“It’s all very strange and mysterious,” she told herself, “but somehow, sometime, it will all come out right.”
As she sat there absorbed in her own thoughts, she suddenly became conscious of the fact that the child at her side was silently weeping.
“Why!” she exclaimed, “what are you crying for? You are going back to your cottage and to your kind old man.”
“The book,” whispered the child; “it is gone. I can never return it.”
A sudden impulse seized Lucile, an impulse she could scarcely resist. She wanted to take the child in her arms and say:
“Dear little girl, I have the book in my room. I will bring it to you to-morrow.”
She did not say it. She could not. As far as she knew, the old man had no right to the book; it belonged to Frank Morrow.
What she did say was, “I shouldn’t worry any more about it if I were you. I am sure it will come out all right in the end.”
Then, before they knew it, they were off the elevated train and walking toward Tyler street and Lucile was saying to herself, “I wonder what next.” Hand-in-hand the two made their way to the door of the dingy old cottage.
Much to her surprise, just when she had expected to be trudging back to the station alone, Lucile found herself seated by a table in the mystery room. She was sipping a delicious cup of hot chocolate and talking to the mystery child and her mysterious godfather. Every now and again she paused to catch her breath. It was hard for her to realize that she was in the mystery room of the mysterious cottage on Tyler street. Yet there she certainly was. The child had invited her in.
A dim, strangely tinted light cast dark shadows over everything. The strange furniture took on grotesque forms. The titles of the books along the wall gleamed out in a strange manner.
For a full five minutes the child talked to the old man in French. He exclaimed now and then, but other than that took no part in the conversation.
When she had finished, he held out a thin, bony hand to Lucile and said in perfect English:
“Accept my thanks for what you have done to protect this poor little one, my pretty Marie. You are a brave girl and should have a reward. But, alas, I have little to give save my books and they are an inheritance, an inheritance thrice removed. They were my great-grandfather’s and have descended direct to me. One is loath to part with such treasure.”
“There is no need for any reward,” said Lucile quickly. “I did it because I was interested in the child. But,” with a sudden inspiration, “if you wish to do me a favor, tell me the story of your life.”
The man gave her a quick look.
“You are so—so old,” she hastened to add, “and so venerable, so soldier-like, so like General Joffre. Your life must have been a wonderful one.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man settled back in his chair. As if to brush a mist from before his eyes, he made a waving motion with his hand. “Ah, yes, it has been quite wonderful, that is, I may say it once was.
“I was born near a little town named Gondrecourt in the province of Meuse in France. There was a small chateau, very neat and beautiful, with a garden behind it, with a bit of woods and broad acres for cattle and grain. All that was my father’s. It afterwards became mine.
“In one room of the chateau were many, many ancient volumes, some in French, some in English, for my father was a scholar, as also he educated me to be.
“These books were the cream of many generations, some dating back before the time of Columbus.”
Lucile, thinking of the book of ancient Portland charts, allowed her gaze for a second to stray to the shelf where it reposed.
Again the man threw her a questioning look, but once more went on with his narrative of his life in far-off France.
“Of all the treasures of field, garden, woods or chateau, the ones most prized by me were those ancient books. So, year after year I guarded them well, guarded them until an old man, in possession of all that was once my father’s, I used to sit of an evening looking off at the fading hills at eventide with one of those books in my lap.
“Then came the war.” Again his hand went up to dispel the imaginary mist. “The war took my two sons. They never came back. It took my three grandsons. We gave gladly, for was it not our beloved France that was in danger? They, too, never returned.”
The old man’s hand trembled as he brushed away the imaginary mist.
“I borrowed money to give to France. I mortgaged my land, my cattle, my chateau; only my treasure of books I gave no man a chance to take. They must be mine until I died. They of all the treasures I must keep.
“One night,” his voice grew husky, “one night there came a terrible explosion. The earth rocked. Stones of the castle fell all about the yard. The chateau was in ruins. It was a bomb from an airplane.
“Someway the library was not touched. It alone was safe. How thankful I was that it was so. It was now all that was left.
“I took my library to a small lodging in the village. Then, when the war was ended, I packed all my books in strong boxes and started for Paris.”
He paused. His head sank upon his breast. His lips quivered. It was as if he were enduring over again some great sorrow.
