“Oh, that’s nothing—all in the day’s work. All right, then, if you’re off the case for to-day. I’m going over to Whistling Reeds, but you can toddle home, if you like.” “You’re going there? To Alma’s? Indeed I will go with you. What are you going for?” “On a quest for knowledge and information.” He spoke gravely. “Are you going to torment her, Kee?” I asked. “Not intentionally. But I must ask some questions and she must answer. Now, go or stay away, as you choose.” “I’ll go,” I said, and we walked a while in silence. Reaching our own boathouse, Kee chose his favourite round-bottomed boat and we started for the Island. I rowed, for I felt the need of some physical exertion to calm my racing nerves, stirred by the thought of the ordeal ahead of us. Keeley had not suspected Mrs. Dallas—he said so—but I had a feeling he did suspect Alma, and I wondered what his attitude would be. “Don’t be harsh with her,” I said, at last, apparently apropos of nothing. “I’m not utterly a brute,” he returned, and I bent to my oars. It was a gray day. The clouds hid the sun entirely and they were dull heavy clouds, not fleecy white ones such as I loved. The lake was leaden, and the ripples waved slowly but did not break into whitecaps. There were no other boats in sight and no crowds of merry people on the few docks we passed. Reaching the Remsen boathouse, it seemed to me the Island looked more than ever like an abode of the dead. The trees were motionless in the calm air and the dark glades and copses seemed sepulchral in their sentinel-like rigidity. We landed and went up the steps toward the house. A man advanced to meet us. “What’s wanted?” he said, not quite gruffly, but with an apparent intention of being answered. “We want to see Miss Remsen,” Kee replied and his manner was suavity itself. “I am Keeley Moore, from Variable Winds, down the lake. This is my friend, Mr. Norris. Take us to the house, Mr. Merivale, and announce us to Miss Remsen.” “Announce you, is it? When I’m tellin’ you she isn’t home!” He hadn’t told us that before, but he seemed to think he had, and he stood directly in our path, so that we could advance no step. “Where is she, please?” “She and Merry—that’s my wife, sir—have gone down to the village.” “And nobody’s home?” “Nobody but me and one or two kitchen servants.” “Well, let us sit on the porch a few moments. Mr. Norris is all tuckered out with his row over here, and I’ve got to row back. So, maybe you’ll give us a drink of water; if Mrs. Merivale was at home, I’d ask for tea.” The strange-looking man seemed to relent a little. He was an enormous, strapping fellow, not fierce-looking but of powerful build and a strong, forceful countenance. He gazed at us out of deep-set eyes overhung with shaggy eyebrows of stiff gray hair. “Come along, then,” he said. “You can sit on the porch, and I’ll make you a cup of tea. I can make better tea than Merry.” But as he turned to leave us, he said, with a slight smile: