The old man pulled his boat up onto the shore, and Emerson hooked his to a post on the dock. Later, in the kitchen, they all had a simple meal of baked potatoes, sausage, and tea. As they ate, Emerson seemed to grow very interested in the old man. He looked at his hands a lot, and he also stared at the flies that were stuck in the hat that the old man wore as he gobbled down his food. After dinner Emerson got out a box of cigars and offered the old man one. The man shook his head vigorously and said no—he had decided that cigars were bad for him. Emerson lit one and blew clouds of smoke into the air. Then he looked straight at the old man and said, in an offhand way, "So how are the fish biting on the upper lake? I've heard that the muskellunge are biting up there—not to mention the trout. What do you say?"
At first the old man looked a bit disconcerted, 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 conditions. That would explain the weird flies in his hat and all that nonsense about the upper lake. Well, wouldn't it?"
Emerson said nothing. The clouds in the west parted, and a long ray of reddish light shot out. It hovered over the three figures who stood on the dock, and then it was gone. Darkness deepened on the lake. "I think we are in big trouble," Emerson intoned in a grave voice. "You can explain all you like, but I feel it in my bones. That old man—whoever or whatever he is—will be back. You mark my words, he will! And I'll bet he's after the gold coin. We'll have to hide it somewhere, in a place that's safe. Suggestions, anyone?"
Miss Eells stooped and picked up one of the flat smooth stones that Emerson had plucked from the bed of the
lake. She tried to make it skip across the water, but as usual it didn't work for her—the stone sank immediately. "I think we should take the coin out to the middle of the lake and pitch it in," she said at last. "We've got the information we need from it, so it's useless to us now—unless you think you're going to clean up in the rare coin market, Em."
"Well, I sort of had something like that in mind, Myra, if you must know," he said with a sheepish grin on his face. "I mean, even a defaced Brasher doubloon is worth
something.
You might get ten thousand dollars for it, instead of the quarter million that you could expect if it was undamaged. That would be enough money to pay for Anthony's college education."
Miss Eells looked at Emerson in exasperation. "Em, they don't let dead people into college! What I mean is, if you're right about that old guy, then he'll kill us out of pure spite if he can't find the coin. Is it worth it to hide the thing?"
Emerson seemed amused. "So now you've come around to my point of view about the old geezer," he said, chuckling. Then he turned to Anthony, who had not said much lately. "Anthony," Emerson asked, "where would you hide the doubloon?"
Anthony shrugged. "Gee, Mr. Eells, I'd... well, there's a loose board in the floor in the parlor. I noticed it because I keep stepping on it. Why don't we put the coin under there?"
Emerson grinned and rubbed his hands together in a
satisfied way. "An excellent suggestion!" he said. "Brilliant! I'll get a clawhammer and draw out the nails in the board. Then we can put the board back when we've hidden the coin."
"I think the two of you are out of your minds," said Miss Eells as she turned to go back to the cottage. "But even lunatics can dry dishes and put them away on shelves. Come on. We've got some cleaning up to do."
After the dishes were done, Emerson and Anthony got the loose floorboard up in the study, and they laid the coin down on the dirt under the parlor floor. Then Emerson replaced the board and banged the nails back into place. Later the three vacationers tried to spend a normal evening in the parlor. Miss Eells and Anthony played gin rummy, and Emerson played Gilbert and Sullivan tunes on the upright piano. It was a warm night, and all the downstairs windows were open. A stiff breeze was blowing, and every time a branch swished against the side of the house or an acorn rolled down the roof, Miss Eells would turn and stare wildly toward the door. Once when the waves on the lake bumped their row-boat against the dock, Miss Eells made a little nervous cry and ran to the glass-paned door. She flung it open and stepped out onto the porch. Nobody there.
"Good heavens, Myra!" exclaimed Emerson, turning around on the piano stool. "You're giving everyone the heebie-jeebies the way you're acting! Do you really think that old man—or whoever he is—will come barging in
here while we're still up? He won't return until he thinks we're asleep."
"And do you think any of us is going to sleep a wink tonight?" asked Miss Eells, as she walked back into the parlor. "I'm planning on having a nervous breakdown. How about you?"
Emerson got up and brushed lint off the sleeves of his shirt. "Well, Myra," he said calmly, "you can do what you like. I am going to sit all night on the front porch with an ax handle in my hands. I think our friend will show up, and I want to be there to greet him."
