“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.
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.
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. Fairaday 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 secretink.” 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!”
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.
It was growing dark as she flew to her room for the things she meant to take with her to the island. She wrapped up a small bundle and tucked “Kim” under her arm.
Mr. Brownell and the chemist were arguing about something but they broke off as she crossed the veranda.
“That book must have a fascination,” the former remarked jokingly. “Do you sleep with it under your pillow, Miss Sterling?”
“What book?” Clyde asked.
She pretended not to hear but Mr. Brownell supplied the title.
“‘Kim,’” the chemist repeated. “Did I understand you correctly?”
Madge did not care to be drawn into the conversation nor did she wish to answer questions about the book. Without waiting for Mr. Brownell’s reply, she hastily made her way down to the lake.
Anne was waiting for her when she reached the island and immediately plunged into an account of Clyde’s afternoon visit.
“He made a dreadful scene, Madge. He said he’d give me just two days and if I don’t turn over five hundred dollars by that time, he’ll bring court action. I’m so worried I don’t know what to do.”
“Do nothing,” Madge advised. “He knows he can’t get anywhere if it comes to a legal fight. He’s only trying to bluff you, Anne. Sometimes, I think it wasn’t the money that brought him here at all.”
“So do I. All the time he was talking with me this afternoon, he kept looking around and sort of studying things.”
“Did he seem particularly interested in the library?”
“Why, he asked me if I had considered selling my books as a means of raising money. I told him I didn’t think they would bring much.”
“He didn’t ask you about that Kipling book you loaned me, did he?”
Anne shook her head. “Why?”
Madge lost no time in explaining her theory of the connection between the title and the words Mr. Fairaday had spoken at the time of his death. She half expected Anne to laugh at the idea, but instead, she became excited.
“Madge, you’re nothing less than a genius! Why didn’t I think of that myself?”
“It’s only a hunch. I may be wrong.”
“Everything fits in beautifully. ‘Kim’ was Father’s favorite book. And another thing, he was always interested in codes, secret inks and the like. During the war he worked for the government, deciphering messages which were thought to have been composed by spies. He was especially interested in secret inks.”
“Then we may be on the right track,” Madge declared enthusiastically. “The only way we can tell is to try to bring out the secret writing, if there is any.”
“That’s easy to do. Let’s go to the laboratory right now and see what we can do.”
With high spirits they raced up the stairs to Mr. Fairaday’s workroom. Anne brought out an alcohol lamp which she lighted.
“I don’t know the first thing about heating the pages,” Madge confessed. “Aren’t you afraid we’ll burn them?”
Anne shook her head. She had aided her father with any number of minor experiments and knew how to handle laboratory apparatus. However, she was so excited and hopeful that her hand trembled as she held the first fly leaf above the flame. She moved it slowly back and forth.
“Nothing seems to be coming up,” Madge observed in disappointment.
“We’re only starting.”
Anne worked patiently, heating the blank pages and the front and back of the book. When the final sheet did not reveal the secret, her confidence fell. Madge suggested that they try the margins and they took turns warming the printed pages. At length Anne passed the last sheet over the lamp. They watched with bated breath. Nothing came up.
“Oh, Madge, I’m so disappointed I could cry,” she wailed, sinking down into a chair. “I was so sure we were right.”
“So was I.”
“This book was absolutely our last hope. If Mr. Brownell comes here tomorrow I must tell him the truth. I’ve kept him waiting so long he’ll be justified in feeling I’ve tricked him. Oh, dear! Why did I get into such a position?”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Madge relapsed into thoughtful silence. At length she said: “I think Clyde is trying to sell Mr. Brownell a formula of his own.”
“I suppose he’ll succeed where I have failed. His formula may not be half as good as Father’s, yet if Mr. Brownell learns there is no hope of getting it he may deal with Clyde.”
Madge acknowledged the truth of this. She had hoped matters might work out to Anne’s advantage but luck had never been with her. To admit defeat seemed the only course.
It was nearly midnight and the girls were tired as well as discouraged. They put aside the apparatus and went to their bedroom, leaving the book lying on the laboratory table. Few words were spoken as they prepared for bed. Anne blew out the light and soon was asleep.
Madge rolled and tossed and remained wide awake. Try as she would, she could not take her mind from the perplexing problem of the formula. She had no real hope of working out a solution yet she kept turning the matter over and over in her mind. Then like a flash, the answer came!
“Anne! Anne!” she cried jubilantly, shaking her chum rudely by the shoulder. “I’ve thought of it at last!”
Anne rolled over in bed and groaned.
“What did you say?” she murmured drowsily.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” Madge said, shaking her again. “I’ve had another inspiration about the formula.”
