For years Anthony Trent had looked forward to days like this in his new home. But the thrill of it was gone. He had hoped to look over the lake to the purple hills beyond with a serenity of mind that might now never be his. How much did Kaufmann know? Would he lodge information with the police? Dare he? Probably he would not dare to call. But anonymous information of so important a character would speedily bring detectives on his trail. Beyond a question he should have bought a camp on some far Canadian lake under another name, and reached it by devious ways.
He had betrayed much ingenuity in bringing himself, Mrs. Kinney and their baggage, to Kennebago as it was. Successions of taxis from hotel to station, and from station to hotel, crossing his own tracks a half dozen times would make pursuit difficult. He had no way of estimating Kaufmann’s skill at following a clue. But the man had impressed him, Anthony Trent, who had foiled so many.
Next morning he determined to fish and was attending to his rods with the loving care of the conscientious angler when a knock came at the door. It opened on to the big screened piazza.
“Come in,” he shouted, thinking Mrs. Kinney wished to consult him.
Instead there entered Mr. Westward who greeted him heartily. It was indeed an honor, for the piscatorial expert called upon few.
“Glad to see you, my dear fellow,” said Westward, shaking him by the hand. “I happened to meet a friend of yours who was coming to see you and lost his way so I’ve brought him along.”
Kaufmann also wrung his hand. He seemed no less delighted to see Trent than had been Mr. Westward.
“What a charming retreat you have here,” he exclaimed cordially.
There followed a conversation concerning trout and salmon which under normal conditions would have been delightful to Trent. Kaufmann was affable, genial, and talked of the finny spoils of his native lakes. It was only when Westward’s erect form had disappeared down the path that his manner became forbidding.
“Why did you leave New York?” he snapped.