“Get up, lazy thing!” Madge ordered, springing from bed and taking all the covers with her. “I feel like a swim this morning.”
They slipped into bathing suits and dashed down to the beach. Madge plunged boldly into the cold water and swam away with powerful crawl strokes. Anne timidly waded out knee depth and stood there shivering.
“Come on, don’t be afraid to get your ears wet!” Madge challenged.
Under her direction, Anne lost some of her timidity but she found it difficult to entirely forget her recent water fright. Before the swim ended she was able to float on her back and splash about with some resemblance to a stroke.
The water was too cold to encourage a long swim but it did stimulate two healthy appetites. After a brisk rub down, the girls did justice to a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, toast and wild strawberries in thick cream.
“And now, let’s have a look at that old log,” Madge proposed.
She led the way to the place where she had found the silverware. The ground in the vicinity of the log was slightly damp and Madge noticed footprints. She bent down to examine them. Nearly all had been made from her own small shoe, but there were a few indistinct ones, left in the soft earth by a man’s tread.
“Here’s the missing knife!” Anne cried jubilantly. “You must have dropped it on the trail.”
Next the girls carefully investigated the inside of the log but it was empty. They tried to follow the footsteps leading away from the vicinity, only to lose the trail before they had gone a quarter of the way to the beach.
“I’d give plenty to know who took my silver,” Anne remarked as they returned to the house. “And I’d give even more to know if the thief really got away with anything valuable—the formula for instance.”
“I doubt it. My own opinion is that it will take a master mind to unearth it.”
After the breakfast dishes had been disposed of, the girls set about searching once more for the missing paper. They looked in every out-of-the-way cranny in the house and even poked into the attic; they emptied old trunks and boxes of rubbish. At last, weary and discouraged, they gave up.
“It’s no use,” Anne said miserably. “If Father ever wrote out that formula, it’s gone. The next time I see Mr. Brownell I’ll tell him he is only wasting his time to remain here.”
“Let’s go fishing and forget it,” Madge proposed suddenly. “If I think about formulas and silverware and what-not much longer, I’ll go crazy. Let’s go to Elf Lake on an all-day picnic.”
Anne fell in with the plan for she too was tired of trying to solve problems which appeared to have no solution. They agreed to meet at Black Rock at one o’clock since Madge must return home to acquaint Mrs. Brady with details of the trip. On her way back to the lodge she stopped at the lookout to inquire of Jack if they might use his boat which was kept at Elf Lake.
“Of course,” he assured her heartily. “You know you didn’t need to ask.”
Promptly at one o’clock Madge arrived at Black Rock to find Anne already waiting.
“We’ll not need to carry the canoe across the portage,” she informed Anne. “Jack left a boat there last week when he was doing ranger work. We’ll only have our oars to carry.”
The girls paddled until they came to a tiny cove which was distinguished by two large white birch trees, marking the portage trail. There they pulled their canoe out upon the beach and set off through the woods, carrying oars and fishing equipment. The portage was a long mile but the girls were accustomed to hiking and took it at a brisk pace.
Soon they came within sight of Elf Lake which glimmered brightly in the afternoon sun. At first they could find no sign of Jack’s boat but when they were about to despair Madge located it under a pile of brush near the water. They quickly launched it and rowed to the far side of the lake, anchoring near a stretch of lily pads.
“Now, old Mr. Bass, just sample my bait!” Madge coaxed.
Time and time again the girls cast into the weeds and lily pads, using all manner of appetizing worms, pork rind and artificial bait but for some reason, their efforts went unrewarded. They changed locations with no better luck.
“The fish in this lake must all have post graduate degrees,” Madge complained. “At least, they’re too foxy for me.”
After several hours under the blazing sun Anne was thoroughly discouraged but Madge would not give up. And then as the sun was sinking low, she was rewarded with a strike. She played her fish deftly and landed him. Anne had no time to applaud for a frisky bass had attached himself to her line at the identical moment.
