by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XVI THE SECRET OF LOST LAKE
Jeanne toiled laboriously up the side of Greenstone Ridge on Isle Royale.From time to time she paused to regain her breath, to drink in the coolclean winter air, and to revel in the glorious contrasts of the whitethat was snow and the dark green that was spruce, fir and balsam.
She was on Isle Royale. More than once she had been obliged to pinchherself to make sure of that.
"Airplanes are so sudden, so wonderful!" she had said to Sandy. "Now weare in Chicago; now we are in Duluth; and now we are on Isle Royale."
Their trip north had been just like that, a short whirring flight, andthere they were coming down upon Isle Royale. Landing on skiis, they hadtaxied almost to the door of the low fisherman's cabin which was to betheir temporary home.
Here Sandy was to study wild life, find out all he could about trappingwild moose and send interesting stories out over the short-wave radio.Here Jeanne was to wander at will over the great white wilderness. Andthis was exactly what she was doing now.
"What a world!" she breathed. "What a glorious world God has given us!"Her gaze swept a magic wilderness.
Her heart leaped anew as she thought of the chance circumstances that hadbrought her to this "Magic Isle" sixty miles from the Michigan mainlandin winter.
"I am going to like Vivian," she told herself. "I am sure she is quitegrand." She paused a moment to consider. Vivian was the fisherman'sdaughter. Her hands were rough, her face was tanned brown. Her clothingof coarse material was stoutly made to stand many storms. Jeanne wasdressed at this moment in a sweater of bright red. It was wool, soft aseiderdown. Her dark blue knickers were of the latest cloth and pattern.Miss Mabee had outfitted her in this lavish manner.
"Vivian and I shall be the finest friends in all the world!" sheexclaimed.
With that, she squared her slender shoulders, threw back her thick goldenhair, drew her wool cap down tight, then went struggling toward her goal.
Twenty minutes later a cry of pure joy escaped her lips. "How wonderful!How perfectly gorgeous!
"And yet--" her voice dropped. "How strange! They did not tell me therewas a lake on the other side, a gem of a lake hidden away beneath theridges. I--I doubt if they knew. How little some people know about theplaces near their own homes!
"I--I'll give it a name!" she cried, seized by a sudden inspiration. "Itshall be called 'Lost Lake.' Lost Lake," she murmured. As she looked downupon it, it seemed a mirror set in a frame of darkest green.
"Hemlock turned to pitchy black Against the whiteness at their back."
"My Lost Lake," she whispered, "I must see it closer."
Little did she dream that this simple decision would result in mysteriesand adventures such as she had seldom before known.
"How wonderful it all is!" she exclaimed again, as at last her feetrested on the glistening surface of the little lost lake.
She went shuffling across the dark, deeply frozen surface. The firstspell of severe weather of that autumn had come with a period of deadcalm. All the small lakes of the island had frozen over smooth as glass.And now, though the ice was more than a foot thick, it was possible whilegliding across it to catch sight of dull gray rocks and deep yawningshadows where the water was deep.
Only the day before on Long Lake, which was close to Vivian's home,Jeanne and her friend had thrown themselves flat down on the ice, shadedtheir eyes and peered into the shadowy depth below. They had found it afascinating adventure into the great unknown. In places, standing like aminiature forest, tall, heavy-leafed pikeweeds greeted their eyes. Amongthese, like giant dirigibles moored to the tree-tops, long black pickerellay. Waving their fins gently to and fro, they stared up with great roundeyes. Here, too, at times they saw whole schools of yellow perch andwall-eyes. Once, too, they caught sight of a scaly monster more than sixfeet long. He was so huge and ugly, they shuddered at sight of him.Vivian had decided he must be a sturgeon and marveled at his presence inthese waters.
Recalling all this, Jeanne now slipped the snowshoes from off her feetand, throwing herself flat on the ice, began her own little exploringexpedition beneath the surface of her own private lake.
She had just sighted a school of tiny perch when a strange and apparentlyimpossible sight caught her gaze. Faint, but quite unmistakable, therecame to her mental vision a circle of gold, and within that circle theseletters and figures: D.X.123.
One moment it was there. The next it was blotted out by the passing ofthat school of small fish. When the fish had passed, the vision too wasgone.
"I didn't see it at all," she told herself. "It was just a pictureflashed on the walls of my memory--something I saw long ago. It is likethe markings on an airplane--the plane's number. But it really wasn'tthere at all.
"I have it!" she exclaimed. "That must be the number on the airplane thatcarried us here. I'll look and see when I get back."
She straightened up to look about her. As she did so, she realized thatthe sun had gone under a cloud. Disquieting thought, this may have beenthe reason for the vanishing picture in the depths below.
"The fish hid it. Then the sun went under that cloud. I must look again."She settled down to await the passing of that cloud.
"What if I see it again?" she thought. "Shall I tell the others? Willthey believe me? Probably not. Laugh at me, tell me I've been seeingthings.
"I know what I'll do!" She came to a sudden decision. "I'll bring Vivianup here and have her look. I'll not tell her a thing, but just have herlook. Then if she sees it I'll know--"
But the sun was out from behind the cloud--time to look again.
Her heart was beating painfully from excitement as she shaded her eyesonce more.
For a time she could make out nothing but rocks and deep shadows. Thenthe school of small fish circled back.
