Leaving the sound truck at the end of the road, Flash and Doyle walked to the side door of the lodge.
Their approach had been observed. Before they could knock, the door opened. Herbert Rascomb, dressed in dark shirt and slacks, a pipe thrust in the corner of his mouth, greeted them heartily.
“Good morning, boys. Glad you were able to come. How do you like our roads out this way?”
Rascomb stepped aside for them to pass before him into the living room. A fire blazed on the hearth. It was an inviting scene and their host had a comfortable way of making them feel welcome. Yet, the absence of guests puzzled Flash.
“Rajah Mitra isn’t here yet?” he inquired.
Rascomb hesitated, and then said: “I deeply regret that the Rajah was compelled to change his plans.”
“He isn’t coming?”
“Unfortunately, no. The Rajah expected to be my guest but he was called to New York this morning. I should have telephoned you. We have no telephone here at the lodge. It would have meant an early trip to the ranger station.”
“Then if there are to be no pictures, we may as well start back to town,” Flash remarked, glancing at Doyle.
“I couldn’t think of allowing you to hasten away,” Rascomb interposed smoothly. “You must have luncheon and remain for the night. I can put you up quite comfortably. My cook is excellent.”