“Perhaps,” he said after a long time, “one is foolish to grieve over what some would say is a trifle compared to other losses. But one comes to love books. They are his very dear friends. With them he shares his great pleasures. In times of sorrow they console him. Ah, yes, how wonderful they are, these books?” His eyes turned toward the shelves.
Then, suddenly, his voice changed. He hastened on. He seemed to desire to have done with it. One might have believed that there was something he was keeping back which he was afraid his lips might speak.
“I came to America,” he said hoarsely, “and here I am in your great city, alone save for this blessed child, and—and my books—some of my books—most of my books.”
Again he was silent. The room fell into such a silence that the very breathing of the old man sounded out like the exhaust of an engine. Somewhere in another room a clock ticked. It was ghostly.
Shaking herself free from the spell of it, Lucile said, “I—I think I must go.”
“No! No!” cried the old man. “Not until you have seen some of my treasures, my books.”
Leading her to the shelves, he took down volume after volume. He placed them in her hands with all the care of a salesman displaying rare and fragile china.
She looked at the outside of some; then made bold to open the covers and peep within. They were all beyond doubt very old and valuable. But one fact stood out in her mind as she finally bade them good night, stood out as if embossed upon her very soul: In the inside upper corner of the cover of every volume, done on expensive, age-browned paper, there was the same gargoyle, the same letter L as had been in the other mysterious volumes.
“The gargoyle’s secret,” she whispered as she came out upon the dark, damp streets. “The gargoyle’s secret. I wonder what it is!”
Then she started as if in fear that the gargoyle were behind her, about to spring at her from the dark.
“But, Lucile!” exclaimed Florence in an excited whisper, springing up in her bed after she had heard Lucile’s story. “How did the police know that something was going wrong in that house? How did they come to be right there when you needed them most?”
“That’s just what I asked the sergeant,” answered Lucile, “and he just shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Somebody tipped it off.’”
“Which meant, I suppose, that someone reported the fact to police headquarters that something was wrong in that house.”
“I suppose so.”
“Is that all you know about it?”
“Why, I—I thought I heard someone hurrying away on the sidewalk just as I was going to enter.”
“You don’t suppose—”
“Oh, I don’t know what to suppose,” Lucile gave a short, hysterical laugh. “It is getting to be much too complicated for me. I can’t stand it much longer. Something’s going to burst. I think all the time that someone is dogging my tracks. I think someone must suspect me of being in league with this old man and the child.”
“But if they did, why should they call the police for your protection?”
“Yes, why? Why? A whole lot of whys. And who would suspect me? I would trust Frank Morrow to keep faith with me. I am sure he trusts me fully. The Portland chart book affair I was not in at all. The bindery would scarcely suspect me. There’s only our own library left. You don’t think—”
“One scarcely knows what to think,” said Florence wearily. “We sometimes forget that we are but two poor girls who are more or less dependent on the university for our support while we secure an education. Perhaps you should have confided in the library authorities in the beginning.”
“Perhaps. But it’s too late now. I must see the thing through.”
“You don’t believe the old Frenchman’s story.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to doubt it. He seems so sincere. There’s something left out, I suppose.”
“Of course there is. In order to keep from starving, he was obliged to sell some of his books. Then, being heartbroken over the loss of them, he has induced the child to steal them back for him. That seems sensible enough, doesn’t it? Of course it’s a pity that he should have been forced to sell them, but they were, in a way, a luxury. We all are obliged to give up some luxuries. For my part, I don’t see how you are going to keep him out of jail. The child will probably come clear because of her age, but there’s not a chance in a million of saving him. There’s got to be a show-down sometime. Why not now? The facts we have in our possession are the rightful property of others, of our library, Frank Morrow, the scientific library, of the Silver-Barnard bindery. Why not pass them on?”
Florence was sitting bolt upright in bed. She pointed her finger at her roommate by way of emphasis.
But, tired and perplexed as she was, Lucile never flinched.
“Your logic is all right save for two things,” she smiled wearily.
“What two?”
“The character of the old man and the character of the child. They could not do the thing you suggest. No, not for far greater reward. Not in a thousand years.” She beat the bed with her hands. “There must be some other explanation. There must. There must!”
For a moment there was silence in the room. Lucile removed her street garments, put on her dream robe, then crept into bed.
“Oh,” she sighed, “I forgot to tell you what that extraordinary child asked me to do.”
“What?”