At the word “formula” which was magic to her ears, Anne sat upright, ready to listen.
“We’ve been hopeless duds trying to bring out the secret writing by heating the pages of the book!” Madge declared.
“And you awakened me to tell me that? Of all the—”
“I’m not through. Remember, you said your Father knew a great deal about secret inks and the like.”
“He was a government specialist,” Anne corrected; “He probably knew as much about secret inks as any man in Washington.”
Madge nodded eagerly.
“Exactly. And here we’ve been working on the theory that he would use the most simple means of hidden writing. Why, you can write with milk and bring it out by heating the paper. Any school child knows that.”
“Father always had an aversion to the obvious thing too,” Anne declared, catching her friend’s trend of thought. “He probably used the very latest method of secret writing.”
“That’s the conclusion I reached,” Madge announced eagerly. “I’m willing to wager that the formula is written in ‘Kim’ if only we can find the right method of bringing it out!”
“I’m sure I don’t know the way,” Anne returned. “You can’t find that sort of information in books either—that is, not the latest processes.”
“You don’t know anyone who might help us?”
“Clyde Wendell, if he would.”
“Let’s count him out. He wouldn’t help a blind man.”
“Then I fear—oh, wait! I just thought of a man who worked with Father in the Washington bureau. He knows everything about codes and ciphers and secret inks.”
“Can you reach him?”
“Why, I could write to Washington. I believe he’s still with the government.”
“That would take ages,” Madge protested. “We must have quick action or Mr. Brownell will leave. Why not telegraph?”
“I can,” Anne agreed instantly. “Why, where are you going?” she demanded as Madge slid out of bed.
“I’m going back to the laboratory after ‘Kim.’ It would be just our luck to have it stolen during the night. No use taking chances.”
Anne would not permit her to go alone so together they stole down the dark hallway. The floor creaked beneath their feet and the light from the lamp made weird shadows dance on the plaster walls.
To their relief they found the book where they had left it. For the remainder of the night they slept with it under Anne’s pillow.
At the first sign of dawn they arose and dressed. They planned to go to Luxlow as soon after breakfast as they could find means of transportation and the question arose as to what should be done with the book.
“I don’t like to leave it here while we’re gone,” Anne said. “The house has been entered once and we saw a prowler around at night. Why don’t you take it back to the lodge?”
“I’d prefer not to have the responsibility.”
“Do keep it, Madge. I’ll not have a comfortable moment if we leave it here.”
Unwillingly, Madge allowed herself to be persuaded. Shortly after eight o’clock, they locked the house and crossed the lake to the Brady lodge. Neither Mr. Brownell nor Clyde Wendell were abroad for they were late risers. The girls went to Madge’s room for her coat and hat and while there decided that for the time being “Kim” would be safe in the lower bureau drawer. They covered the book with a layer of clothing.
“No one ever comes in here save Aunt Maude and she wouldn’t think of disturbing anything,” Madge said.
How to get to Luxlow was the next problem for Mr. Brady had taken the car away early that morning. However, learning that one of the rangers was driving in, they received permission to ride with him. Madge rather wished that Jack might have been the one to take them but he was busy surveying a new road which the government intended to put through the forest.
Enroute to town the girls busied themselves with the telegram they intended to dispatch to the man in Washington. Anne had found his address on an old envelope in her father’s files. It was not easy to explain what they wanted to know in a few words without sounding utterly ridiculous. After several trials, the message finally suited them. Arriving at Luxlow, they sent it off and purchased supplies which Mrs. Brady had requested. The last item on the list she had given Madge, read: “magazines for Bill.”
“He always wants the cheapest kind,” she told Anne. “I have a notion to take him a few high-brow ones for a change.”
“He’ll never forgive you if you do.”
They sought a street stand which displayed magazines of all type. With considerable embarrassment they selected a half dozen of the melodramatic sort and Madge actually blushed as she paid the salesgirl.
“The next time, Bill buys his own trash or he goes without!” she fumed. “Did you see the pitying look that girl gave us? She thought we wanted them for ourselves.”
They walked slowly down the street, Madge carrying the magazines so that the jackets would not be noticed by the passersby. They were within sight of the ranger’s parked automobile when Anne heard her name called. She turned and saw Jake Curtis.
It was too late to retreat. They could only wait and face the music.
“I went out to Stewart Island last week to see you, Miss Fairaday,” the man began in an unpleasant tone. “You were gone.”
“I must have been at the Brady lodge,” Anne replied uneasily. “Or perhaps it was the day we went fishing. If I had known you were coming—”
“You’d have been away just the same!” the man finished harshly. “Well, I warn you it will do you no good to try to avoid me. I mean business. The mortgage must be paid by the first.”
