of a storm seemed
to have vanished, and now and then the moon's edge showed above a torn
slope of cloud.

But in the thick shrubbery about the boat-house the darkness was still
dense, and Wrayford had to strike a match before he could find the lock
and insert his key. He left the door unlatched, and groped his way in.
How often he had crept into this warm pine-scented obscurity, guiding
himself by the edge of the bench along the wall, and hearing the soft
lap of water through the gaps in the flooring! He knew just where one
had to duck one's head to avoid the two canoes swung from the rafters,
and just where to put his hand on the latch of the farther door that led
to the broad balcony above the lake.

The boat-house represented one of Stilling's abandoned whims. He had
built it some seven years before, and for a time it had been the scene
of incessant nautical exploits. Stilling had rowed, sailed, paddled
indefatigably, and all Highfield had been impressed to bear him company,
and to admire his versatility. Then motors had come in, and he had
forsaken aquatic sports for the flying chariot. The canoes of birch-bark
and canvas had been hoisted to the roof, the sail-boat had rotted at her
moorings, and the movable floor of the boat-house, ingeniously contrived
to slide back on noiseless runners, had lain undisturbed through several
seasons. Even the key of the boat-house had been mislaid--by Isabel's
fault, her husband said--and the locksmith had to be called in to make a
new one when the purchase of the motor-boat made the lake once more the
centre of Stilling's activity.

As Wrayford entered he noticed that a strange oily odor overpowered the
usual scent of dry pine-wood; and at the next step his foot struck an
object that rolled noisily across the boards. He lighted another match,
and found he had overturned a can of grease which the boatman had no
doubt been using to oil the runners of the sliding floor.

Wrayford felt his way down the length of the boathouse, and softly
opening the balcony door looked out on the lake. A few yards away, he
saw the launch lying at anchor in the veiled moonlight; and just below
him, on the black water, was the dim outline of the skiff which the
boatman kept to paddle out to her. The silence was so intense that
Wrayford fancied he heard a faint rustling in the shrubbery on the
high bank behind the boat-house, and the crackle of gravel on the path
descending to it.

He closed the d