“She said she had an errand to do for the old Frenchman; that it would take her a long way from home and she was afraid to go alone. She asked me if I would go with her.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I—I told her that both my roommate and I would go.”
“You did!”
“Why, yes.”
“Well,” said Florence, after a moment’s thought, “I’ll go, but if it’s another frightful robbery, if she’s going to break in somewhere and carry away some book worth thousands of dollars, I’m not in on it. I—I’ll drag her to the nearest police station and our fine little mystery will end right there.”
“Oh, I don’t think it can be anything like that,” said Lucile sleepily. “Anyway, we can only wait and see.”
With that she turned her right cheek over on the pillow and was instantly fast asleep.
The hours of the following day dragged as if on leaden wings. With nerves worn to single strands, Lucile was now literally living on excitement. The fact that she was to go with the mystery child on a night’s trip which held promise of excitement and possible adventure in it, went far toward keeping her eyes open and on their task, but for all this, the hours dragged.
At the library she was startled to note the worn and haggard look on Harry Brock’s face. She wanted to ask him the cause of it and to offer sympathy, but he appeared to actually avoid her. Whenever she found some excuse to move in his direction, he at once found one for moving away to another corner of the library.
“Whatever can be the matter with him?” she asked herself. “I wonder if I could have offended him in any way. I should hate to lose his friendship.”
Night came at last and with it the elevated station and Tyler street.
With her usual promptness, the child led them to a surface car. They rode across the city. From the car they hurried to an inter-urban depot of a steam line.
“So it’s to be out of the city,” Florence whispered to Lucile. “I hadn’t counted on that. It may be more than we bargained for.”
“I hope not,” shivered Lucile. “I’ve been all warmed up over this trip the whole day through and now when we are actually on the way I feel cold as a clam and sort of creepy all over. Do—do you suppose it will be anything very dreadful?”
“Why, no!” laughed Florence. “Far as feelings go mine have been just the opposite to yours. I didn’t want to go and felt that way all day, but now it would take all the conductors in the service to put me off the train.”
With all the seriousness of a grown-up, the child purchased tickets for them all, and now gave them to the conductor without so much as suggesting their destination to the girls.
“I don’t know where I’m going but I’m on my way,” whispered Florence with a smile.
“Seems strange, doesn’t it?” said Lucile.
“Sh,” warned Florence.
The child had turned a smiling face toward them.
“I think it’s awfully good of you to come,” she beamed. “It’s a long way and I’m afraid we’ll be late getting home, but you won’t have to do anything, not really, just go along with me. It’s a dreadfully lonesome place. There’s a long road you have to go over and the road crosses a river and there is woods on both sides of the river. Woods are awful sort of spooky at night, don’t you think so?”
Florence smiled and nodded. Lucile shivered.
“I don’t mind the city,” the child went on, “not any of it. There are always people everywhere and things can’t be spooky there, but right out on the roads and in the woods and on beaches where the water goes wash-wash-wash at night, I don’t like that, do you?”
“Sometimes I do,” said Florence. “I think I’m going to like it a lot to-night.”
“Oh, are you?” exclaimed the child. “Then I’m glad, because it was awfully nice of you to come.”
“A long road, woods and a river,” Florence repeated in Lucile’s ear. “Wherever can we be going? I supposed we would get off at one of the near-in suburbs.”
“Evidently,” said Lucile, forcing a smile, “we are in for a night of it. I’m going to catch forty winks. Call me when we get to the road that crosses the river in the woods.” She bent her head down upon one hand and was soon fast asleep.
She was awakened by a shake from Florence. “We’re here. Come on, get off.”
What they saw on alighting was not reassuring. A small red depot, a narrow, irregular platform, a square of light through which they saw a young man with a green shade over his eyes bending before a table filled with telegraph instruments; this was all they saw. Beyond these, like the entrance to some huge, magical cave, the darkness loomed at them.
The child appeared to know the way, even in the dark, for she pulled at Florence’s sleeve as she whispered:
“This way please. Keep close to me.”
There was not the least danger of the girls’ failing to keep close, for, once they had passed beyond sight of that friendly square of light and the green-shaded figure, they were hopelessly lost.
True, the darkness shaded off a trifle as their eyes became more accustomed to it; they could tell that they were going down a badly kept, sandy road; they could see the dim outline of trees on either side; but that was all. The trees seemed a wall which shut them in on either side.
