Beveridge caught the half-past eight train for Lakeville the next morning, and walked straight down to the house on stilts. Annie was out on the lake, her mother said, looking at him, while she said it, and after, with doubtful, questioning eyes. So he sat down on the steps and looked out over the beach and the water. It was a fine warm day, with just breeze enough to ripple, the lake from shore to horizon, and set it sparkling in the sun. The sky was blue and white; and the cloud shadows here and there on the water took varied and varying colors--deep blue, yellow, sea-green. The shore-line dwindled off to the northward in long scallops, every line of the yellow beach cut out cleanly, every oak on the bluff outlined sharply. In truth, it was a glorious day--just the day Beveridge would have chosen had the choice been his--the day of days, on which he was to make the last arrangements in clinching his success, in assuring his future. Annie had gone out to the nets with her father. She was, at the moment, rowing him in. On other days Beveridge had sat here and watched her coming in from the nets, with a great box of whitefish aboard. The boat grounded on the sand. Captain Fargo stepped out and drew it up. Beveridge rose and smiled lazily while he waited for Annie to come up to the steps. The sun had been in her eyes, and at first she did not see him distinctly. “Well,” said Beveridge, “hello! Didn't expect to see me, did you?” She stopped abruptly and looked at him. He did not know just how to interpret her expression. “Aren't you going to speak to me, Annie?” Her answer, when it came, blanketed him, and left him, so to speak, flapping in the wind. She said, “What have you done with Dick?” “Dick? Why--oh, he's all right.” “Why hasn't he been back?” “He 'll be around all right. They thought it would be necessary to hold him for a few days.” “To hold him,--where?” “Don't you see--” “Is he in prison?” “Yes, but that will be fixed--” “In Chicago?” “Yes, he--” “Father,” said she, “Dick's in prison. We must go down to see him.” And she turned back to Beveridge with the question, “When can we get a train?” What could Beveridge do but fumble in his pockets, bring out a handful of papers, look them over until he found a time-table, and announce that the next train was the ten-twelve? “You will have to show us how to get there, Mr. Beveridge,” said Annie. “Come and change your clothes, father. Will you wait here, Mr. Beveridge?” Beveridge said that he would, certainly. And then when father and daughter had hurried into the house, and after Captain Fargo had turned his box of fish over to a boy who acted on occasions as his helper, the special agent sat down again and looked at the Lake. The sun was shining on, bright as ever; the water was still varicolored, the sky still blue-and-white; but he saw them not.