"Of course. Why?"
"Pratt saw her drifting down the stream, that's all, and had to dive in to prevent her getting right past the island."
"That's rum," said Warrender. "The knot couldn't have worked loose. Who's been monkeying with her?"
"That's the point," said Armstrong. "There's some one else on the island, and whoever it is, wants the place to himself. Setting the boat adrift seemed to him a first step to driving us away, which shows he is a juggins."
"Q.E.D.," said Pratt. "Now the corollary, if you please."
"Wait a bit," Warrender interposed. "It may be only a stupid practical joke--the sort of thing the intelligence of that poacher fellow might rise to."
"It may be, of course," returned Armstrong, "but I think it's more. You remember what Miss Crawshay and the people at the inn told us about the island being haunted, you know? Well, rumours of that sort are just what might be set going by some one who has reasons of his own for keeping people away. It may be Rush; we found a rabbit-snare this morning; but if it is, there's some one else in the game. Last night, as I was returning to camp, I saw a face in the thicket, just for a moment; it was gone in a flash; but it wasn't Rush's face; it was a different type altogether."
"Why on earth didn't you tell us?" asked Warrender.
"Well, I might have been mistaken; moonlight plays all sorts of tricks; besides----"
"Just so, old man," said Pratt. "Are there visions abroad? The witching hour of night----"