"Have you a boat here?"
"The boat-house is locked and I haven't the key with
me, sir," he replied without excitement.
"Of course you haven't it," I snapped, full of anger
at his tone of irreproachable respect, and at my own
helplessness. I had not even seen the place by daylight,
and the woodland behind me and the lake at my feet
were things of shadow and mystery. In my rage I
stamped my foot.
"Lead the way back," I roared.
I had turned toward the woodland when suddenly
there stole across the water a voice,-a woman's voice,
deep, musical and deliberate.
"Really, I shouldn't be so angry if I were you!" it
said, with a lingering note on the word angry.
"Who are you? What are you doing there?" I bawled.
"Just enjoying a little tranquil thought!" was the
drawling, mocking reply.
Far out upon the water I heard the dip and glide of
the canoe, and saw faintly its outline for a moment;
then it was gone. The lake, the surrounding wood, were
an unknown world,-the canoe, a boat of dreams. Then
again came the voice: "Good night, merry gentlemen!"
"It was a lady, sir," remarked Bates, after we had
waited silently for a full minute.
"How clever you are!" I sneered. "I suppose ladies
prowl about here at night, shooting ducks or into people's
houses."
"It would seem quite likely, sir."
I should have liked to cast him into the lake, but be
was already moving away, the lantern swinging at his
side. I followed him, back through the woodland to the
house.
My spirits quickly responded to the cheering influence
of the great library. I stirred the fire on the
hearth into life and sat down before it, tired from my
tramp. I was mystified and perplexed by the incident
that had already marked my coming. It was possible,
to be sure, that the bullet which narrowly missed my
head in the little dining-room had been a wild shot that
carried no evil intent. I dismissed at once the idea that
it might have been fired from the lake; it had crashed
through the glass with too much force to have come so
far; and, moreover, I could hardly imagine even a rifle-ball's
finding an unimpeded right of way through so
dense a strip of wood. I found it difficult to get rid of
the idea that some one had taken a pot-shot at me.
The woman's mocking voice from the lake added to
my perplexity. It was not, I reflected, such a voice as
one might expect to hear from a country girl; nor could
I imagine any errand that would excuse a woman's
presence abroad on an October night whose cool air inspired
first confidences with fire and lamp. There was
something haunting in that last cry across the water;
it kept repeating itself over and over in my ears. It
was a voice of quality, of breeding and charm.