“We’ll see,” said Clement. “When we get there—well, we’ll see.”
Gatineau, as the least known of the two, stood up, plying his rod; Clement hunched over the rowing. They drifted round the headland. They moved slowly along the lake. Gatineau pretended to be dissatisfied with his sport. He pointed with a long arm, indicating more likely spots for a bite. Clement rowed languidly—there was a great deal of power in his rowing and it took the boat nearer and nearer the shack. Gatineau held up his hand, made a graceful cast, then he said, “Holy Mike!—vanished.” He did not refer to the fish. He said it softly, not because the fish might hear, but because in these silent places sounds carry amazingly.
“You mean Neuburg and Siwash have vanished?” said Clement in the same quiet tone.
“The earth might have swallowed them up. Not a sign of them.”
“And the woman—and Gunning?”
“Not a sign of them. Gone from the porch.”
“They’ve seen us. They’re taking all precautions.”
Clement glanced back to the headland. It shut them off from the entire world. They could see no sign of humanity, not even of the three men in the canoe who were following them so cautiously. Gatineau fished sedately, partly to throw dust in the eyes of the people in or near the shack, partly to give the men in the canoe time to make the headland. Always they drifted nearer and nearer the shack.
Presently—it was part of their plan—Gatineau placed his rod in the boat and sat down. He sat down facing Clement, facing in the direction of the shack.