"Have to wait." She heaved a sigh almost of relief.
But now something startled the perch. They went scurrying away. Andthere, just as it had been before, was the circle and that mysterioussign: D.X.123.
Ten seconds more it lingered. Then, as before, it vanished. Once againthe bright light had faded. This time a large cloud was over the sun. Itwould take an hour, perhaps two, for it to pass.
"I must go back," she sighed. Slipping on her snowshoes, she turned aboutto make her way laboriously up the ridge.
As she struggled on, climbing a rocky ridge here, battling her waythrough a thick cluster of balsams there, then out upon a level, barrenspace, a strange feeling came over her, a feeling she could not at allexplain. It was as if someone were trying to whisper into her ear astartling and mysterious truth. She listened in vain for the whisper. Itdid not come. And yet, as she once more began the upward climb it waswith a feeling, almost a conviction, that all she had done in the lastfew days--the flight to Isle Royale, her hours about the cabin stove, theclimb up this ridge, her discovery of Lost Lake and that mysteriousD.X.123--was somehow a part of that which she had left behind withFlorence in Chicago.
"I can't see how it could be," she murmured, "yet somehow I feel this istrue."
That same evening in Miss Mabee's studio an interesting experiment was inprogress. Made desperate by her terrifying experiences in that tenthfloor "retreat" of Madame Zaran and Professor Alcapar, and quiteconvinced that the beautiful June Travis was in great danger, Florencehad resolved to use every possible means to discover the whereabouts ofJune's father and bring him back.
"Gone ten years!" Doubt whispered to her, "He's dead; he must be." Yetfaith would not allow her to believe this.
She had put herself in touch with June's home and had secured permissionto invite her to the studio. When June arrived, she found not onlyFlorence, but the young psychologist, Rodney Angel, and Tum Morrow. Tumhad his violin.
"The point is," the psychologist launched at once into the business athand, "you, June Travis, wish to find your father. If you can recall someof your surroundings while you were with him, we may be able
to locatethose surroundings, and through them some friend who may know at leastwhich way he went.
"Now," he said in a tone of perfect ease, "we are here together, fourfriends in this beautiful studio. Our friend Tum is going to give us somemusic. Do you like waltz time?"
"I adore it."
"Waltz time," he nodded to Tum.
"While he plays," he went on, "we shall sit before the open fire, andthat should remind you of Christmas, stockings and all that. I'm going toask you to think back as far as you can, Christmas by Christmas. Thatshould not be hard. Perhaps last Christmas was a glad one because allyour friends were present, the one before that sad because some treasuredone was gone. Think back, back, back, and let us see if we cannot at lastarrive at the last one you spent with your father."
"Oh!" The look on June's face became animated. "I--I'll try hard."
"Not too hard. Just let your thoughts flow back, like a stream. Now, Tum,the music."
For ten minutes there was no sound save the sweet, melodious voice ofTum's violin.
"Now," whispered the psychologist, "think! Last Christmas? Was it glad orsad?"
"Glad."
"And the one before?"
"Glad."
"And the one before that?"
"Sad."
So they went on back through the years until with some hesitation thegirl said once more, "Sad."
"Why?" the psychologist asked quickly.
"I wanted a doll. I had always had a new doll for Christmas. The ladygave me no doll."
"But who always gave you a doll at Christmas?" In the youngpsychologist's eye shone a strange light.
"A man, a short, jolly man."
"And the last doll he gave you had golden hair?" He leaned forwardeagerly.
"No. The hair was brown. The doll's eyes opened and shut."
"So you opened its eyes and said, 'See the fire!'"
"No. I took the doll to the window and said, 'See the tower.'"
"What sort of tower?" The air of the room grew tense, yet the girl didnot know it.
"A brownstone tower. A round tower with a round flat roof of stone. Therewas a bell in the tower that rang and rang on Christmas Eve."
"Could you draw it?" He pressed pencil and paper into her hand. She madea crude drawing, then held it up to him.
"It will do," he breathed. "Now, one more question. What kind of a housewas it you lived in then?"
"A red brick house--square and a little ugly."
"Fine! Wonderful!" Rodney Angel relaxed. "I know that tower. There isonly one such in all Chicago-land. It was built before the Civil War. Itis a college tower. I doubt if there is more than one red brick housewithin sight of it. If there is not, then that is where you lived. And ifyou lived there, we will be able to find someone who knew that short,stout, jolly man who was your father."
"My father!" the girl cried, "No! It can't be! He is tall, slim anddignified."
"Do you know that to be a fact?" The young man stared.
"I saw him in the crystal ball."
"Oh!" Rodney heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, perhaps your father issubject to change without notice. We shall see.
"And now--" he turned a smiling face to Florence. "How about another cupof coffee and just another piece of pie, or perhaps two?"
"To think!" June looked at the young psychologist with unconcealedadmiration. "You helped me do what I have never been able to do before.You made me think back to those days when I was with my father!"
"Some day," Rodney said thoughtfully, "people will begin to understandthe working of their own minds. And what a grand day that will be!
"In the meantime," he smiled a bright smile, "if you girls have had anydreams you don't quite understand, bring them to little old Rodney. He'lldo his best to unravel them.
"Now," he sighed, "how about the pie?"