the scow, and in another moment had scurried up the gangplank and into
the living-room.

When he saw her, Lem's lips fell away from his pipe, and he rose slowly
and awkwardly; but no shade of surrender softened the hard lines
settled about the mouth of the panting girl.

"Lem," she gasped, "has Pappy Lon said anything to ye about Mr.
Brimbecomb?"

"Yep."

"Are ye goin' to let me go with him?"

"Nope."

"Will ye swear, Lem, that when he comes to the hut ye'll say that he
can't have me?"

Lem's jaw dropped, and he uttered a throat sound, guttural and rough.

"Do ye mean, Flea, that ye'd rather come to the scow than go with the
young, good-lookin' cuss?"

"Yes, that's what I mean; and Pappy Lon says he's comin'."

Lem made a spring toward her.

"Don't touch me now!" she cried, shuddering. "Don't--yet! I'm comin'
back by and by."

Before he could place his hands upon her, Fledra had gone down the
plank. From the small boat-window Lem could discern the little figure
flitting among the hut bushes; in another moment she had crawled through
the open window into Lon's hut.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

When Everett arrived in Ithaca he made arrangements with the conductor
of the local train running to Geneva to have it slow down at Sherwoods
Lane.

A sudden jerk of the engine as it halted at the path that led to Lon's
hut brought Brimbecomb to his feet, and he hurried from the car with
muttered thanks and a substantial consideration to the conductor. While
the train rumbled away in the distance, he stood in the shadow of a
large pine tree by the track and looked about to get his bearings.
Suddenly he heard not far from him the faint, weird cry of an owl.
Instantly he was on the alert; for there was something familiar in the
melancholy sound. It took him back to a night in Tarrytown, when he had
cast a woman into the cemetery, and he remembered that she had said she
lived in Ithaca. Superstition sent him deeper into the shadow for a
moment; but he recovered himself and, shaking his shoulders, went his
way toward the lake with a muttered oath.

So dense was the woodland bordering the path, and so dark was the shadow
of the bushes in the twilight, that he had almost to feel his way down
the dark lane. He had not proceeded more than fifty yards when he saw a
light gleaming through the underbrush from the opposite side of the
gulch that ran parallel with the narrow road. He came to a path that
branched in the d