CHAPTER XIV.

MY WELCOME TO CANADA





The voyage across the Atlantic was long and uneventful. No whales,
no icebergs, no excitement of any sort. My fellow-passengers said
it was as dull as it was calm. But as for me, I had plenty to occupy
my mind meanwhile. Strange things had happened in the interval, and
were happening to me on the way. Strange things, in part, of my own
internal history.

For before I left England, as I sat with Aunt Emma in her little
drawing-room at Barton-on-the-Sea, discussing my plans and devising
routes westward, she made me, quite suddenly, an unexpected
confession.

"Una," she said, after a long pause, "you haven't told me, my dear,
why you're going to Canada. And I don't want to ask you. I know
pretty well. We needn't touch upon that. You're going to hunt up
some supposed clue to the murderer."

"Perhaps so, Auntie," I said oracularly: "and perhaps not."

For I didn't want it to get talked about and be put into all the