After that, the fishing was good. The girls became so enthusiastic that they failed to notice how rapidly the sun was sinking. Madge was the first to observe that it was growing dark.
“Anne, we must start back this minute!” she exclaimed. “The sun has set and it will be pitch dark before we get through the portage.”
They rowed hurriedly to shore and left the boat where they had found it. Almost at a run they started down the trail. It was far darker in the forest than upon the lake. The path was not distinct. Though Madge had been over it any number of times, she knew it would be difficult to follow.
“Let’s run,” Anne suggested anxiously.
The oars and string of fish encumbered them and they soon were forced to a slow walk. Before they had gone far into the forest, darkness closed in. Madge took the lead, and more from instinct than sight, kept to the trail. Presently, she noticed that the going was more difficult. Vines and old stumps were always in the way; there seemed no distinct opening through the trees.
“We’re lost!” she thought in panic.
She tried to remain calm and not communicate her fear to Anne who was blindly following her lead. She went on for a time but presently encountered such a tangle of bushes and vines that to turn back was the only course. They tried to retrace their steps. Anne was on the verge of tears.
“We’ll be here all night,” she murmured apprehensively.
“No, we won’t,” Madge insisted stubbornly. “We’ll get out, only I think we’re wasting time trying to find the trail. If we cut straight through the woods in the direction we’re going we should strike Loon Lake eventually.”
Anne who was hopelessly confused in her directions was ready to follow wherever her chum led. Madge tried not to disclose that she too was uncertain. They kept close together, walking as swiftly as possible. Frequently, they tripped over vines or stumps and once Anne sank nearly to her knees in a muck hole.
“I can’t go much farther,” she half sobbed.
“Yes, you can,” Madge encouraged. “I think I see an opening through the trees. Yes, I do! It’s the lake!”
Anne found the strength to continue and soon they emerged at the shore. They looked about and saw that they were less than two hundred yards from the portage trail.
“Well, of all the stupidity!” Madge exclaimed and laughed. “We were only a few steps from the trail most of the time.”
“I thought we were in an African jungle,” Anne sighed wearily.
They followed the shore until they came to their canoe. Madge insisted upon paddling for Anne was even more tired than she.
“It’s fortunate Aunt Maude doesn’t expect me back home,” she remarked as they pushed off. “Otherwise, she would have a searching party out looking for us.”
Both were relieved when they came within sight of Stewart Island for their only desire was to tumble into bed and sleep the clock around. They were still several hundred yards from the landing when Madge stopped paddling and peered intently ahead.
“Anne,” she said in a low tone, “unless I’m dreaming, I saw a light just then. Someone is at the island.”
Anne turned to look. She too caught the flash of a lantern moving slowly along the shore.
“It must be Jack French or Bill Ramey,” she said with an attempt at carelessness. “I’ll call.”
Her voice carried clearly out over the water but no answering call greeted the
“hallo.” The light stopped moving, as though its owner had turned to survey the lake. Then the lantern went out.
CHAPTER VIII
A Night Caller
It was too dark for the girls to distinguish objects either on the water or along the shore, but a moment after the light went out they distinctly heard the sound of oars working in their locks. Apparently, someone was trying to get away from the island before their arrival.
“Let’s find out who it is,” Madge said in a low tone.
She snatched up the paddle again and sent the canoe skimming through the water. Presently she paused to listen.
“I can’t hear a thing now, Anne. Can you?”
“No, the boat must have pulled up along the mainland somewhere. I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”
Anne paddled slowly along the shore, peering toward the dense fringe of trees and underbrush. There was no sign of a boat.
“We’ve probably passed it by this time,” Madge said at last. “If the boat has been drawn up into the brush we could hunt all night and never find it.”
They cruised about for some minutes but finally turned back toward Stewart Island, convinced that they were only wasting time. Even after they had landed there, they stood for nearly fifteen minutes on the beach, watching for the mysterious boat to reappear upon the lake.