“Treesarespooky at night,” Lucile whispered as she gripped her companion’s arm a little more tightly.
“Where are we?” Florence whispered.
“I couldn’t guess.”
“Pretty far out. I counted five stops after the lights of the city disappeared.”
“Listen.”
“What is it?”
“Water rushing along somewhere.”
“Might be the river. She said there was one.”
“Rivers rush like that in the mountains but not here. Must be the lake shore.”
“Hist—”
The child was whispering back at them. “We are coming to the bridge. It’s a very long bridge, and spooky. I think we better tiptoe across it, but we mustn’t run. The gallopin’ goblins’ll come after us if we do; besides, there’s an old rusty sign on the bridge that says, ‘No trotting across the bridge.’”
The next moment they felt a plank surface beneath their feet and knew they were on the bridge. It must have been a very ancient bridge. This road had never been remodelled to fit the need of automobiles. The planks rattled and creaked in an ominous manner in spite of their tiptoeing.
“I wonder how much more there is of it,” Florence groaned in a whisper when they had gone on tiptoes for what seemed an endless space of time. “If my toes don’t break, I’m sure my shoes will.”
As for Lucile, she was thinking her own thoughts. She was telling herself that if it were not for the fact that this night’s performance gave promise of being a link in the chain of circumstances which were to be used in dragging the gargoyle’s secret from its lair, she would demand that the child turn about and lead them straight back to the city.
Since she had faith that somehow the mystery was to be solved and her many worries and perplexities brought to an end, she tiptoed doggedly on. And it was well that she did, for the events of this one night were destined to bring about strange and astounding revelations. She was not to see the light of day again before the gargoyle’s secret would be fully revealed, but had she known the series of thrilling events which would lead up to that triumphant hour, she would have shrunk back and whispered, “No, no, I can’t go all that way.”
Often and often we find this true in life; we face seemingly unbearable situations—something is to happen to us, we are to go somewhere, be something different, do some seemingly undoable thing and we say, “We cannot endure it,” yet we pass through it as through a fog to come out smiling on the other side. We are better, happier and stronger for the experience. It was to be so with Lucile.
The bridge was crossed at last. More dark and silent woods came to flank their path. Then out of the distance there loomed great bulks of darker masses.
“Mountains, I’d say they were,” whispered Lucile, “if it weren’t for the fact that I know there are none within five hundred miles.”
For a time they trudged along in silence. Then suddenly Florence whispered:
“Oh, I know! Dunes! Sand dunes! Now I know where we are. We are near the lake shore. I was out here somewhere for a week last summer. By day it’s wonderful; regular mountains of sand that has been washed up and blown up from the bed of the lake. Some of them are hundreds of feet above the level of the lake. There are trees growing on them and everything.”
“But what are we doing out here?”
“I can’t guess. There is a wonderful beach everywhere and cottages here and there.”
“But it’s too late for summer cottages. They must all be closed.”
“Yes, of course they must.”
Again they trudged on in silence. Now they left the road to strike away across the soft, yielding surface of the sand. They sank in to their ankles. Some of the sand got into their shoes and hurt their feet, but still they trudged on.
The rush of waters on the shore grew louder.
“I love it,” Florence whispered. “I like sleeping where I can hear the rush of water. I’ve slept beside the Arctic Ocean, the Behring Sea and the Pacific. I’ve slept by the shore of this old lake. Once in the Rocky Mountains I climbed to the timber-line and there slept for five nights in a tent where all night long you could hear the rush of icy water over rocks which were more like a stony stairway than the bed of a stream. It was grand.
“When I am sleeping where I can hear the rush of water I sometimes half awaken at night and imagine I am once more on the shore of the Arctic or in a tent at the timber-line of the Rockies.”
While she was whispering this they felt the sand suddenly harden beneath their feet and knew that they had reached the beach.
“You know,” the child whispered suddenly and mysteriously back at them, “I don’t like beaches at night. I lived by one when I was a very little girl. There was a very, very old woman lived there too. She told me many terrible stories of the sea. And do you know, once she told me something that has made me afraid to be by the shore at night. It makes it spooky.”
She suddenly seized Lucile’s arm with a grip that hurt while she whispered, “That’s why I wanted you to come.
