“No, no!” she whispered as she shook herself to free her mind of the thought.
“There’s the wall,” whispered Florence, as a gray bulk loomed up to the right of them.
They passed it in silence. To Lucile they seemed like marines running a blockade in time of war.
But Florence was busy with other thoughts. That wall seemed vaguely familiar to her. It was as if she had seen it in a dream, yet could not recall the details of the dream.
A storm was brewing off in the west. Now and then a distant flash of lightning lighted up the surrounding waters. Of a sudden one of these, more brilliant than the rest, lighted up the shore, which, at a word from the child, they were now nearing. What Florence saw was a small, artificially dredged buoy with a dock and large boathouse at the back.
Instantly what had been a dream became a reality. She had seen that wall and the little buoy and boathouse as well. Only the summer before she had spent two nights and a day with a party on the dunes. They had hired a motor boat and had skirted the shore. This place had been pointed out to her and described as the most elaborate and beautiful summer cottage on the shore.
“Why,” she whispered, with a sigh of relief, “this is the summer cottage of your friend, R. Stanley Ramsey, Jr., the young man you saw at Frank Morrow’s place and whom we saw later at the mystery cottage. This isn’t any brigandish thieving expedition. It is merely a business trip. Probably the old man has sold him one of his books.”
Lucile’s first reaction to this news was intense relief. This was not a jail-breaking expedition; in fact, was not to be in any way an adventure. But the next instant doubt came.
“What would that young man be doing in a summer cottage at this time of year?” she demanded. “All the cottages must have been closed for nearly a month. Society flies back to the city in September. Besides, if it’s plain business, why all this slipping in at the lake front instead of passing through the gate?”
Florence was silent at that. She had no answer.