Free The Mansion in the Mist by John Bellairs

as if Emerson had asked him a very personal question. But he coughed and smiled and folded his hands on the table. "I would say that I've seen better years for fishing," muttered the old man with a scowl. "It's not so good, not so good at all."
    But Emerson would not let the subject drop. "Do you have a lot of trouble getting through that narrow channel that connects us with the upper lake? It's choked with reeds—people say you can't go up there with an outboard motor because the reeds foul the propeller."
    The old man began to act upset. He got red in the face and glanced out the window at the setting sun. "I... I haven't been up there lately," he mumbled. "The upper lake's fished out, from what I hear."
    "Really?" said Emerson smoothly, as he poured himself another cup of coffee. "That's not what I heard."
    The old man said nothing. Anthony and Miss Eells looked at each other. What kind of game was Emerson playing? Anthony had seen a lot of reeds at the other end of the lake, but Emerson had never mentioned an upper lake until now. Was he kidding the old guy? Or what?
    After a few more sips of coffee, the old man abruptly shoved his chair back and stood up. "Well, I got to go now," he mumbled, and he clumsily held out his hand for Emerson to shake. Emerson smiled blandly and shook the man's hand. "I'll get the gas to fill your engine," he said, as he shoved his chair back. He got up to go to the back room, where the supplies were kept. A few minutes later Emerson came back with a red can that sprouted a long collapsible nozzle. The old man waved his hand at Anthony and Miss Eells as he stumbled out the door after Emerson. The gas tank got filled, and soon the elderly fisherman was on his way, put-putting across the darkening rippled waters of Shadow Lake.
    Emerson stood at the end of the dock and watched him go. Behind him stood Anthony and Miss Eells, who both seemed slightly bewildered. "Filthy rotten fake!" said Emerson aloud, as soon as the man was out of hearing range.
    Miss Eells looked at her brother in amazement. "Em, what are you driving at?"
    Emerson chuckled grimly. "I'd bet you a million bucks that old coot isn't what he pretends to be. Want to know why?"
    Miss Eells looked startled. "Yes, I would. He seemed all right to me."
    Emerson folded his arms and looked scornful. "Myra, I've done a lot of fly-fishing, and I have never seen flies that looked like the ones in that man's hat. And did you get a look at his hands? They're not red and rough the way a fisherman's hands ought to be. But that's not all: As you may have guessed by now, there is no upper lake. None at all. I wanted to see how our elderly friend would react if I mentioned this fictional upper lake, and I got the kind of response that I expected—he's pretending. I don't know who or what that old geezer is, but he sure isn't a fisherman!"
    Anthony felt cold all over. Some very unpleasant thoughts were forming in his mind. "So... who do you think he is, Mr. Eells?" he asked in a quavering voice.
    Emerson heaved a deep sigh and dug his hands into his pockets. "I don't know," he said in a low voice. "But it has occurred to me that someone may have spotted us when we were poking around in the Temple of the Winds. And if that's true, we may be in deep trouble. We may be facing a visitor from that other world—a visitor with vengeance on his mind."
    Anthony was feeling very uneasy now. "You... you mean those people in the black robes found out that we stole the gold coin, and they want it back?"
    Emerson sighed and nodded. "Something like that could be going on, I'm afraid. And I haven't the faintest idea of how we ought to deal with the problem."
    Miss Eells looked skeptical. "Em," she said slowly, "aren't you pushing the panic button a little bit early? I mean, that old guy might just be a harmless eccentric, some slightly unbalanced local character who wants all the tourists to think he's a great fly-fisherman and an expert on the local fishing