I was relieved. On the lake there was much less chance of her being observed by Henry Holbrook than in the highways about Annandale. It was, to be sure, a question whether the man I had encountered at the canoe-maker's was really her brother; that question was still to be settled. The presence of Gillespie I had forgotten utterly; but he was, at any rate, the least important figure in the little drama unfolding before me. "I shall come to your pier with the launch at five o'clock," I said, and with their thanks murmuring in my ears I turned away, went home and called for my horse. I repeated my journey of the night before, making daylight acquaintance with the highway. I brought my horse to a walk as I neared the canoe-maker's cottage, and I read his sign and the lettering on his mail-box and satisfied myself that the name Hartridge was indisputably set forth on both. The cedar hedge and the pines before the house shut the cottage off from the curious completely; but I saw the flutter of white curtains in the open gable windows, and the red roof agleam in the bright sunlight. There was no one in sight; perhaps the adventure and warning of the night had caused Holbrook to leave; but at any rate I was bent upon asking about him in Tippecanoe village. This place, lying about two miles beyond the canoe-maker's, I found to be a sleepy hamlet of perhaps fifty cottages, a country store, a post-office, and a blacksmith shop. There was a water-trough in front of the store, and I dismounted to give my horse a drink while I went to the cottage behind the closed store to seek the shopkeeper. I found him in a garden under an apple-tree reading a newspaper. He was an old fellow in spectacles, and, assuming that I was an idler from the summer colony, he greeted me courteously. He confirmed my impression that the crops were all in first-rate condition, and that the day was fine. I questioned him as to the character of the winters in this region, spoke of the employments of the village folk, then mentioned the canoe-maker. "Yes; he works the year round down there on the Tippecanoe. He sells his canoes all over the country--the Hartridge, that's his name. You must have seen his sign there by the cedar hedge. They say he gets big prices for his canoes." "I suppose he's a native in these parts?" I ventured. "No; but he's been here a good while. I guess nobody knows where he comes from--or cares. He works pretty hard, but I guess he likes it." "He's an industrious man, is he?" "Oh, he's a steady worker; but he's a queer kind, too. Now he never votes and he never goes to church; and for the sake of the argument, neither do I,"--and the old fellow winked prodigiously. "He's a mighty odd man; but I can't say that that's against him. But he's quiet and peaceable, and now his daughter--" "Oh, he has a daughter?"