"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.

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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.




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