as it had flashed into mine at the sight of her. "Oh, I thought Mr. Macartney meant he'd been murdered," she returned faintly.
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