THE SECRET OF LOST LAKE
Jeanne toiled laboriously up the side of Greenstone Ridge on Isle Royale.
From time to time she paused to regain her breath, to drink in the cool
clean winter air, and to revel in the glorious contrasts of the white
that was snow and the dark green that was spruce, fir and balsam.
She was on Isle Royale. More than once she had been obliged to pinch
herself to make sure of that.
“Airplanes are so sudden, so wonderful!” she had said to Sandy. “Now we
are in Chicago; now we are in Duluth; and now we are on Isle Royale.”
Their trip north had been just like that, a short whirring flight, and
there they were coming down upon Isle Royale. Landing on skiis, they had
taxied almost to the door of the low fisherman’s cabin which was to be
their temporary home.
Here Sandy was to study wild life, find out all he could about trapping
wild moose and send interesting stories out over the short-wave radio.
Here Jeanne was to wander at will over the great white wilderness. And
this was exactly what she was doing now.
“What a world!” she breathed. “What a glorious world God has given us!”
Her gaze swept a magic wilderness.
Her heart leaped anew as she thought of the chance circumstances that had
brought her to this “Magic Isle” sixty miles from the Michigan mainland
in winter.
“I am going to like Vivian,” she told herself. “I am sure she is quite
grand.” She paused a moment to consider. Vivian was the fisherman’s
daughter. Her hands were rough, her face was tanned brown. Her clothing
of coarse material was stoutly made to stand many storms. Jeanne was
dressed at this moment in a sweater of bright red. It was wool, soft as
eiderdown. Her dark blue knickers were of the latest cloth and pattern.
Miss Mabee had outfitted her in this lavish manner.
“Vivian and I shall be the finest friends in all the world!” she
exclaimed.
With that, she squared her slender shoulders, threw back her thick golden
hair, drew her wool cap down tight, then went struggling toward her goal.
Twenty minutes later a cry of pure joy escaped her lips. “How wonderful!
How perfectly gorgeous!
“And yet—” her voice dropped. “How strange! They did not tell me there
was a lake on the other side, a gem of a lake hidden away beneath the
ridges. I—I doubt if they knew. How little some people know about the
places near their own homes!
“I—I’ll give it a name!” she cried, seized by a sudden inspiration. “It
shall be called ‘Lost Lake.’ Lost Lake,” she murmured. As she looked down
upon it, it seemed a mirror set in a frame of darkest green.
“Hemlock turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.”
“My Lost Lake,” she whispered, “I must see it closer.”
Little did she dream that this simple decision would result in mysteries
and adventures such as she had seldom before known.
“How wonderful it all is!” she exclaimed again, as at last her feet
rested on the glistening surface of the little lost lake.
She went shuffling across the dark, deeply frozen surface. The first
spell of severe weather of that autumn had come with a period of dead
calm. All the small lakes of the island had frozen over smooth as glass.
And now, though the ice was more than a foot thick, it was possible while
gliding across it to catch sight of dull gray rocks and deep yawning
shadows where the water was deep.
Only the day before on Long Lake, which was close to Vivian’s home,
Jeanne and her friend had thrown themselves flat down on the ice, shaded
their eyes and peered into the shadowy depth below. They had found it a
fascinating adventure into the great unknown. In places, standing like a
miniature forest, tall, heavy-leafed pikeweeds greeted their eyes. Among
these, like giant dirigibles moored to the tree-tops, long black pickerel
lay. Waving their fins gently to and fro, they stared up with great round
eyes. Here, too, at times they saw whole schools of yellow perch and
wall-eyes. Once, too, they caught sight of a scaly monster more than six
feet long. He was so huge and ugly, they shuddered at sight of him.
Vivian had decided he must be a sturgeon and marveled at his presence in
these waters.
Recalling all this, Jeanne now slipped the snowshoes from off her feet
and, throwing herself flat on the ice, began her own little exploring
expedition beneath the surface of her own private lake.
She had just sighted a school of tiny perch when a strange and apparently
impossible sight caught her gaze. Faint, but quite unmistakable, there
came to her mental vision a circle of gold, and within that circle these
letters and figures: D.X.123.
One moment it was there. The next it was blotted out by the passing of
that school of small fish. When the fish had passed, the vision too was
gone.
“I didn’t see it at all,” she told herself. “It was just a picture
flashed on the walls of my memory—something I saw long ago. It is like
the markings on an airplane—the plane’s number. But it really wasn’t
there at all.
“I have it!” she exclaimed. “That must be the number on the airplane that
carried us here. I’ll look and see when I get back.”
She straightened up to look about her. As she did so, she realized that
the sun had gone under a cloud. Disquieting thought, this may have been
the reason for the vanishing picture in the depths below.
“The fish hid it. Then the sun went under that cloud. I must look again.”
She settled down to await the passing of that cloud.
“What if I see it again?” she thought. “Shall I tell the others? Will
they believe me? Probably not. Laugh at me, tell me I’ve been seeing
things.
“I know what I’ll do!” She came to a sudden decision. “I’ll bring Vivian
up here and have her look. I’ll not tell her a thing, but just have her
look. Then if she sees it I’ll know—”
But the sun was out from behind the cloud—time to look again.
Her heart was beating painfully from excitement as she shaded her eyes
once more.
For a time she could make out nothing but rocks and deep shadows. Then
the school of small fish circled back.
