The Missing
Formula
By
Ann Wirt
The Madge Sterling Series
The Missing Formula
The Deserted Yacht
The Secret of the Sundial
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1932
The Goldsmith Publishing Company
Made in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Caught in the Storm 11
II A Rescue 20
III A Puzzling Letter 29
IV A Fruitless Search 38
V Clyde Wendell’s Mission 47
VI Startling Developments 55
VII In a Hollow Log 67
VIII A Night Caller 78
IX A Significant Title 86
X An Unsatisfactory Test 91
XI The Secret Hiding Place 97
XII The Awaited Message 103
XIII The Missing Book 108
XIV The Shortcut 117
XV What the Book Revealed 121
THE MISSING FORMULA
CHAPTER I
Caught in the Storm
“You couldn’t hire me to spend a night alone at Stewart Island! Imagine
how lonely and terrifying it must be for Anne Fairaday!”
Madge Sterling did not give the impression of a girl easily daunted.
Gazing out across the stretch of ruffled water toward the pine-covered
isle which drowsed like a huge green sea turtle in the heat of a
midsummer sun, she made a most striking picture. Her auburn hair had been
whipped carelessly back from her face by the wind. She was tanned to a
healthy, mellow bronze, and the blue of her sweater exactly matched the
blue of her eyes—eyes which at the moment were troubled and serious.
“It doesn’t seem right for Anne to stay there without a companion,” she
continued, addressing the kindly-faced, elderly woman who stood beside
her at the boat landing.
Mrs. Brady nodded soberly.
“We really should do something about it. I had no idea she was staying
alone until Jack French told us this morning. Of course, the Fairadays
always have kept to themselves. This girl may not care to have us
interfere in her private affairs.”
“Everything is changed now, Aunt Maude,” Madge protested quickly. “I’m
sure Anne would have mixed more with folks if her father hadn’t kept her
so close at home. Now that he is dead she needs friends more than ever.”
“Why not go over there this afternoon and find out how matters stand?”
Mrs. Brady suggested quietly. “The least we can do is to invite her to
stay here at the lodge until she has had time to plan her future.”
Madge’s face brightened and she gave her aunt an affectionate squeeze.
“I knew you’d say that! I’ll start this very minute!”
She promptly untied a canoe moored at the landing but before she could
launch it two men with axes swung over their shoulders came down the
shore trail. Recognizing Mr. Brady and Old Bill Ramey, the
man-of-all-work about the lodge, Madge was in the act of stepping into
the canoe when her uncle hailed her.
She did not attempt an answer but waited until he drew nearer the
landing. He came at a brisk pace, carrying his fifty-two years with a
jaunty vigor that was the envy of many a younger man. His ruddy cheeks
were framed in a healthy tan acquired by a life-long devotion to the
out-of-doors and his alert, blue eyes snapped with the joy of being
alive.
“Where away, Chick-a-dee?” he inquired with interest.
“I thought I’d paddle over to Stewart Island,” Madge informed. “Do you
want the canoe, Uncle George?”
“No, you’re welcome to it, only I wonder if you noticed the clouds.” Mr.
Brady turned to survey the horizon. “It looks to me as though a storm may
blow up. It probably won’t amount to much but I believe you’ll be safer
in the skiff.”
“Oh, bother!” Madge grumbled, casting an aggrieved glance at the boat.
“It would take me all day to get over to the island in that cumbersome
thing!”
After a brief study of the sky she thought better of it and reluctantly
launched the skiff. She bent to the oars and with practiced skill sent
the craft skimming over the water. Rounding the point, she lost sight of
her aunt and uncle who had turned back toward the Brady lodge.
Madge had arrived at Loon Lake only three days before, but already she
found herself slipping naturally back into the easy, carefree ways of a
wilderness environment. She sniffed the fragrant balsam air contentedly
and allowed the boat to drift while she watched a long-necked crane sail
majestically over the water.
“Oh, I wish the summers were years and years long,” she thought
wistfully. “I could live here forever and never tire of it.”
Madge always looked forward to the vacations spent at the Brady’s
Canadian fishing lodge, located on secluded Lake Loon, in a timber berth
twenty miles from the nearest town of Luxlow. During the remaining nine
months of the year, she lived with her aunt and uncle at Claymore,
Michigan, but since Mr. Brady was an enthusiastic fisherman, each summer
saw the trio headed northward.
Madge regarded Mr. and Mrs. Brady as parents for her mother had died when
she was a baby and a short time later, her father, Graham Sterling had
gone West on a prospecting expedition, never to be heard from again.
Although the Bradys had built their lodge for private use, they had been
induced to open it to a small number of select guests who appreciated
good food and excellent fishing. Madge did not mind the extra work which
fell to her lot since she always had time for the things she enjoyed. She
liked all outdoor sports. She swam like a fish and was an expert with a
canoe. Then too, she had a special talent for making friends and knew
everyone in the vicinity of Loon Lake, including the guides, the tourists
and the forest rangers.