“She told me,” she went on, “that old woman told me,” Lucile fancied she could see the child’s frightened eyes gleaming out of the night, “about the men who were lost at sea; brave seamen who go on ships and brave soldiers too. Their bodies get washed all about on the bottom of the water; the fishes eat them and by and by they are all gone. But their souls can’t be eaten. No sir, no one can eat them. The old woman told me that.”
The child paused. Her breath was coming quick. Her grip tightened on Lucile’s arm as she whispered:
“And sometimes I’m afraid one of their souls will get washed right up on the sand at night. That’s what frightens me so. What do you think it would look like? What do you? Would it be all yellow and fiery like a glowworm or would it be just white, like a sheet?”
“Florence,” whispered Lucile, with a shiver, “tell her to be quiet. She’ll drive me mad.”
But there was no need. There is much courage to be gained by telling our secret fears to others. The child had apparently relieved her soul of a great burden, for she tramped on once more in silence.
Several moments had passed when she suddenly paused before some dark object which stood out above the sand.
“A boat,” whispered Lucile.
“If you’ll just help me,” said the child, “we can push it into the water.”
“What for?” Florence asked.
“Why, to go in, of course. It’s the only way.”
For a moment the two girls stood there undecided. Then Florence whispered:
“Oh, come on. It’s not rough. Might as well see it through.”
A moment later they were listening to the creak of rusty oarlocks and the almost inaudible dip-dip of the oars as the child herself sent the boat out from the beach to bring it half about and skirt the shore.
The boat was some sixteen feet long. A clinker-built craft, it was light and buoyant, but for all that, with three persons aboard, the rowing of it was a tax on the strength of the child’s slender arms. To add to her troubles, the water began to rubber up a bit. Small waves came slap-slapping the boat’s side. Once a bit of spray broke in Florence’s face.
“Here,” she whispered, “it’s too heavy for you. Let me have the oars, then you tell me which way to go.”
“Straight ahead, only not too close in. There’s a wall.”
“A wall?” Lucile thought to herself. “Sounds like a prison. There’s a parole camp out here somewhere. It can’t be!” she shuddered. “No, of course not. What would that old man and child have to do with prisons?”
Then, suddenly an ugly thought forced its way into her mind. Perhaps after all these two were members of a gang of robbers. Perhaps a member of the gang had been in prison and was at this moment in the parole camp. What if this turned out to be a jail-breaking expedition?
“No, no!” she whispered as she shook herself to free her mind of the thought.
“There’s the wall,” whispered Florence, as a gray bulk loomed up to the right of them.
They passed it in silence. To Lucile they seemed like marines running a blockade in time of war.
But Florence was busy with other thoughts. That wall seemed vaguely familiar to her. It was as if she had seen it in a dream, yet could not recall the details of the dream.
A storm was brewing off in the west. Now and then a distant flash of lightning lighted up the surrounding waters. Of a sudden one of these, more brilliant than the rest, lighted up the shore, which, at a word from the child, they were now nearing. What Florence saw was a small, artificially dredged buoy with a dock and large boathouse at the back.
Instantly what had been a dream became a reality. She had seen that wall and the little buoy and boathouse as well. Only the summer before she had spent two nights and a day with a party on the dunes. They had hired a motor boat and had skirted the shore. This place had been pointed out to her and described as the most elaborate and beautiful summer cottage on the shore.
“Why,” she whispered, with a sigh of relief, “this is the summer cottage of your friend, R. Stanley Ramsey, Jr., the young man you saw at Frank Morrow’s place and whom we saw later at the mystery cottage. This isn’t any brigandish thieving expedition. It is merely a business trip. Probably the old man has sold him one of his books.”
Lucile’s first reaction to this news was intense relief. This was not a jail-breaking expedition; in fact, was not to be in any way an adventure. But the next instant doubt came.
“What would that young man be doing in a summer cottage at this time of year?” she demanded. “All the cottages must have been closed for nearly a month. Society flies back to the city in September. Besides, if it’s plain business, why all this slipping in at the lake front instead of passing through the gate?”
Florence was silent at that. She had no answer.
“Does seem strange,” she mused. “There’s a very high fence all about the place, but of course there must be a gate.”
The next instant the boat grated on the sandy beach and they were all climbing out.
Lucile shivered as she caught sight of a large, low, rambling building which lay well up from the shore.
“What next?” she whispered to herself.