“Have to wait.” She heaved a sigh almost of relief.
But now something startled the perch. They went scurrying away. And
there, just as it had been before, was the circle and that mysterious
sign: D.X.123.
Ten seconds more it lingered. Then, as before, it vanished. Once again
the bright light had faded. This time a large cloud was over the sun. It
would take an hour, perhaps two, for it to pass.
“I must go back,” she sighed. Slipping on her snowshoes, she turned about
to make her way laboriously up the ridge.
As she struggled on, climbing a rocky ridge here, battling her way
through a thick cluster of balsams there, then out upon a level, barren
space, a strange feeling came over her, a feeling she could not at all
explain. It was as if someone were trying to whisper into her ear a
startling and mysterious truth. She listened in vain for the whisper. It
did not come. And yet, as she once more began the upward climb it was
with a feeling, almost a conviction, that all she had done in the last
few days—the flight to Isle Royale, her hours about the cabin stove, the
climb up this ridge, her discovery of Lost Lake and that mysterious
D.X.123—was somehow a part of that which she had left behind with
Florence in Chicago.
“I can’t see how it could be,” she murmured, “yet somehow I feel this is
true.”
That same evening in Miss Mabee’s studio an interesting experiment was in
progress. Made desperate by her terrifying experiences in that tenth
floor “retreat” of Madame Zaran and Professor Alcapar, and quite
convinced that the beautiful June Travis was in great danger, Florence
had resolved to use every possible means to discover the whereabouts of
June’s father and bring him back.
“Gone ten years!” Doubt whispered to her, “He’s dead; he must be.” Yet
faith would not allow her to believe this.
She had put herself in touch with June’s home and had secured permission
to invite her to the studio. When June arrived, she found not only
Florence, but the young psychologist, Rodney Angel, and Tum Morrow. Tum
had his violin.
“The point is,” the psychologist launched at once into the business at
hand, “you, June Travis, wish to find your father. If you can recall some
of your surroundings while you were with him, we may be able to locate
those surroundings, and through them some friend who may know at least
which way he went.
“Now,” he said in a tone of perfect ease, “we are here together, four
friends in this beautiful studio. Our friend Tum is going to give us some
music. Do you like waltz time?”
“I adore it.”
“Waltz time,” he nodded to Tum.
“While he plays,” he went on, “we shall sit before the open fire, and
that should remind you of Christmas, stockings and all that. I’m going to
ask you to think back as far as you can, Christmas by Christmas. That
should not be hard. Perhaps last Christmas was a glad one because all
your friends were present, the one before that sad because some treasured
one was gone. Think back, back, back, and let us see if we cannot at last
arrive at the last one you spent with your father.”
“Oh!” The look on June’s face became animated. “I—I’ll try hard.”
“Not too hard. Just let your thoughts flow back, like a stream. Now, Tum,
the music.”
For ten minutes there was no sound save the sweet, melodious voice of
Tum’s violin.
“Now,” whispered the psychologist, “think! Last Christmas? Was it glad or
sad?”
“Glad.”
“And the one before?”
“Glad.”
“And the one before that?”
“Sad.”
So they went on back through the years until with some hesitation the
girl said once more, “Sad.”
“Why?” the psychologist asked quickly.
“I wanted a doll. I had always had a new doll for Christmas. The lady
gave me no doll.”
“But who always gave you a doll at Christmas?” In the young
psychologist’s eye shone a strange light.
“A man, a short, jolly man.”
“And the last doll he gave you had golden hair?” He leaned forward
eagerly.
“No. The hair was brown. The doll’s eyes opened and shut.”
“So you opened its eyes and said, ‘See the fire!’”
“No. I took the doll to the window and said, ‘See the tower.’”
“What sort of tower?” The air of the room grew tense, yet the girl did
not know it.
“A brownstone tower. A round tower with a round flat roof of stone. There
was a bell in the tower that rang and rang on Christmas Eve.”
“Could you draw it?” He pressed pencil and paper into her hand. She made
a crude drawing, then held it up to him.
“It will do,” he breathed. “Now, one more question. What kind of a house
was it you lived in then?”
“A red brick house—square and a little ugly.”
“Fine! Wonderful!” Rodney Angel relaxed. “I know that tower. There is
only one such in all Chicago-land. It was built before the Civil War. It
is a college tower. I doubt if there is more than one red brick house
within sight of it. If there is not, then that is where you lived. And if
you lived there, we will be able to find someone who knew that short,
stout, jolly man who was your father.”
“My father!” the girl cried, “No! It can’t be! He is tall, slim and
dignified.”
“Do you know that to be a fact?” The young man stared.
“I saw him in the crystal ball.”
“Oh!” Rodney heaved a sigh of relief. “Well, perhaps your father is
subject to change without notice. We shall see.
“And now—” he turned a smiling face to Florence. “How about another cup
of coffee and just another piece of pie, or perhaps two?”
“To think!” June looked at the young psychologist with unconcealed
admiration. “You helped me do what I have never been able to do before.
You made me think back to those days when I was with my father!”
“Some day,” Rodney said thoughtfully, “people will begin to understand
the working of their own minds. And what a grand day that will be!
“In the meantime,” he smiled a bright smile, “if you girls have had any
dreams you don’t quite understand, bring them to little old Rodney. He’ll
do his best to unravel them.
“Now,” he sighed, “how about the pie?”