The boatman, after swinging well clear of Witherbee's Island, hesitated as to his course. "There might be an answer to-night," he muttered. "Still, it's pretty quick, seeing I only wired this morning. I guess I'll wait until to-morrow. I'll be sure to hear then."
Without further ado he headed the launch into the channel that runs between Wellesley and Hill islands, following a course so nearly midway between them that the wake of his craft would have served as a visible boundary-line between the United States and Canada. Several motor-boats passed him; one hailed sharply, warning him to show lights. He paid no attention, but steadily held his way.
Half an hour of running brought him opposite a small, dark spot on the water, around which he described a half-circle while he kept his eyes intently upon it. Then, apparently satisfied, he headed in toward what proved to be a rocky, wooded island.
There was a natural landing-place at the point he touched—a cove protected on three sides by bulwarks of the gneiss rock that rises stalwart, here as elsewhere, out of the great St. Lawrence.
Making fast his craft, he stepped ashore, and followed a narrow path that struggled over the stony surface, beset on either side by underbrush and small trees.
The path ended at a cabin. He pushed open a door, entered, searched about in the darkness for a moment, then struck a match and lighted the wick of a lantern that stood on a table in the center of the single room.
The cabin was clean, plain, and cheerless. There was a cot in one corner, a small iron stove, a shelf with a few cooking-utensils, and one chair.
"No place like home," he commented with a grin. "And I suppose I'll be kicked out of here if anybody gets wise."
He helped himself to a few crackers from a tin box on the shelf, sat down, and began munching them in an absent-minded manner. Presently his wandering glance fixed itself upon a broken mirror that hung from a nail driven into one of the walls. He picked up the lantern, advanced across the cabin, and held the light so that he could survey himself in the glass.
"You're a nice-looking object," he assured his reflection as one hand stroked his beard. "I've got a mind—"