The storm was still rumbling in the west. The sky to the east was clear. Out from the black waters of the lake the moon was rolling. Its light suddenly brightened up the shore. The girls stared about them.
Up from the beach a little way was an affair which resembled an Indian tepee. It was built of boards and covered with birch bark. Its white sides glimmered in the moonlight. Through the shadows of trees and shrubbery they made out a rustic pavilion and beyond that the cottage which was built in rustic fashion as befits a summer residence of a millionaire, although little short of a mansion.
“Wouldn’t you like to see the inside of it?” breathed Florence. “I’ve always wondered what such a place was like.”
“Yes,” whispered Lucile, “but I’d prefer daylight.”
They had been following the child. She had led them as far as a rustic arbor. Built of cedar poles with the bark left on, this presented itself as an inviting place to rest.
“You stay here,” the child whispered. “I’ll come back.”
She vanished into the shadows.
“Well!” whispered Lucile.
“What do you make of it?” Florence asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“Is someone here to meet her or is she entering the place to get something?”
“Don’t know. I—”
Lucile stopped short. “Did you see that?” she whispered tensely as she gripped her companion’s arm.
“What?”
“There was a flash of light in the right wing of the building, like the flicker of a match.”
“She can’t have reached there yet.”
“No.”
“Do you think we should warn her? I can’t help thinking she’s going to break into the place.”
“If she is, she should be caught. If we think she is, perhaps we should notify the police.”
“The police? In such a place? You forget that we are many miles from the city and two or three miles from even a railroad station. Guess we’ll have to see it through.”
“Let’s do it then?”
The two girls rose and began making their way stealthily in the direction the child had taken.
Now and again they paused to listen. Once they heard a sound like the creaking of a door. Lucile caught a second flash of light.
They paused behind two pine trees not ten feet from the side entrance.
The wind rustled in the pine trees. The water broke ceaselessly on the shore. Otherwise all was silence.
“Creepy,” whispered Lucile.
“Ghostly,” Florence shivered.
“I believe that door’s ajar.”
“It is.”
“Let’s creep up close.”
The next moment found them flattened against the wall beside the door.
This door stood half open. Suddenly they caught a flash of light. Leaning far over to peer within, they saw the child bent over before a huge bookcase. The room, half illumined by her flashlight, was a large lounging room. The trimmings were rustic and massive. Beamed ceiling and heavy beams along the walls were flanked by a huge fireplace at the back. The furniture was in keeping, massive mission oak with leather cushions on chairs.
“What a wonderful place!” Florence whispered. “What wouldn’t one give to have it for a study?”
The child had taken three books from the shelves. All these she replaced. She was examining the fourth when Lucile whispered, “That’s the one she has come for.”
“Why?”
“The light fell full upon the inside of the cover. I saw the gargoyle there.”
The prediction proved a true one, for, after carefully closing the case, the child switched off the light.
Scarcely realizing what they were doing, the girls lingered by the door. Then suddenly Lucile realized their position. “She’ll be here in a second,” she whispered.
They turned, but not quickly enough, for of a sudden a glare of light from a powerful electric flashlight blinded them while a masculine voice with a distinctly youthful ring to it demanded:
“Who’s there?”
To their consternation, the girls felt the child bump into them as she backed away and there they all stood framed in a circle of light.
The glaring light with darkness behind it made it impossible for them to see the new arrival but Lucile knew instantly from the voice that it was the millionaire’s son.
For a full moment no one spoke. The tick-tock of a prodigious clock in one corner of the room sounded out like the ringing of a curfew.
“Oh! I see,” came at last in youthful tones from the corner; “just some girls. And pretty ones, too, I’ll be bound. Came to borrow a book, did you? Who let you in, I wonder. But never mind. Suppose you’re here for a week-end at one of the cottages and needed some reading matter. Rather unconventional way of getting it, but it’s all right. Just drop it in the mail box at the gate when you’re done with it.”
The girls suddenly became conscious of the fact that the child was doing her best to push them out of the door.
Yielding to her backward shoves, they sank away into the shadows and, scarcely believing their senses, found themselves apparently quite free to go their way.
“That,” breathed Florence, “was awful decent of him.”
“Decent?” Lucile exploded. “It—it was grand. Look here,” she turned almost savagely upon the child, “you didn’t intend to give that book back but you’re going to do it. You’re going to put it in that mail box to-night.”
