It was a little backwater hidden in a rift in the granite hills. Its mouth opening on to the waters of the Lias River was a ten foot split in the sheer face of bald rock. But inside it was quite different. Within a few yards of the absurd opening it widened abruptly, with sloping, funnel-like sides that were graciously clad by a wealth of spruce growing up the hillsides, and staunchly protected from the devastating winds above. It was a remote, stuffy spot, humid and dank, and a tangle of undergrowth profusely crowded the water’s edge.
How far the widening stream ran back would have been difficult to determine. Maybe it was one of the many little hill streams which went to feed the great river at the time when the Spring warmth transformed the winter snows. Again it might easily have been one of those tiny recesses which have no other meaning than the impulse of Nature in the remote years of the world’s birth. Almost on the instant of entry upon the widening water the ultimate was obscured by the jutting of a hill slope. The course of the water swung away round a sharp bend, lost amidst the flourishing vegetation that looked to make its navigation impossible.
Cy Liskard was standing on the bank at the water’s edge. It was at a place where the undergrowth had been laboriously cleared. The ground was a-litter with fresh stumps where the cut had been made, and young shoots of new growth were already seeking to repair the human damage inflicted.
His boat was lying in the water at his feet. It was moored fast to a tree stump. It was laden with his outfit for a prolonged journey. But the man was gazing about him with a queer look in his pale blue eyes. It was a look of puzzlement, of incredulous and angry surprise. It was the look of a man whose mind has become well-nigh paralysed by the realisation of a disaster of appalling nature.
He gazed out over the water searching stupidly in the depths of the crowding vegetation. His gaze wandered to the outline of the jutting hill which hid the beyond. It turned back to the opening on to the river in the same hopeless fashion. Then it came again to the narrow landing upon which he was standing.
At last he bestirred himself. He moved back to higher ground and sat down on a boulder. And his eyes were turned upon the soft soil in which his own feet had made such deep impressions. He followed his own footprints to where he had first stepped ashore from his boat, and quickly realised that there were other footprints. Many others. A perfect maze of them.
He drew a deep breath. It was the first sign he had given beyond the curious expression of his usually expressionless eyes. He was staring at a deeply driven stake within a yard of the water’s edge. A hemp rope was lashed about it. It was securely knotted in a fashion he knew by heart. But the rope had been severed, and its end lay close by on the ground. The thing that it had held had gone. Vanished. And he knew now that others had found this remote spot, others had ventured up that narrow rift in the rocks. Others had located the hiding place which had served him for so long. Who? Who were those others? And the mind behind his queer eyes was searching the possibilities of the thing that had happened.
He remained seated for minutes that were rapidly prolonged. It was more than half an hour before he again bestirred himself. And in that half hour he had searched every avenue of explanation that presented itself to him.
He came down to the water’s edge again. He deliberately cast off the moorings of his canoe and took his place at the paddle. Then he headed the sturdy vessel inland and vanished round the bend.