“Are we in time?” inquired Barres in a low voice.
“Plenty,” said Renoux with a shrug. “They’ve been making a night of it in there. They’re at it yet. Listen!”
Even at that distance the sound of revelry was audible—shouts, laughter, cheering, boisterous singing.
“Skeel is there,” remarked Renoux, “and I fancy he’s an anxious man. They ought to have been out of that house before dawn to escape observation, but I imagine Skeel has an unruly gang to deal with in those reckless Irishmen.”
Barres and Westmore peered out through the fringe of trees across the somewhat desolate landscape beyond.
There were no houses to be seen. Here and there on the bogs were stakes of swale-hay and a gaunt tree or two.
“That brick hotel,” said Renoux, “is one of those places outside town limits, where law is defied and license straddles the line. It’s run by McDermott, one of the two men aboard the power-boat.”
“Where is their boat?” inquired Westmore.
Renoux turned and pointed to the southwest.