“Catch the rascal first; he has stolen the papers,” cried the old man. “He must not get away with them.”
“Where is he?”
“He went off in that direction.”
Old Blake pointed with his long, bony finger toward one of the other islands. Then he tried to rise, but fell back in a faint in Bob’s arms. By this time Frank had arrived on the scene. He did not know Blake, but he surmised that the old man had been another of Casco’s victims.
“Tend to him, Frank, while I go after Casco,” said Bob. “I’ll whistle if I want you.”
Pistol in hand, the young photographer made his way through the willows and over the rocks until, jumping a shallow spot in the water, he landed on one of the other islands.
A noise ahead told him that Casco was not far off. But as Bob plunged on the sounds suddenly ceased, and all became profoundly silent.
“I’ll bet a hat he has taken to the water again,” said Bob to himself.
Reaching the edge of the second island the young photographer found his surmise correct. There, half-way to the north shore, was Casco in his boat, pulling with all his strength. A minute later Casco reached shore and disappeared from view.
“Gone!” groaned Bob. “And with Frank’s eighteen hundred dollars, too!”