“This isn’t the first,” Anne reminded him. “I have several days yet.”
“Not to sell the house, you haven’t. I’ll give you just twenty-four hours to decide what you want to do. I’ll wipe off the mortgage and give you five hundred dollars for the house and island. But the offer only holds until tomorrow noon.”
“It’s robbery!” Anne protested.
“Take it or leave it,” he retorted, and turning, walked away.
“My! My! Is Jake Curtis important?” Madge mocked. “Take it or leave it! I wish you had told him to jump in the lake!”
“I fear I’m at his mercy,” Anne returned in a disheartened tone. “What can I do in twenty-four hours? I can’t borrow enough money to pay off the mortgage. And if I sold the house and island at public auction it probably wouldn’t bring enough to get me out of debt.”
“Jake would see to that,” Madge said feelingly. “He has underhanded ways of managing things. But don’t take it so hard, Anne. We’ll find some way to best him.”
“The formula was my only chance of raising money and we couldn’t possibly unearth it in twenty-four hours.”
“That man in Washington may wire right back.”
“And again, he may never answer,” Anne added gloomily. “Oh, well, it does no good to moan. Let’s go back to the car.”
The girls reached the Brady lodge in time for a late luncheon. Learning that Mr. Brownell had gone fishing again and that Clyde Wendell had not been seen since breakfast, Madge persuaded Anne to remain for a few hours.
They had lunch and then sat on the veranda. As usual the conversation turned to the missing formula and to the book which they hoped would disclose the secret. Madge brought it from the house and they looked at it again. While they were pouring over the pages, Mrs. Brady came outside to suggest that Madge take the newly purchased magazines to Bill’s cabin.
“He’s laid up with rheumatism again today,” she explained, “and I know he’ll appreciate something to read.”
“Rheumatism, like fun!” Madge laughed as she arose to do her aunt’s bidding. “I notice his attacks always come on the days when Uncle George has planned a hard day’s work. You’re both too easy on him.”
She accepted the magazines, and with Anne, who still had the book in her hand, walked a short distance through the woods to Bill’s cabin. From afar they glimpsed the old workman smoking his pipe on the porch but he quickly vanished inside as he saw them coming. When they knocked, a muffled voice bade them enter.
They entered the room to see Bill stretched on his bunk, his face twisted with pain.
“Thet you, Miss Madge?” he mumbled, making an exaggerated effort to lift himself to a sitting position. “If Mr. Brady sent you to find out how I be, you kin tell him I ain’t no better. My back’s nigh to killin’ me. I didn’t git a wink o’ sleep last night and this mornin’ seems like me poor old body—”
“Never mind,” Madge interrupted. “Uncle George didn’t send me. I brought these magazines for you.”
Bill’s face brightened. He swung his feet to the floor with alacrity, then remembering his ailment, groaned and told Madge to leave the magazines on the table.
“I won’t be doin’ much readin’ fer several days yet,” he mumbled. “I’ll jes’ lie here quiet like and try to git me strength back.”
The girls soon left, but mischievously hid themselves behind a tree only a short ways from the cabin. Before long, Old Bill’s tousled head was thrust cautiously out the door. Seeing that the coast was clear he took up his seat in the sun and soon was lost in the depth of a bloodcurdling detective story. The girls stole quietly away.
“It’s always that way,” Madge declared. “For every honest day of labor he does, Bill rests six! I guess at that we couldn’t get along without him.”
Taking a different trail through the woods, the girls presently came to a newly constructed two-room log cabin.
“Uncle George plans to rent it out later in the summer,” Madge explained. “It’s all finished now.”
“Is it nice inside?”
“Lovely. I’ll open it up and show you.”
Madge dashed off through the woods, returned in a few minutes with the key, which after a few unsuccessful turns, unlocked the cabin door. The rooms had been furnished with rustic furniture that Mr. Brady had made himself. The unpainted log walls gave off a pleasant, fresh odor. Madge pointed out the huge stone fireplace.
“Bill will be proud of this until his dying day. He can tell you the number of stones in it too.”
“How did you ever keep him at it long enough to get it done?”
“It was a problem. Uncle George supervised the work, of course. Even then, Bill made several mistakes in placing the stones. See—” she indicated a deep ledge, well-hidden up the chimney. “No one knows why he did that. The chimney may not draw right now.”
“Madge, how long before this cabin will be used?” Anne asked suddenly.
“Probably not for a month or so. Why?”
“I was thinking—this ledge is made to order!” Anne glanced at the book she still carried in her hand. “We must hide ‘Kim’ somewhere. Why wouldn’t this shelf be an ideal place?”