“He means to lie low,” Anne declared wearily. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starved.”
“I wonder if the house has been entered again?” Madge considered, as they started up the path carrying their string of fish.
“Well, I hope it isn’t turned topsy-turvy. I’m too tired to lift a hand tonight.”
They let themselves into the house and were relieved to find it in its usual order. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed.
“Perhaps it was only old Bill Ramey, after all,” Anne suggested. “He acts queerly sometimes.”
“It wasn’t Bill,” Madge insisted. “I’m sure of that. It may have been that thief returning for the silver he hid in the log.”
“That doesn’t fit in with our theory about the formula,” Anne pointed out. “We decided that the silverware was only taken to throw us off the track. Why then, would the thief risk coming back for it?”
“I guess he wouldn’t. Oh, I give it up. Let’s eat!”
She cleaned several of the bass, which soon were sizzling in a pan of butter. The girls ate heartily. They were too tired to wash the dishes, so stacked them neatly in the sink. When they dropped into bed a few minutes later, they were too weary to even consider that with a stranger prowling about, their situation might not be too secure. Scarcely had their heads touched the pillow than they were asleep.
The girls were awake early the next morning. Insisting that she could not remain for breakfast, Madge started for home. Rounding the point of the mainland not far from the lodge, her attention was attracted to an empty boat which was drifting close to shore.
“Why, that looks like one of ours,” she thought.
Drawing nearer, she saw that it was her uncle’s skiff. The waves were pounding it mercilessly upon the rocks.
“I’m afraid it’s already damaged,” she told herself as she fastened the rope to her own boat. “It must not have been securely tied to the dock. I wonder who used it last?”
She decided that it must have been either Clyde Wendell or Mr. Brownell, for her aunt seldom went out on the water and Mr. Brady was always careful. Old Bill had been warned repeatedly to see that the boats were firmly tied, but he was careless.
Mr. Brady was working along the shore when Madge came in with the boat in tow. He met the girl at the dock, asking where she had found it.
“I noticed the boat was missing this morning,” he added. “I told Bill to go out and look for it, but he’s been killing time at something or other.”
Mr. Brady pulled the boat out upon the sand and turned it bottom side up. Madge watched him as he examined the covering for stone cuts.
“Who used it last?” she asked curiously.
“I’d like to know myself,” her uncle returned grimly. “I didn’t rent it to any of the guests. Either someone sneaked it out after dark last night, or Bill used it. If I thought he was responsible, I’d fire him. This boat is practically ruined.”
“You’ve discharged poor old Bill three times already,” Madge reminded him impishly. “When he tells you his hard luck story, you always take him back.”
At this very moment the veteran workman slouched leisurely into view and Mr. Brady promptly hailed him. Old Bill approached warily, knowing from the tone of the voice, that something unpleasant was in store. Confronted with the evidence, he staunchly denied having used the boat the previous night.
“You think I’d go out on the lake after toting stone all day? Not me! I tell ye, a man’s dog tired arfter workin’ hard from mornin’ till night. An’ if I had a taken out the boat, you’d heve found it tied up ship-shape. No, sir, arfter I had me supper last night, I went straight to bed.”
He would have continued with a more elaborate denial but Mr. Brady cut him short. Bill went off looking affronted.
To question the guests was a delicate matter, but Mr. Brady was bent upon getting at the bottom of the matter. He politely brought up the subject at the dinner table, and both the chemist and Mr. Brownell insisted that they had not used the boat.
“Someone is telling a whopper,” Madge thought. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the person who took that boat used it to visit Stewart Island.”
Although the question had been put to him in a casual way, Clyde adopted the attitude that he was under suspicion. He sulked about the house the early part of the afternoon, scarcely addressing a pleasant word to anyone. Then, evidently upon sudden impulse, he rented the canoe and set out for Stewart Island.