Miss Eells was really beginning to worry about her brother's sanity now. "Emerson!" she exclaimed. "If there's someone from that otherworld coming to get the coin, do you really think you can defend yourself with an ax handle? Use your brain, for heaven's sake."
"I am using my brain," snapped Emerson. "And I have a little theory about how much power that old coot might have. But see here, it's almost eleven o'clock. Why don't the two of you go to bed, and I'll stand guard. You're not going to help by pacing back and forth and chewing your lips."
Miss Eells stared helplessly at Emerson for a few seconds. Then she went around the room and turned off all the oil lamps except one. Meanwhile Anthony lit a couple of candles so the two of them could find their way up to bed. Emerson went around to the back of the house and opened the rattly door of the toolshed. With
flashlight in hand, he poked around till he found a stout smooth ax handle. Then he made his way back around to the front of the house again. After putting out the last oil lamp, he went out to the front porch, turned off his flashlight, and sat down to wait.
Minutes dragged past. A quarter of an hour, then a half hour went by. The parlor windows were open, so Emerson could hear the ticking of the shelf clock and its loud, hoarse croaking when it struck the half hours and hours. Outside it was totally dark. Emerson heard the crickets in the tall grass, and now and then he saw a streak of moonlight on the rippled waters of the lake. This light broke through when the clouds parted briefly. But then they would rush in to close up the gap, and the darkness would continue. Humming softly, Emerson gripped the ax handle in his right hand and tapped it calmly on his knee. Midnight passed, and so did twelve-thirty in the morning. By now Emerson's eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and he could make out the narrow, oblong shape of the dock and their boat, bumping gently against the pilings. Suddenly Emerson heard the dip and splash of oars. A rowboat was gliding in past the dock to the shore, and Emerson could see a shadowy figure inside it. The bow of the rowboat ground into the soft sand, and the figure leapt out to pull it up farther. Even in the dark Emerson could tell that the person coming toward him was not the old fisherman. It was someone tall and lean, someone who wore a long cape or robe. Gripping the ax handle tightly, Emerson
sat up in his chair. He felt the blood singing in his ears.
"Who is it?" he called out.
No answer. The figure strode swiftly forward, and soon it was on the path that led to the porch. Crunch, crunch went the gravel as the menacing shape stepped forward. At the foot of the cracked wooden steps it halted.
"I am the Grand Autarch," the deep voice intoned. "And I have come to take back the object that you stole from my domain. Give it to me."
The Grand Autarch! Emerson realized that he must be speaking to the tall, hunched figure with the golden chain around his neck, the one who had been sitting at the head of the table in the Council Chamber of the mansion. Because he had seen the Autarch only through the peephole in the wall, Emerson had not gotten a really good look at this man. Probably he would get a better look in a minute.
"The Grand Autarch!" said Emerson, and then he laughed mockingly. "How about that! Is that anything like a Grand Dragon? Are you with the Ku Klux Klan, or what?"
The Grand Autarch seemed disconcerted by this mockery, but he wrapped his cloak about him and spoke again in a menacing tone. "Little man, you do not understand your peril. I could shrivel you to a cinder with a single gesture of my hand. But I will be merciful if you give that golden trinket to me.
Now!"
"I don't think I've ever been shriveled to a cinder," said Emerson carelessly. "It'd be a new experience. But look here, you're trespassing on private property, and you're interfering with the sleep of my household. I don't have anything for you, so I would suggest that you just clear out. Besides, you're beginning to bore me. Go on— scram!"
Silence. The Autarch said nothing. For a full minute the two of them faced each other in silence. Then Emerson saw the cape swirl, and he thought he caught the glimmer of a knife blade.
"Aaaaaah!"
roared the Autarch, and he rushed up the steps with a wicked-looking dagger held on high. Emerson stepped nimbly to one side and whacked the man on the shoulder with the ax handle. The Autarch groaned with pain and fell to his knees. Then he struggled back to his feet, and Emerson hit him on the other shoulder. Frightened and angry, the Autarch tried once more to stab Emerson with the dagger. But Emerson brought the ax handle down on his wrist, and the dagger clattered to the boards of the porch.
"This... is kind of getting... to be fun," panted Emerson, as he backed up against the wall of the house and waited for the Autarch's next move. "You were better off as an old fisherman, and I would suggest that you turn back into one and scoot. Or haven't you had enough?"