at the Royal Alexandry" gave way to a comforting silence--a silence
broken only by a growing clatter of dishes, the subdued wheezing of the
engines, and the raucous voice of a train-man telling the baggage-man
that the hump between his shoulders was not a head but a knot kindly
tied there by his Creator to keep him from unravelling. Even the promise
of a fight--at least of a blow or two delivered in the gray gloom of the
baggage-man's door--did not turn David from his quest. When he returned,
a few minutes later, two or three sympathetic friends were nursing the
baggage-man back into consciousness. He was about to pass the group when
some one gripped his arm, and a familiar and joyous chuckle sounded in
his ear. Father Roland stood beside him.

"Dear Father in Heaven, but it was a _terrible_ blow, David!" cried the
Little Missioner, his face dancing in the flare of the baggage-room
lamps. "It was a tre_men_dous blow--straight out from his shoulders like
a battering ram, and hard as rock! It put him to sleep like a baby. Did
you see it?"

"I didn't," said David, staring at the other in amazement.

"He deserved it," explained Father Roland. "I love to see a good, clean
blow when it's delivered in the right, David. I've seen the time when a
hard fist was worth more than a preacher and his prayers." He was
chuckling delightedly as they turned back to the train. "The baggage is
arranged for," he added. "They'll put us off together at the
Frenchman's."

David had slipped the thin packet into his pocket. He no longer felt so
keenly the desire to tell Father Roland about the woman--at least not at
the present time. His quest had been futile. The woman had disappeared