“What’s the name printed on that old packing-case?” asked Dick, whose eyes were growing used to the dim light of the hut. “Can you see, Anne?” They both pressed their noses close to the window panes.
“C. F.” spelled Anne.
“P-O-O-L-E!” went on Dick. “Why Anne!” he gasped in surprise.
“C. F. Poole!” repeated Anne. “That’s Father’s name. What can it mean?”
“Maybe they just got the box off your father somehow,” said Dick uncomfortably. He began to wish they had not come. “Let’s go away, Anne.”
But Anne had spied something else. On the floor under the window was a soiled and empty envelope. It was addressed to P. Leveen in a neighboring town. But the writing was Mr. Poole’s; the date just a week ago; and the mark was that of a Canadian city. He could not write to her, but he could write to this foreign-sounding moonshiner! Anne did not mention this discovery to Dick. But it troubled her greatly. It fitted in disagreeably with her forebodings.
“We’d better get away,” said Dick. “Moonshiners are as bad as pirates when you spy their secrets. We must tell Cap’n Sackett and have them smoked out, while they’re at the game.”
“Yes,” agreed Anne. “I ought to have told him before. That may be the very rifle that nearly killed Beverly!” she thought with a shudder. “And what will they find out about Father?” Her only comfort was that Captain Sackett himself was to be the investigator.
They hurried down the path as fast as they could, and Anne got into the canoe.
“Well, we’ve discovered something all right,” triumphed Dick as he pushed off the canoe and crept into his own seat. “It might be more exciting if we had met those fellows up there in the hut. But I guess it was just as well for our health that we didn’t——”