Free Lost Lake House by Elisabeth Grace Foley Page B

and swung to one side a little, and, moving
slower now, crept under the tips of hanging willow branches into
what she realized was a small deep inlet in the shore.
    By the margin, willow-veil’d, slide the
heavy barges trail’d…
    The trees closed dark around them, only the
arched opening showing a glimpse of the moon shining far out on the
lake. Here the boat turned gently, almost silently broadside, as
the boy raised one oar and let the other trail in the water, half
turned to look back over his shoulder in the direction they had
come.

 
VI

     
    Dorothy drew a breath. She too had been so
caught up in the tension of the escape that she had had no time to
think of anything else. Now the boat was still, and her thoughts
had time to move. A little apprehensively she studied her silent
companion in the boat, whose profile was turned to her as he looked
out in the direction of the island. From the little she had managed
to see of him by moonlight she could tell he was an
ordinary-looking boy, perhaps a little older than her, with curly
hair that might be brown—it was hard to tell in the dark. She could
determine little else about him except that he seemed tall, and had
strong, lean hands that gripped and pulled the oars with little
effort. But one thing had stood out curiously plain: in the brief
glimpse she had had of his face, there was a set look about it that
made an impression on her—she would have called it bitterness or
unhappiness, almost.
    In the silence Dorothy was increasingly
uncomfortable. The significance of his knowing the lake and island
so well had not escaped her, nor the ring of keys that opened doors
in the Lake House grounds. She knew he must be from there, and yet
somehow she still did not feel afraid of him. After a moment, she
summoned up the few small shreds of nerve remaining to her and put
them together for speech.
    She said, “Will anybody come after us?”
    “No,” he said without turning his head. “We
got out of sight quick enough. You can’t see a thing of this shore
from the island at this time of night.”
    He turned back to face her, letting the
other oar down into the water. “Are you all right? I thought I
stepped on you getting into the boat.”
    “No—you didn’t.” Dorothy paused, and then
added, “Who are you?”
    “My name’s Marshall Kendrick. I’m a
groundskeeper at the Lost Lake House.”
    He offered no further information, as if
this explained everything that was necessary, but Dorothy’s mind
was full of questions—and one in particular jostled to the
forefront. “Why did you help me?”
    He glanced at her. “I’ve seen you before,”
he said. “You’re a decent kind of kid—you don’t belong here. I know
what a police raid’s like—people shoved around and questioned,
newspaper photographers everywhere…so…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want
to see you get caught in that.”
    “How do you know I’m decent?” said Dorothy,
turning her face partly away. She had forgotten he could probably
see little of her in the dark.
    “I know you’re a far cry from the type of
girl Sloop Jackson usually spends his time on, anyway.”
    The idea that even the Lake House staff had
a casual knowledge of how Sloop Jackson “spent his time” on
different girls prickled the back of Dorothy’s neck, and settled
like a lead weight into her stomach. She ought to have known. For
some reason she suddenly recalled the empty mirrored hall, leading
down to some lower reaches of the building, where Jackson had had
her cornered—until a slammed door below rescued her.
    Without thinking she said aloud, “Did you
slam that door?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thank—you,” said Dorothy, a trifle
awkwardly.
    There was no answer. Dorothy thought this
must be the strangest conversation she had ever had.
    And the strangest place she had ever held
converse, too. Crickets and mosquitoes shrilled in the blackness of
unseen reeds, and high overhead she heard the flapping wings of