Part 12 (1/2)
Leaping to their feet, they looked down the moonlit water. Frank scanned the calm expanse.
”Look-out there!”
A hooded black figure was gliding toward sh.o.r.e I Joe, unable to believe what he saw, was the first to gasp.
”It's a g-ghost-walking on the water!”
CHAPTER XVI.
The Deserted Cottage THE black, billowing figure glided over the moonlit lake, its wind-blown shroud trailing a s.h.i.+mmering shadow.
For moments Frank, Joe, and Chet remained transfixed until Joe cried, ”Come on!”
The Hardys raced down the slope. Chet, although shaking with fear, stumbled after them.
The ghost, its draped arms outstretched, was already nearing sh.o.r.e. The boys saw it disappear beneath overhanging trees beyond the fort promontory.
They ran back for flashlights, then hurried downhill to the area where the specter had vanished. But it was nowhere to be seen.
”I still don't believe it!” Frank said. ”Maybe I was just having a nightmare.”
”Not unless we all had the same one,” Joe said. ”We all saw that-thing.”
”But-walking on water!” Chet exclaimed, s.h.i.+vering. ”n.o.body'11 believe us.”
”Listen-the drumbeats have stopped!” Frank said. They checked the bateau, found nothing disturbed, and returned to their post on the slope.
Hoping to get another glimpse of the ghost, all three remained awake for some time. But the phantom did not reappear. Near dawn the boys finally fell asleep.
They awoke several hours later, took a dip in the lake, and had breakfast. A search along the sh.o.r.e turned up no clues. Eager to report their experience, they returned to Millwood. Mr. Davenport and Uncle Jim were incredulous when they related their ghost story.
The art patron looked hard at the boys. ”You all aren't pulling an old Confederate's leg, are you?”
”Oh, no! We saw it. Honest!” Chet said earnestly.
”Sir,” said Joe, ”this ghost walker wasn't another-er-lake monster, was it?”
”No. At least, not mine.”
”We'll keep at our investigation,” Frank a.s.sured him.
Later in the morning they told Uncle Jim about seeing Ronnie Rush near the fort. The instructor said that Ronnie had not appeared for any of his cla.s.ses the day before. ”Maybe he's still sore about losing out at the exhibit,” said Joe. ”But I wouldn't be surprised if he's after the fort treasure himself.”
The boys then showed Uncle Jim the sculpting tool. ”It may be Follette's,” he said. ”I'd like to go with you to see him, but I'm getting ready for a cla.s.s.”
He filled two bowls from a gla.s.s turpentine container, then placed several brushes in one. He was about to dip his paint-covered hands into the other when Joe dashed over and grabbed his wrists.
”Don't!”
”What's the matter?”
Joe pointed to the bowl containing the brushes. ”Look!”
Faint smoke rose from it. They all could see the brushes disintegrating!
”That's not turpentine-it's an acid!” Frank cried out.
Mr. Kenyon sniffed the liquid. ”You're right! Somebody must have put it in the turpentine bottle during the night!”
”Could it have been just a mistake?” Chet asked.
”I'm afraid not. I've never had any reason to keep acid here.” He thanked Joe for his quick action, then asked the Hardys, ”Do you think whoever did this caused the other accidents and left the shotgun warning?”
”Yes,” Frank said. ”Or else a confederate. But I doubt that any of the students are involved except maybe Ronnie Rush.”
Joe looked thoughtful. ”One thing is sure. It's someone who knows his way around here-night or day.”
The Hardys and Chet left, and went to the sculpture studio. They drew Rene Follette aside and showed him the initialed tool.
”Yes, yes, it is mine!” he said readily. ”It has been missing-oh, maybe two days. Where did you find it?”
The sculptor gave a start when the boys mentioned the mysterious flags at Senandaga but denied any knowledge of them.
Feeling it wise not to reveal details of their visits to Senandaga, the boys left. Outside, Frank said, ”Follette didn't act guilty. Perhaps someone stole his knife.”
The Hardys debated their next move, eventually deciding to do some detecting on the property of both Gilman and the English hermit.
”I still think there's something fishy about Everett's wet boat.”
”And Gilman,” Joe added. ”He might have had his own reasons for getting hold of the Davenport paintings!”
They divided forces. Joe and Chet would go in the bateau to scout Turtle Island. Frank got permission to borrow the limousine to visit Oilman's estate.
”Here are the keys, sir,” said Alex, outside the mansion garage.
Frank thanked him and soon was driving north. He parked in a wooded spot, and trudged along the overgrown sh.o.r.e. Soon he reached the Oilman property.
The Tudor house, as well as the lake-front patio, looked deserted. Circling the grounds convinced Frank that Oilman was not at home.
His ears keen for the sound of a car on the driveway, Frank peered into first-floor windows. If Oilman were behind the gallery thefts, where might he hide the paintings?
”The attic or the cellar!” Frank thought, wis.h.i.+ng it were possible to search these places.
He found the garage open and looked around inside. Nothing suspicious there. Next, Frank pressed his face against a cellar window but saw only garden furniture, tools, and piles of old newspapers. Feeling thwarted, Frank then walked to the lake front. Through a grove of willows to the right, he noticed a boathouse and a long dock.