“That is final?”
“It is, unless I can be shown a more coherent reason for going in such a manner.”
The worried look that had come into his face receded and he laughed a queer, bitter, little laugh. “Oh, well, if you will have it so, it is up to me to change my plans,” he said. “And that being so, I must bid you good-bye until I return from Montreal.
“Oh, by the way,” he added, “if you should hear men striking camp up the trail along the lakeshore this evening don’t be alarmed. It will be merely a squad of the mounted police who’ve come to patrol this section of the waterfront during the strike.”
“Strike?” she echoed perplexed.
He walked up the beach, drew his cached packsack from a clump of green stuff and returned. “Yes, we’re to have one of those modern luxuries in the camp within the next few days,” he answered.
He lifted his hat, whirled on a heel and was away.
In a maze of doubt as to whether her recent refusal to leave the island as he had requested were a wise decision, she watched Acey Smith go up and over the first hill of the lakeshore trail. When his figure had disappeared she was assailed by a sudden apprehension—an overwhelming apprehension—that she had made a grave mistake. There must have been deep, very deep reasons for his asking her to leave the island. No doubt she was imperilling not only her own safety but his plans as well.
On an impulse she sped forward after him. She felt that she could easily get within call of him before he reached the crown of the second hill. In her close-fitting garments she made fast time, but on the top of the first hill she paused all out of breath. The trail before her down through the valley and up the further rise was silent and empty.
At a tramping sound in the brush to her left she hesitated about proceeding. It might be a wandering bear or moose.