“Oh, no, I’m not,” the child said cheerfully.
“You—you’re not?” Lucile stammered. “What right have you to keep it?”
“What right has he? It does not belong to him. It belongs to Monsieur Le Bon.”
“Why, that’s nonsense! That—” Lucile broke off suddenly. “Look!” she exclaimed. “The boat’s gone!”
It was all too true. They had reached the beach where they had left the boat. It had vanished.
“So we are prisoners after all,” Florence whispered.
“And, and he was just making fun of us. He knew we couldn’t get away,” breathed Lucile, sinking hopelessly down upon the sand.
“Oh, brace up!” exclaimed Florence, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. “We’ll get out of this place some way. Perhaps the boat wasn’t taken. Perhaps it has—”
She stopped to stare away across the water.
“I believe it’s out there away down the beach. Look, Lucile. Look sharp.”
The moon had gone behind a small cloud. As it came out they could see clearly the dark bulk of the boat dancing on the water, which was by now roughening up before the rising storm.
“It’s out there,” exclaimed Florence. “We failed to pull it ashore far enough. There is a side sweep to the waves that carried it out. We must get it.”
“Yes, oh, yes, we must!” the child exclaimed. “It wasn’t mine; it was borrowed.”
“You borrow a lot of things,” exclaimed Florence.
“Oh, no, indeed. Not many, not hardly any at all.”
“But, Florence, how can we get it?” protested Lucile.
“I’m a strong swimmer. I swam a mile once. The boat’s out only a few hundred yards. It will be easy.”
“Not with your clothes on.”
Florence did not answer. She threw a glance toward the millionaire’s cottage. All was dark there.
“Here!” Lucile felt a garment thrust into her hands, then another and another.
“Florence, you mustn’t.”
“It’s the only way.”
A moment later Florence’s white body gleamed in the moonlight as she raced away down the beach to gain the point nearest the boat.
To the listening ears of Lucile and the child there came the sound of a splash, then the slow plash, plash, plash of a swimmer’s strokes. Florence was away and swimming strong. But the wind from off a point had caught the boat and was carrying it out from shore, driving it on faster than she knew.
Confident of her ability to reach the goal in a mere breath of time, she struck out at once with the splendid swing of the Australian crawl. Trained to the pink of perfection, her every muscle in condition, she laughed at the wavelets that lifted her up only to drop her down again and now and again to dash a saucy handful of spray in her face. She laughed and even hummed a snatch of an old sea song. She was as much at home in the water as in her room at the university.
But now, as she got farther from the shore, the waves grew in size and force. They impeded her progress. The shore was protected by a rocky point farther up the beach. She was rapidly leaving that protection.
Throwing herself high out of the water, she looked for the boat. A little cry of consternation escaped her lips. She had expected to find it close at hand. It seemed as far away as when she had first seen it.
“It’s the wind off the point,” she breathed. “It’s taking it out to sea. It—it’s going to be a battle, a real scrap.”
Once more she struck out with the powerful stroke which carries one far but draws heavily upon his emergency fund of energy.
For three full moments she battled the waves; then, all but breathless, she slipped over on her back to do the dead man’s float.
“Just for a few seconds. Got to save my strength, but I can’t waste time.”
Now for the first time she realized that there was a possibility that she would lose this fight. The realization of what it meant if she did lose, swept over her and left her cold and numb. To go back was impossible; the wind and waves were too strong for that. To fail to reach the boat meant death.
Turning back again into swimming position, she struck out once more. But this time it was not the crawl. That cost too much. With an easy, hand-over-hand swing which taxed the reserve forces little more than floating, she set her teeth hard, resolved slowly but surely to win her way to the boat and to safety.
Moments passed. Long, agonizing moments.
Lucile on the shore, by the gleam of a flare of lightning, caught now and then a glimpse of the swimmer. Little by little she became conscious of the real situation. When it dawned upon her that Florence was in real peril, she thought of rushing to the cottage and calling to her assistance any who might be there. Then she looked at the bundle of clothing in her arms and flushed.
“She’d never forgive me,” she whispered.
Florence, still battling, felt the spray break over her, but still kept on the even swing. Now and again, high on the crest of a wave, she saw the boat. She was cheered by the fact that each time it appeared to loom a little larger.
“Gaining,” she whispered. “Fifty yards to go!”