ce.

Not far from the portage at the foot of the rapids there was an old
logging road, if they could but find it in the dark. The last mile
could be covered more quickly by this route than by following the tump
trail past the rapids, and it would lead them straight to the camp.
The moon would not be up until after midnight and the tote road
promised a more noiseless approach for the preliminary reconnoitring
that was necessary to carry out the detective's plan.

It was McCorquodale's suggestion that they creep down on the camp and,
if possible, get Stiles away first. After that they would go after
Weiler. If they waited until the four men were asleep or were lucky
enough to catch their man far enough away from the others to permit of
capturing him without too much commotion, it ought to be feasible to
carry him into the woods. There, as the detective put it, they could
"frighten the gizzard out of him" and learn the meaning of his trip to
Sparrow Lake and what Rives was up to; also they would make him tell
what he knew about Nickleby's dealings with Red McIvor. At any rate
they ought to be able to learn enough to decide on a definite course of
action in rounding up the bootleggers. To McCorquodale it was a
gratifying prospect. Lead him to it!

The night was exceptionally still, without a breath of air stirring the
forest. In the deep hush that brooded over the wilderness small sounds
held sway that ordinarily would have been submerged in the paean of the
wind in the firs--the whisper of the Wolverine where it swept, deep and
strong; its strident chatter to a fling of gravel at occasional bends
in the stream; its sucking snarl over a sunken boulder. The movements
and whistlings of owls and bats in the dark, moss-clung corridors on
either side were quite distinct; so were the whines and snorts of
weasels and other small animals, noisy in the underbrush. And
undertoning all other sounds, unceasing, like a hidden menace, rose the
drone of insect life--the _hm-m-m-m-m-m-m_ of the muskeg swarms.

After perhaps an hour and a half of hard paddling they reached the
little lake which marked the junction of Indian Creek with the
Wolverine. Beyond this point the stream narrowed and navigation became
more difficult. As the shores began to widen out at the forks
Kendrick, whose eyes long since had become focused to the twilight of
the stars, saw that McCorquodale had thrown up his hand and was
motioning for him to cea