Mr. Brownell who had been loafing about the lodge the better part of the morning, did not see him leave, but a few minutes later, he too expressed a desire to go out upon the lake. Madge explained that with the skiff damaged, the canoe in use, and Bill hauling stone in the boat, it would be impossible.
“But I must get over to Stewart Island,” he protested. “I’ve put it off too long now.”
“Unless you care to swim I’m afraid you must wait until Bill or Clyde return,” Madge returned.
She did not wish to help Mr. Brownell reach Stewart Island, knowing that Anne was not ready for his visit, but she had been truthful in saying that there was no way for him to make the trip.
“Anne will have trouble enough with Clyde,” she thought. “I imagine he’s bothering her about money again.”
Mr. Brownell wandered restlessly up and down the beach, watching the lake for a glimpse of the canoe or Old Bill. After a time he sat down on the veranda to read and Madge who had finished her work, brought out the books Anne had loaned her. Until now she had not had an opportunity to look them over. Propping herself in the porch swing, she settled down for an hour of pleasant reading.
She picked up the first volume and her face underwent a distinct change as she read the title of the Kipling book.
“Kim,” she repeated to herself. “Strange I never thought of the connection before this! I’m sure Anne said Kim was the last word her father spoke before his death.”
She continued to stare at the little volume in her hand. The word seemed to burn deeply into her mind. It must have significance. She recalled Anne had told her the Kipling book was her father’s favorite. Could there be a connection between the hidden formula and the book?
“Anne probably never dreamed of such a thing or she wouldn’t have loaned the volume to me,” Madge reasoned. “It may be only another wild idea of mine and yet it’s barely possible I’ve stumbled upon a clue.”
She held the book up and shook it but nothing fell to the ground. Slightly disappointed, she began a systematic search, turning the pages one by one. She failed to find a paper of any description and there was not the slightest trace of writing on the margins or fly leaves.
<
br /> Madge decided that she had made a mistake and tossed the book impatiently aside. Her interest in reading had vanished. She gazed meditatively out across the lake. Then her face brightened and she snatched up the Kipling book again.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? When Mr. Faraday had attempted to tell Anne where the formula was hidden he had broken off with the words: “Written in secret—” and kept repeating Kim. Perhaps he had tried to say: “Written in secret ink.” Wasn’t it possible that he had endeavored to convey the idea that the important message was written on one of the fly leaves or the page margins of Kim?
Overcome with enthusiasm for what she considered a most brilliant deduction, Madge broke forth in a little war whoop. She stopped short as she heard someone laugh. She had entirely forgotten Mr. Brownell.
“Well, well,” he remarked dryly, “that book must be interesting to affect you like that!”
Before Madge could prevent it, he moved over to the swing and curiously picked up the book she had been reading. Her face was the hue of a ripe tomato.
“I guess I’ll just take this along with me,” he said teasingly.
“Oh, no!” Madge exclaimed and then added hastily: “You see, it’s a borrowed book. I—I’m not through with it myself.”
Mr. Brownell laughed but he continued to study the book.
“When you’re through with it, I’d like to have it,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to read Kim.”
With that he dropped the book into Madge’s lap and vanished into the lodge. Scarcely had the door closed behind him that she snatched up the little volume and bore it triumphantly to her bedroom.
“Sorry, Mr. Brownell,” she chuckled, “but you’ll never get this book. Tonight I mean to take it with me to the island. And here’s hoping that when the pages are heated, the secret will be revealed!”
CHAPTER IX
A Significant Title
Madge was impatient to tell Anne her new theory regarding the missing formula but it was not easy to get away early that evening. Bill did not return with his load of stone until nearly dark, and Clyde Wendell, who had a habit of being late for meals, failed to appear until supper was nearly finished. Then he lingered over his coffee long after the others had gone outside. When he finally joined them on the veranda, Madge snatched the dishes from the table and had them in and out of the pan in a twinkling.
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