Bob saw the scar-faced man disappear behind the fringe of willow trees. He did not come to a halt, but kept on at a slower gait, fearful that Casco might be setting a trap for him.
Day was now breaking, and every moment the eastern sky grew lighter.
When Bob reached the edge of the lake, nothing was to be seen of the scar-faced man.
Bob looked up and down the shore in perplexity, and then began an examination for foot-prints.
They were plainly visible, leading to a little cove a hundred feet southward.
When Bob reached the cove, he found close at hand a stake with a bit of rope attached to it. The rope had been newly cut.
“Stole a boat, I’ll bet,” muttered the young photographer to himself. “By jinks, what a fool I am! There he is!”
Bob looked out on the water, and there, a goodly distance from the shore, was Casco in a boat, rowing away as fast as he could.
The scar-faced man was too far off to make a shot effective, and in deep chagrin Bob saw him disappear around a cluster of islands in the centre of the lake.
As fast as he could, Bob ran along the shore until he reached a spot where he could see the other side of the island.