On the morning after the coming of Mrs. West and Margaret, the secretary received a telegram from Saxe Temple, with the announcement that he and his friends would reach the lake that same afternoon. So, there now remained for the engineer less than one day of liberty in which to prosecute the hunt for the treasure. For all his audacity, Masters knew that he could not dare to carry on the search during the interval even, except with utmost caution, lest he arouse the suspicions of the widow or her daughter. He had passed most of the time since their coming in racking his brain with vain conjectures as to a possible clue, with the hope of making actual investigation at a more propitious time. Now, however, the telegram warned him that his period was at an end. The presence of the heir and his associates would effectually halt the engineer’s operations, and he realized the fact with bitterness of spirit. Thereafter, he must perforce do what he might skulkingly, ever cautious to avoid any least guess by anyone as to his purpose.
“But I’ll keep an eye out,” he confided to May, sullenly. “If they find a hint anywhere, I’ll beat them to the goal, after all, you’ll see!”
She shrank at his words—something that was fast coming to be a habit with her.
“But Mr. Temple has the right to it, you know,” she expostulated, weakly.
“If he gets it!” Masters retorted with a sneer that lifted slightly the luxurious mustache. “Only, I’ll see that he doesn’t. And, anyhow, I believe that he must be a pretty namby-pamby sort of chap. Fancy his bringing a band of helpers!”
“Mr. Abernethey particularly said that he might do so,” May reminded her lover.
“It seems a bit cowardly, just the same,” Masters maintained. “I’ll win out yet. I tell you, May, the fellow is handicapped: he fears failure.”
Saxe Temple arrived at the foot of the lake in mid-afternoon, and with him came Roy Morton, Billy Walker and David Thwing. Jake was awaiting the incoming train, his weather-beaten face aglow with anticipation. The terms of the will having become known to him, he had developed what might be called a sporting interest in the issue. After years of monotony, excitement had jumped into his life. Therefore, he now advanced toward the four young men with suit-cases, who had descended from the Pullman, and bobbed his head energetically, his clean-shaven face wrinkled in a smile.
“Mr. Temple and party, I ca’c’late?” he remarked inquiringly, looking from one to another.
“I am Mr. Temple,” said the heir, with an answering smile, as he stepped forward. He indicated his companions with a gesture. “These are my friends, come to help me on a bit of business I have in the neighborhood. You know about it?”
Jake beamed joyously.
“Well, now, I’ve got quite some suspicionings, as it were,” he admitted, cautiously. “I hope you’ve left everybody well to hum?”
“Oh, I believe some in the city are complaining,” Saxe replied, with apparent seriousness; “but the general health is about the average.”
“Jest so!” Jake showed himself gratified. “Well, I’ll lead ye over to the motor-boat.”
Billy Walker groaned stertorously.
“And we’re not there even yet!” he exclaimed, aghast.
“Oh, putty nigh,” Jake made assurance; “only a matter o’ three mile on the lake. We’ll git thar in a jiffy, in the Shirtso.”
“The what?” Saxe questioned.
“That’s the ornery name old man Abernethey give a perfec’ly good boat,” Jake replied, complainingly. “He said as how it meant kind o’ lively.”
“The name must be Scherzo,” Saxe explained to the unmusical and bewildered Billy Walker; “the motor-boat, you know.”
But Billy was not appeased. He kept at Jake’s side, as the party moved toward the landing, a furlong to the east from the station, and expressed his sentiments vehemently, though not lucidly, so far as the boatman was concerned.
“I’m given to understand,” he said severely to the puzzled Jake, “that your craft is not merely a plain, slow-going, safe-and-sane-Fourth launch, but, on the contrary, one of those cantankerous, speed-maniacal contraptions that scoots in diabolical and parabolical curves, and squirts water all over the passengers. If so, I think I’ll walk—though I’m not fond of walking.”
Jake seized eagerly on the one intelligible phrase in Billy Walker’s bombast.
“Nary squirt!” he declared, with emphasis. “Old man Abernethey, he was ailin’ jest like you be, and I learned to nuss the Shirtso keerful—mighty keerful, yes, siree!”
The others, who had overheard, laughed impudently at this naïve reference to the invalidism of their friend, whose physical inertia was equal to his mental energy.
At sight of the motor-boat, Roy Morton gave critical attention, scanning it with the supercilious manner of one versed in the mysteries, as, indeed, he was. Unbidden, he ensconced himself at the engines, in the seat with Jake. Soon, however, his coldly inquiring expression softened to radiant satisfaction, as he noted the smoothness of the start, the delicate adjustment from speed to speed, the rhythm of the perfectly tuned cylinders. Of a sudden, as he turned to stare at the wizened face of the old man at his side, Roy’s eyes grew gently luminous; a smile that was tender curved the lips above the belligerent chin. He knew that Jake loved his engines, knew perfectly that the old man fairly doted on them, cherished them even as a lover his mistress. Because of the sympathy that he, too, had with such things, Roy respected the boatman mightily, began then and there to grow fond of the brown and shriveled face.
Billy Walker, for his part, after the first few moments of suspense, became convinced that his anticipations of disaster were little likely to be realized in fact, and thereafter he gave himself over to delighted contemplation of the wooded shores, which on either side sloped gracefully to the water’s edge. David Thwing, too, gazed about on the newly budded beauty of the wilderness with a content made keen by over-long sojourning in the places builded by men. It was only Saxe Temple himself, alone in the stern chair, who looked around with eyes that just then recked naught of the scenic loveliness, despite the appeal in such vistas to one of his beauty-loving temperament. But his whole interest, now, was centered on the quest that had brought him to this remote region. His roving glance was searching all the stretches of lake and forest wonderingly, hopefully, fearfully. Here was the place in which he must win or lose a fortune, according to the decree of the old man’s whimsy. The desire of his dearest dreams surged in him, the challenge of ambition, the ideals of art. This wealth, once achieved, would give freedom to work according to his loftiest aspirations. A sudden fierce resolve burned in him. He would succeed, notwithstanding all difficulties in the path. Fate had given him opportunity: he would wrest from it victory as well. His face set itself sternly in lines of strength … and, then, without any warning, the Scherzo swung around a densely wooded point of the shore that had seemed almost to bar the narrow channel, through which they had been passing thus far. Now, just before them lay broad reaches of placid water, a mile in width there at hand, much wider in the distance beyond. Low mountains loomed undulant afar, whence the descending forests ran to a shore that wound hither and yon in innumerable inlets, coves and bays, broken often by cliffs.
Yet, even now, Saxe Temple gave no heed to the loveliness of the spectacle. Instead, his whole care was fixed on an uncouth, rambling