CHAPTER III A Puzzling Letter

Although the sky had cleared, evening shadows were creeping over the lake. Madge rowed steadily, knowing that soon it would be dark. She wondered if her long absence from home had caused worry and was not greatly surprised when she sighted another boat on the lake.

“It’s Uncle George and Old Bill,” she decided. “They’re out looking for me.”

She waved her hand to assure them she was quite safe and in a few minutes, Old Bill, with a skillful sweep of the oars, brought the boat alongside the skiff.

“It’s time you’re getting back, young lady!” Mr. Brady called out with kindly gruffness. “Another ten minutes and we’d have been dragging the lake.”

“Sorry,” Madge laughed. “I thought you had more confidence in my ability to handle a boat.”

“If you give me another scare like this, I’ll wish I’d never brought you up here.”

Madge did not take Mr. Brady’s brusque manner seriously for she knew that it masked a kindly heart. He really had worried about her and blamed himself for permitting her to start out ahead of the storm.

“I told Mr. Brady you knowed how to look arfter yourself,” Old Bill broke in, his leathery face wrinkling into a multitude of tiny folds. “I knowed this storm would pass over quick—seen a lot of ’em in my day, I have. I kin remember when I was workin’ on the Great Lakes—”

“Never mind!” Mr. Brady interrupted. “Tell us another time!”

“Yes, sir.” The old boatman subsided into injured silence.

Old Bill loved to spin yarns—that was his particular failing. He was an inaccurate encyclopaedia of everything that went on, but only Madge, who thought him amusing, ever cared to listen.

He could relate the most fantastic tales of his adventures at Hudson Bay and various lumber camps. He had served as sailor on the Great Lakes and as guide to aspiring amateur fishermen who invaded Ontario, yet his real experiences were as nothing compared to those of his fertile imagination. His shack back of the Brady lodge was cluttered with melodramatic magazines which he read by the hour. He did as little work as possible about the lodge, yet if a task struck his fancy, glorified it until it became a task of gigantic importance.

“Your Aunt has been worrying,” Mr. Brady told Madge. “What kept you so long?”

Madge explained that among other things she had jumped into the lake and wound up the tale of her adventure by mentioning the overturned canoe which had not been recovered.

“You go on home,” Mr. Brady directed. “Bill and I will see if we can pick it up.”

Before continuing toward the lodge, Madge pointed out the general locality where she thought the canoe might be found. When she pulled up to the boat landing a few minutes later, Mrs. Brady, who had been anxiously watching from the veranda, rushed down to meet her.

“I’m glad you’re safe!” she exclaimed in relief. “I was so worried when the storm came up so quickly. Why, you’ve changed your dress! What happened and where is Anne?”

Madge repeated the story of her adventure, explaining that Anne did not wish to leave the island. After a slight hesitation, she related all that she had learned concerning the strange formula of Mr. Fairaday’s. Mrs. Brady was astonished to hear that his fortunes had dwindled, but to Madge’s disappointment she did not appear greatly impressed with the story of the formula.

“It sounds like one of Bill’s yarns to me,” she laughed. “Whoever heard of a chemical preparation to keep things from rusting? If you find the formula, Madge, I want you to fix me up a solution for the kitchen pump! And for that rake your uncle left out in the rain!”

“It does sound fantastic, I admit, but somehow, I think there’s something to the story. I do know that scientists have been trying for years to find a paint that will prevent rust. Why, it would mean a fortune to the person who discovered the secret.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mrs. Brady returned mildly. “I had no intention of trying to discourage you. By all means help Anne look for the missing paper or whatever it is, but don’t build your hopes too high. It’s very likely the formula never existed save in old Mr. Fairaday’s mind. I’ve heard it said that he was a queer man.”

Madge dropped the subject but that was not the last of it. When Mr. Brady and Old Bill returned a half hour later with Anne’s canoe in tow, Mrs. Brady repeated the story for their benefit and at the supper table Madge was subjected to a great deal of goodnatured teasing.

“Just wait!” she retorted. “Anne and I may show you a thing or two about formulas! If we find it, the laugh will be on you!”

She fully intended to return to Stewart Island the following day, but when she awoke the next morning it was to find that a drizzling rain had set in. Everyone stayed close in except Old Bill who was forced to drive to town for supplies and mail. The roads were muddy and he did not get back until after dark.