Jack French, a handsome young ranger at Lookout 48, had not been slow in
meeting Madge. He had taught her how to handle a canoe, where to look for
bass and how to make a fire without matches; from him she had learned the
names of trees and strange shrubs. He teased her too and laughed when she
accused him of treating her as a child.
“Just you wait!” she had stormed. “I’ll grow up one of these days—and
when I do—”
“And when you do,” he had picked her up, but with an undercurrent of
seriousness, “well, then I guess it will be time for Jack French to watch
out.”
Madge caught herself gazing intently toward the lookout station visible
on a distant hillside. Jack had called at the lodge only that morning yet
somehow he had seemed changed, more reserved. He had tried to tease her
in the old manner, but his kidding had lacked its usual carelessness.
During the three summers spent at Loon Lake, Madge scarcely had spoken a
dozen words either to Anne Fairaday or her father. Often she had gazed
speculatively at the fine home they had built upon Stewart Island,
wondering why the two were so aloof. It was generally known that Mr.
Fairaday was a noted chemist who had come North for his health and the
belief was that Anne remained close at home to care for him.
“Now that he’s gone I hope she’ll agree to stay at the lodge,” Madge
thought as she sent the skiff smoothly through the water. “I believe we’d
become friends if we could ever really meet.”
It was pleasant on the lake with the sun half-hidden under a cloud. More
often than she realized, Madge rested on her oars to watch queer insects
swimming in the water or birds winging low in search for fish.
She had covered little more than half the distance to Stewart Island,
when abruptly, she ceased rowing. Toward the south shore of the lake, a
red canoe could be seen cutting through the water at a lively rate.
“There’s Anne Fairaday now!” she exclaimed. “Where’s she going, I
wonder?”
A moment later she saw the girl head directly for the main landing,
apparently to obtain mail and supplies which were left there for her by
the forest rangers or old Bill Ramey who made weekly trips to town.
“She’s too far away to hail,” Madge decided. “Unless I catch her as she
returns to the island, I’ll have made my trip for nothing.”
After a brief mental debate, she again snatched up the oars, rowing
steadily toward a rocky point on the south shore. It had occurred to her
that while she awaited Anne’s return she could busy herself resetting her
uncle’s minnow trap.
She crossed the lake and located the wire trap which had floated a short
distance from its usual place. After baiting it with some bread which her
uncle kept in a box under the boat seat, she anchored the trap in shallow
water near the rocks.
Glancing up from her work, she was startled to see how dark it had grown.
Dark clouds were rolling up fast.
“We’re in for a real storm,” she told herself uneasily. “I didn’t think
it would come up so quickly. Guess I’d better not wait for Anne. Unless I
strike for home, I’ll be caught in it.”
A low, ominous roll of thunder warned her that she must act quickly if
she wished to reach the mainland ahead of the rain. She turned the boat,
and began rowing with all her strength. The breeze had quickened
noticeably. As she passed beyond the lee of the point, waves struck the
bow of the skiff with great force.
“Uncle George was wise to make me take the boat,” she told herself
grimly. “I’d hate to be out in a canoe in these waves.”
She thought of Anne and glanced anxiously toward the far landing. The red
canoe had turned back toward Stewart Island. Apparently, Anne realized
the danger and she too was trying to race the storm. Her paddle slashed
into the water with vicious force, but she made slow progress.
It was only a matter of minutes now until the storm would break. Madge
cringed as a vivid flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky to
illuminate an ugly mass of dark clouds. She was more afraid for Anne than
for herself. She knew that the skiff would carry her safely ashore but
the Fairaday girl was far from expert in handling her canoe and when the
wind strengthened, she could easily be thrown crosswise to a wave and
upset.
Each pull of the oars carried Madge nearer the girl. Already she could
see that Anne was in grave danger. The waves were buffeting the canoe
about like a log in a whirlpool.
Looking ahead toward the shoreline, Madge saw a sheet of white mist drop
like a curtain upon the water. The rain was coming!
The murmur of the wind in the trees along the far shore had increased to
an angry whine and branches began to bend and thrash wildly about. Madge
braced herself for what she knew must come.
Another flash of lightning brightened the sky and at the same instant a
deluge of rain descended, blotting out the shore. Madge worked
desperately to keep the skiff from being swamped by the huge waves which
were churned up. The wind howled in her ears, the rain slashed at her
face. For several minutes she lost sight of the red canoe.
Then as the first onslaught of the storm seemed to have spent itself, the
wind dropped and the rain fell in a steady downpour. Madge peered
anxiously ahead, searching for Anne.
She sighted the canoe less than twenty yards away. Relief gave way to
fear as she realized that Anne was struggling frantically to hold her
own. Each time the canoe fell into a trough of a wave, Madge expected to
see it dive for the bottom of the lake.
“Hold on! I’m coming!” she shouted encouragingly although she knew her
voice could not carry half the distance.
Anne turned her head and at that very moment a huge wave descended upon
her, catching her unaware. She made a valiant effort to maintain control,
but failed. The mischievous wave lifted the canoe high, then tumbled it
over on its side!
Madge heard a shrill cry of terror which was abruptly smothered out. The
canoe floated free but Anne was not clinging to its side. She had
disappeared.