“Then, why didn’t we look there first?”
“Because it was not a likely place, all that distance away.”
Neither did it seem a likely place now, as they climbed over a rough, moss grown fence, and entered the unfrequented spot, to find old masses of rock peering out of the soil, ancient trees coated with ivy, and an abundance of thick undergrowth such as they had been fighting with a short time before.
The task was less difficult, and they spent the next half-hour hunting along the edge of the lake, whose shore here was for the most part high and rocky, but broken here and there by shrubby patches of gorse and heather, in company with fine old birches, whose silvery trunks were reflected in the lake.
“I knew you were wrong,” said Fred at last, as he sat down in a sunny spot to let his legs dry, “it couldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“Because, if it were here, we should have found it.”
Scarlett said nothing, but stood at the edge of the rocky bank, now looking down into the water, now toward the bushes which were overhanging the lake. There were plenty of rather likely places, but none quite likely enough, and reluctantly agreeing at last that he might have been mistaken, he turned slowly away from the ivy covered perpendicular bank, and sauntered slowly back with his companion in silence.
“My legs are getting drier now,” said Fred, suddenly. “What do you say—shall we fetch a lanthorn, and go down into the passage?”
“I don’t see what you want with dry legs, if you are going to wade,” replied Scarlett, thoughtfully.