The light fall of snow, which the boys had looked forward to with eagerness, was disregarded in their new anxiety. It made the school and its surrounding hills a picture of beauty, but the boys were not in a mood to enjoy it. After a restless night Jim and Terry again attended classes, but they did poorly and the instructors said nothing about it, knowing the strain the young men were under. During noon recess Rhodes, Jim and Terry decided to push a vigorous search as soon as classes were over.
“It seems to me,” argued the senior, “that we might be able to pick up some tracks somewhere in this snow. We don’t know how far he could have gotten before the snow, but if he was traveling after it did begin to come down there are tracks somewhere and we’ll try to find ’em. They may be across the lake.”
“What would he be doing across the lake?” Jim asked.
Rhodes shrugged his Shoulders. “What did he go away for?” he asked. “No one knows, but we do know that he went toward the lake, at least toward the boathouse. The very first thing we’ll find out after classes is whether or not a boat was taken from the boathouse. I don’t know what he would cross the lake for but he may have and we can make a good attempt to find out.”
Every cadet in the school had Don’s disappearance on his mind and no one was more puzzled and interested than Cadet Vench. He turned the problem over and over in his mind and he longed to be of service. Back in his head the idea was firmly seated that he should be the one to find the missing cadet. That would give him a chance to even his score with Jim for his heroic act at Hill 31, and Vench decided to put his whole mind and energy to the problem.
As soon as classes had ended that day Vench put on his overcoat and walked swiftly to the lake. It had not occurred to him to check up on the boats to see if one had been taken, but he planned to scour the edge of the lakefront in both directions. He was now walking along the shore away from the school, wholly absorbed in watching the snow-covered ground, when he heard his name called. Even as he glanced up he knew that the voice was unfamiliar and had a slight accent to it. Then, a few yards before him he saw the man who had cut him dead in the drugstore, Paul Morro.
Instinctively, Vench stiffened and grew cold. Morro had evidently been taking a walk around the lake path and the meeting was quite accidental, and Vench, who knew Morro’s love for nature in all aspects, could readily guess that the Frenchman was walking merely for the sheer pleasure of the day and the prospect of the magnificent view. Comparing the attitude of the man on the previous meeting to his friendly attitude now, there was something to wonder about. Vench was astonished that his friend of former days should so readily hail him. Vench bowed distantly.
Morro strode forward and held out his hand. “How do you do, Raoul?” greeted Morro impulsively. Then, seeing that Vench had no intention of taking his hand the artist hurried on, “My dear friend, forgive me for not speaking to you the last time I saw you. It was so totally unexpected, so much of a shock, that I could not speak or collect my wits. Won’t you forget my rudeness?”
“It struck me as being a bit queer to treat me like that after the type of friend I have always been to you, Paul,” answered Vench still aloof.
“I know, my dear friend, and I apologize. Won’t you forgive me?”