“Hallo—that you, Lockwood?”
“Hi there, Roger Barnes; what you doing here? Fishing?”
“Looking for something I’ve lost.”
“Getting pretty dark to find it. Something valuable?”
“Rather. Think I’ll give it up for to-night.”
“Too bad. Nice night.” Lockwood was hastening toward the end of the path which came out near Anthony’s house. Barnes looked after him grimly.
“That voice of yours, young man,” he thought, “handicaps me from the start. Now, if I could just warble my emotions that way——”
He turned and peered again at the white place by the tree. He moved stealthily toward it, and ascertained presently that it was not what it seemed. He rose to his feet and walked rapidly down the path to the Redding house. When he came in sight of it he saw that the kitchen windows were lighted and that a man stood with his arm on the sill of one of them. Silhouetted against the light were the familiar outlines of Stevens Cathcart. As Barnes stood staring amazedly at this, a slender figure in white came to the window, and in the stillness he could hear the quiet voice:
“Please let me close the window, Mr. Cathcart. Thank you—no—and good-night.”
“‘Three Men in a Boat,’ by Rachel Redding,” murmured the doctor to himself, and slipped back to the willow path, from which he at length emerged to join the group upon the porch—which then, it may be observed, held for the first time that night its full complement of men.