Then Moore and I started for home. As we left the house, he proposed we go in a boat, of which there seemed to be plenty and to spare at the dock.
In preference to a canoe, Keeley selected a trim round-bottomed rowboat, and we started off.
He did the rowing, by choice, and he bent to his oars in silence. I too felt disinclined to talk, and we shot along the water, propelled by his long steady strokes.
I looked about me. The whole scene was a setting for peace and happiness—not for crime. Yet here was black crime, stalking through the landscape, aiming for Pleasure Dome, and clutching in its wicked hand the master of the noble estate.
I looked back at the wonderful view. The great house, built on a gently sloping hill, shone white in the summer sunlight. The densely growing trees, judiciously thinned out or cut into vistas, made a perfect background, and the foreground lake, shimmering now as the sun caught its wavelets, veiled its dangers and treachery beneath a guise of smiling light.
We went on and on and I suddenly realized that we had passed the Moore bungalow.
“Keeley,” I said, thinking he had forgotten to land, “where are you going?”
“To the Island,” he replied, and his face wore an inscrutable look, “Come along, Gray, but for Heaven’s sake don’t say anything foolish. Better not open your mouth at all. Better yet, stay in the boat——”
“No,” I cried, “I’m going with you. Don’t be silly, Kee, I sha’n’t make a fool of myself.”
“Well, try not to, anyway,” he said, grimly, and then we made a landing at Alma Remsen’s home.