The point where the canoe had vanished was about half way to the other side of the lake from where they were standing. They started, Kernertok leading the way, and had gone perhaps a little over a mile when he stopped.
“White boys stay here, Injun go see what to see,” he whispered.
“Look out you don’t get another crack on the head,” Bob cautioned.
“Injun look heap sharp,” he grunted, as he disappeared in the darkness, which, now as the moon had set, was intense.
“That guy in that canoe was never John Stebbins,” Rex whispered, as they stretched out close together beneath a large spruce.
“What makes you think so?” Jack asked.
“Because he hasn’t got enough originality in his makeup to plan a thing like that. He’s the most prosaic fellow you ever saw. Steady and all that, but I don’t believe he ever doped out a scheme of any kind in his life. It simply isn’t in his make-up.”
“And yet he got all that money,” Bob suggested.
“I know, but I’ll bet my hat that some one else planned it.”
“Any idea who?”