“Perhaps it would. No one ever comes here now the cabin is finished. The key is kept in the kitchen cupboard and the windows are always locked from the inside. The only danger might be that someone would start a fire to test the chimney. And if Uncle George should decide to do that, I could rescue the book.”
“Let’s hide it here then, Madge. Somehow, I don’t feel that it is very safe in your bureau drawer.”
“Neither do I, with so many guests around. But I’m not convinced this is such a safe place either. I’d feel better if you took the book back home with you.”
“No, I’d much rather you kept it. And we can’t ask for a better place than this shelf. Who would think of looking here? It’s well hidden and the book just fits the space.”
Anne thrust an exploratory hand up the chimney. As she observed, the ledge seemed to have been built for “Kim.”
“I suppose we may as well leave it there,” Madge said, a trifle reluctantly. “At any rate, the book will be safer than in my bureau drawer.”
They left the cabin, locking the door behind them. Madge cast an uneasy glance about the clearing. “You—you didn’t hear anything?” she asked.
“Hear anything? Why, no. What do you mean?”
Madge did not reply immediately for her sharp eyes were searching the line of trees which circled about the little cabin. Gradually, the tense lines of her face relaxed.
“Just as we came out, I thought I saw someone—right close to the cabin. For a minute, I was sure I heard a stick crackle.”
“Imagination!” Anne laughed. “The responsibility of keeping the book is making you nervous.”
“I guess so. Still, this hiding place doesn’t entirely suit me. Let’s go back and get it!”
“Nonsense!” Anne protested. “The place is all right. No use treating that book as though it were a bag of gold. Come along. I must be getting on home.”
Reluctantly, Madge permitted herself to be led away.
“All right,” she gave in, “but if anything happens, don’t blame me!”
For the first time in many nights Madge slept at home. Although she would not have admitted it, “Kim” was responsible for her reluctance to return with Anne to Stewart Island. She did not retire until after the guests had gone to their rooms, and then tossed restlessly. Finally she dozed off, only to be awakened by an unusual sound.
She sat up in bed. The house was quiet but she was sure she had heard someone stumble over a chair in the kitchen. Ordinarily, she would have gone back to sleep. Instead, she thought of the key in the cupboard. What if it were stolen?
Slipping into a dressing gown, she stole quietly downstairs. On the bottom step she paused and listened. She heard someone moving about. Then distinctly, but very softly, a door closed.
Now thoroughly alarmed, Madge hurried to the kitchen. Groping about, she found a lamp and lighted it. To her relief, the key still hung on its hook in the cupboard.
“My imagination is getting the best of me!” she chuckled. “I’d have sworn someone was down here. I more than half expected the key to be gone.”
She returned to her bedroom, taking the key with her. Placing it carefully under her pillow she jumped into bed and soon was fast asleep.
In the morning her fears seemed ridiculous, so when she made her bed, she returned the key to its old place in the kitchen.
Directly after breakfast, Mr. Brady left the lodge, saying that he must examine some timber land and would not return until nightfall. Mrs. Brady was confined to her room with a headache and Mr. Brownell had taken one of the boats and rowed away toward Stewart Island. That left only Clyde who loitered about the kitchen while Madge fried doughnuts.
“You’re not a bad cook,” he complimented, helping himself to a crisp, brown fried cake. “This one tastes a little soggy though.”
“I’d think it would after you’ve eaten six,” Madge observed.
She was glad when he finally left the kitchen. Dipping the last doughnut in sugar, she too slipped outside and was just in time to sight Jack French paddling toward the beach in his canoe.
“Hello, Jack,” she greeted, “I haven’t seen you in days.”
“Well, the government didn’t plant us in the forest for ornaments, you know,” he replied cheerfully. “I just returned from Luxlow where they gave me a message for Anne. Since you two stick together like burrs I thought I might find her here.”
“I haven’t seen her today,” Madge returned, an eager note creeping into her voice. “It isn’t a wire from Washington?”
“I can’t say, but it is a telegram. It may be important so I’ll be paddling along.”
“I’m going over to the island before long. If you like, I can take the message.”
“I know you want to find out what it’s all about,” he teased, handing over the yellow envelope. “Oh, well, I’ll be glad to be saved the trip. On your way.”
Madge lost no time in going to the island. She marched into the kitchen where Anne was working, waving the telegram triumphantly.
“It’s not an answer to our wire?” Anne demanded hopefully.
“It must be. Open it quick before my nervous system explodes!”
Anne’s hand shook so that it was difficult for her to rip open the envelope. Her face was a study as she scanned the message. Then she fairly glowed with pleasure.
“Oh, it is from that Washington man!”
“What does he say?”