The whole region was very lonely, and now that the beat of hoofs no longer rang in my ears the quiet was oppressive. I struck through the wood and found the creek, and the path beside it. The little stream was still murmuring its own name musically, with perhaps a softer note in deference to the night; and following the path carefully I came in a few minutes to the steps that linked the cottage with the house-boat at the creek's edge. It was just there that I had seen Helen Holbrook, and I stood quite still recalling this, and making sure that she had come down those steps in that quiet out-of-the-way corner of the world, to keep tryst with her father. The story-and-a-half cottage was covered with vines and close-wrapped in shrubbery. I followed a garden walk that wound among bits of lawn and flower-beds until I came to a tall cedar hedge that cut the place off from the road. A semicircle of taller pines within shut the cottage off completely from the highway. I crawled through the cedars and walked along slowly to the gate, near which a post supported a signboard. I struck a match and read: RED GATE R. Hartridge, Canoe-Maker, Tippecanoe, Indiana. This, then, was the home of the canoe-maker mentioned by Ijima. I found his name repeated on the rural delivery mail-box affixed to the sign-post. Henry Holbrook was probably a boarder at the house--it required no great deductive powers to fathom that. I stole back through the hedge and down to the house-boat. The moon was coming up over the eastern wood, and the stars were beautifully clear. I walked the length of the platform, which was provided with a railing on the waterside, with growing curiosity. Several canoes, carefully covered with tarpaulins, lay about the deck, and chairs were drawn up close to the long, low house in shipshape fashion. If this house-boat was the canoe-maker's shop he had chosen a secluded and picturesque spot for it. As I leaned against the rail studying the lines of the house, I heard suddenly the creak of an oar-lock in the stream behind, and then low voices talking. The deep night silence was so profound that any sound was doubly emphasized, and I peered out upon the water, at once alert and interested. I saw a dark shadow in the creek as the boat drew nearer, and heard words spoken sharply as though in command. I drew back against the house and waited. Possibly the canoe-maker had been abroad, or more likely Henry Holbrook had gone forth upon some mischief, and my mind flew at once to the two women at St. Agatha's, one of whom at least was still under my protection. The boat approached furtively, and I heard now very distinctly words spoken in Italian: "Have a care; climb up with the rope and I'll follow."