“Any letters?” Madge demanded eagerly.

“Not for you,” he told her crossly, pitching a heavy sack of flour from his shoulder to the kitchen floor with such violence that it sent up a white cloud of dust.

“There’s some pie in the oven,” Madge said sweetly. “I know you must be hungry and tired.” Her eye had fastened upon a slim, white envelope protruding from his hip pocket. “You do have a letter!”

“It ain’t fer you, I said.” Bill spoke more pleasantly for the mention of pie had softened his ill temper. He took the letter from his pocket and holding it to the light, squinted curiously at the postmark. “It’s for that gal, Anne Fairaday. The postmaster told me to give it to her. Looks important too, comin’ from New York.”

“Bill Ramey!” Mrs. Brady interposed. “You’re worse than a rural mail carrier when it comes to curiosity! Put that letter on the shelf. Madge can take it over to the island tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Bill’s reply was sufficiently meek but his face showed plainly that he did not like the order. He had always carried supplies and mail in person to Stewart Island or had left it in a covered box at the main landing across the lake from the Brady lodge. In previous summers, the Fairadays had tipped him well for the service.

After eating the supper Madge prepared for him, he shuffled out, permitting the kitchen door to slam behind him.

“He’s peeved,” Madge chuckled. “Poor Bill! His feelings are always being hurt.”

The next morning dawned bright. Shortly after breakfast, Madge set out for Stewart Island, towing Anne’s canoe behind the skiff. She had laundered the dress which had been loaned her and carried it neatly done up in paper. She would have forgotten the letter had Mrs. Brady not hurried down to the beach with it just as she was starting off.

The lake was smooth and Madge made good time over to the island. Anne had sighted her from afar and was at the water’s edge to meet her.

“Oh, you found my canoe!” she cried. “What luck! But you shouldn’t have ironed that dress. It was only an old one.”

“Here’s something more for you,” Madge declared, producing the letter. “Bill brought it from town last night.”

“Oh, thanks. Mind if I read it now?”

“Of course not.”

Madge busied herself with the skiff while her friend eagerly ripped open the long white envelope. Scarcely had her eyes swept the page when she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Madge, do you remember the young man who worked here on the island about a year ago? I mean Father’s laboratory assistant.”

“That queer fellow with the stoop shoulders?”

“I think he got that way from spending so much time bending over test tubes,” Anne smiled. “I never liked him very well and was glad when Father discharged him.”

“I never saw him except at a distance,” Madge said, “and I’ve even forgotten his name. What about him anyway?”

“His name is Clyde Wendell,” Anne supplied. “This letter is from him. He says he’s coming here to see me on important business. Now what can that mean?”

“Doesn’t he give a hint as to what the business is about?”

“Not the slightest. Here, read the letter for yourself.”

Madge accepted the typewritten sheet and after scanning it briefly, returned it without comment.

“Clyde Wendell knew more about Father’s work than any other person,” Anne declared eagerly. “Perhaps he can tell me what became of the formula.”

“But wasn’t it hidden after he left?”

“I’m not sure. Father worked on it when Clyde was here. Then they disagreed. Father thought Clyde wasn’t honest and finally discharged him.”

“Why do you think Clyde would know where it is then?”

“He was always interested in the formula, Madge. And he knew Father’s habits even better than I did. He could always recall what became of his misplaced things.”

“Strange he’d be coming back just at this time,” Madge mused. “Especially since he was discharged.”

“Yes, Clyde was bitter toward Father at the time although he was paid several month’s extra wages. He seemed friendly toward me though and he’s likely forgotten all the unpleasantness by this time.”

Madge did not wish to discourage her friend yet she found it difficult to believe Clyde Wendell would go far out of his way to be of service.

“Better not pin too much hope on him,” she cautioned. “If we get busy we may be able to find that formula ourselves.”

“I’ve given the house a general overhauling but we can search again. Shall we do it today?”

“Let’s!” Madge agreed eagerly. “If only you had a hint as to what became of the thing! I suppose you’ve exhausted every possibility.”

“I’m afraid so,” Anne admitted. She hesitated and then added: “But there’s one clue I’ve neglected and it may be important.”

“What’s that?”

Anne smiled mysteriously, and linking arms with Madge, drew her toward the house.