But he was not there, and she recalled that he never had been notable
for punctuality. Five years is a long time. She expected to find him
changed--for the better, in certain directions. He had promised to be
there; but, in this respect, time evidently had wrought no appreciable
transformation.

She registered, was assigned a room, and ate luncheon to the melancholy
accompaniment of a three-man orchestra struggling vainly with Bach in an
alcove off the dining room. After that she began to make inquiries.
Neither clerk nor manager knew aught of Charlie Benton. They were both
in their first season there. They advised her to ask the storekeeper.

"MacDougal will know," they were agreed. "He knows everybody around
here, and everything that goes on."

The storekeeper, a genial, round-bodied Scotchman, had the information
she desired.

"Charlie Benton?" said he. "No, he'll be at his camp up the lake. He was
in three or four days back. I mind now, he said he'd be down Thursday;
that's to-day. But he isn't here yet, or his boat'd be by the wharf
yonder."

"Are there any passenger boats that call there?" she asked.

MacDougal shook his head.

"Not reg'lar. There's a gas boat goes t' the head of the lake now an'
then. She's away now. Ye might hire a launch. Jack Fyfe's camp tender's