“And the story of the lost channel?” asked Clay.
“There is a queer story of a lost channel,” the chief laughed, “but I’m afraid that it will always be a lost channel.”
“But Fontenelle is continually trying to locate it,” suggested Clay.
“Yes, but he has no more idea where to look for it than a child in a cradle. There is a place down the river where he thinks it might once have existed, but he has no clews of any kind.”
“Hasn’t even a map?” asked Clay, resolved to know exactly, as far as possible, what knowledge the Fontenelles had of the lost channel.
“No, not even a map,” answered the chief. “I tell you that the family has absolutely nothing to go by. Young Fontenelle, who is making most of the searches now, only goes out to please his father and to give his friends a pleasant summer vacation.”
And so the crude map which had been so mysteriously delivered to the boys was an entirely new element in the case! Who had drawn it, who had connived at its delivery, who had supplied the information buried in the legends of more than three hundred years!
Clay puzzled over the matter while the chief chatted with the other boys, but could reach no conclusion. Again he was tempted to reveal to an outsider the existence of the map, and again he forced himself to silence when the words were almost on his lips.
“I shall be laughed at if I say anything about the map,” he mused. “The chief will tell me that many a joke has been played on the Fontenelles, and that this was intended to be another. He will tell me that the Rambler was mistaken for the Cartier, and that there is no mystery, but only fraud, connected with either one of the messages we received that night.”
“You spoke of the Fontenelle claim in connection with the strange conduct of this boy Max,” the chief finally said to Clay. “Why did you do that? Can you see any possible connection between the two?”