At ten o'clock I called for a horse and rode out into the night, turning into the country with the intention of following the lake-road to the region I had explored in the launch a few hours before. All was dark at St. Agatha's as I passed. No doubt Helen Holbrook had returned in due course from her visit to her father and, after accounting plausibly to her aunt for her absence, was sleeping the sleep of the just. Now that I thought of the matter in all its bearings, I accused myself for not having gone directly to St. Agatha's from the lonely house on Tippecanoe Creek and waited for her there, demanding an explanation of her perfidy. She was treating Miss Pat infamously: that was plain; and yet in my heart I was excusing and defending her. A family row about money was ugly at best; and an unfortunate—even criminal—father may still have some claim on his child.
Then, as against such reasoning, the vision of Miss Pat rose before me—and I felt whatever chivalry there is in me arouse with a rattle of spears. Paul Stoddard, in committing that dear old gentlewoman to my care, had not asked me to fall in love with her niece; so, impatient to be thus swayed between two inclinations, I chirruped to the horse and galloped swiftly over the silent white road.
I had learned from the Glenarm stable-boys that it was several miles overland to the Tippecanoe. A Sabbath quiet lay upon the world, and I seemed to be the only person abroad. I rode at a sharp pace through the cool air, rushing by heavy woodlands and broad fields, with an occasional farm-house rising somberly in the moonlight. The road turned gradually, following the line of the lake which now flashed out and then was lost again behind the forest. There is nothing like a gallop to shake the nonsense out of a man, and my spirits rose as the miles sped by. The village of Tippecanoe lay off somewhere in this direction, as guide-posts several times gave warning; and my study of the map on the launch had given me a good idea of the whole region. What I sought was the front entrance of the green cottage above the house-boat by the creek, and when, far beyond Port Annandale, the road turned abruptly away from the lake, I took my bearings and dismounted and tied my horse in a strip of unfenced woodland.
The whole region was very lonely, and now that the beat of hoofs no longer rang in my ears the quiet was oppressive. I struck through the wood and found the creek, and the path beside it. The little stream was still murmuring its own name musically, with perhaps a softer note in deference to the night; and following the path carefully I came in a few minutes to the steps that linked the cottage with the house-boat at the creek's edge. It was just there that I had seen Helen Holbrook, and I stood quite still recalling this, and making sure that she had come down those steps in that quiet out-of-the-way corner of the world, to keep tryst with her father. The story-and-a-half cottage was covered with vines and close-wrapped in shrubbery. I followed a garden walk that wound among bits of lawn and flower-beds until I came to a tall cedar hedge that cut the place off from the road. A semicircle of taller pines within shut the cottage off completely from the highway. I crawled through the cedars and walked along slowly to the gate, near which a post supported a signboard. I struck a match and read:
RED GATE
R. Hartridge,
Canoe-Maker,
Tippecanoe, Indiana.
This, then, was the home of the canoe-maker mentioned by Ijima. I found his name repeated on the rural delivery mail-box affixed to the sign-post. Henry Holbrook was probably a boarder at the house—it required no great deductive powers to fathom that. I stole back through the hedge and down to the house-boat. The moon was coming up over the eastern wood, and the stars were beautifully clear. I walked the length of the platform, which was provided with a railing on the waterside, with growing curiosity. Several canoes, carefully covered with tarpaulins, lay about the deck, and chairs were drawn up close to the long, low house in shipshape fashion. If this house-boat was the canoe-maker's shop he had chosen a secluded and picturesque spot for it.
As I leaned against the rail studying the lines of the house, I heard suddenly the creak of an oar-lock in the stream behind, and then low voices talking. The deep night silence was so profound that any sound was doubly emphasized, and I peered out upon the water, at once alert and interested. I saw a dark shadow in the creek as the boat drew nearer, and heard words spoken sharply as though in command. I drew back against the house and waited. Possibly the canoe-maker had been abroad, or more likely Henry Holbrook had gone forth upon some mischief, and my mind flew at once to the two women at St. Agatha's, one of whom at least was still under my protection. The boat approached furtively, and I heard now very distinctly words spoken in Italian:
"Have a care; climb up with the rope and I'll follow."
Then the boat touched the platform lightly and a second later a man climbed nimbly up the side. His companion followed, and they tied their boat to the railing. They paused now to reconnoiter—so close to me that I could have touched them with my hands—and engaged in a colloquy. The taller man gave directions, the other replying in monosyllables to show that he understood.
"Go to the side porch of the cottage, and knock. When the man comes to the door tell him that you are the chauffeur from an automobile that has broken down in the road, and that you want help for a woman who has been hurt."