There were no other boats in sight and no crowds of merry people on the few docks we passed.
Reaching the Remsen boathouse, it seemed to me the Island looked more than ever like an abode of the dead. The trees were motionless in the calm air and the dark glades and copses seemed sepulchral in their sentinel-like rigidity.
We landed and went up the steps toward the house.
A man advanced to meet us.
“What’s wanted?” he said, not quite gruffly, but with an apparent intention of being answered.
“We want to see Miss Remsen,” Kee replied and his manner was suavity itself. “I am Keeley Moore, from Variable Winds, down the lake. This is my friend, Mr. Norris. Take us to the house, Mr. Merivale, and announce us to Miss Remsen.”
“Announce you, is it? When I’m tellin’ you she isn’t home!”
He hadn’t told us that before, but he seemed to think he had, and he stood directly in our path, so that we could advance no step.
“Where is she, please?”
“She and Merry—that’s my wife, sir—have gone down to the village.”