rse,
some three or four acres of the house-bearing knoll would form an island
in the middle of the reservoir lake. The house would be completely cut
off, the orchards submerged, and the nearest shore, that from which the
roundabout road approached, would be fully a half-mile distant, with the
water at least ten feet deep over the raised causeway of the road
itself.

Surely the colonel would not subject his guests to the inconvenience of
a stay at Castle 'Cadia when the house would be merely an isolated
shelter upon an island in the middle of the great lake, Ballard
concluded; and when the mirage effect cleared away to give him a better
view, he got out the field-glass and looked for some signs of the
inevitable retreat.

There were no signs, so far as he could determine. With the help of the
glass he could pick out the details of the summer afternoon scene on the
knoll-top; could see that there were a number of people occupying the
hammocks and lazy-chairs under the tree-pillared portico; could make out
two figures, which he took to be Bigelow and one of the Cantrell
sisters, strolling back and forth in a lovers' walk under the shade of
the maples.

It was all very perplexing. The sweet-toned little French clock on its
shelf in the office room behind him had struck three, and there were
only a few more hours of daylight left in Castle 'Cadia's last day as a
habitable dwelling. And yet, if he could trust the evidence of his
senses, the castle's garrison was making no move to escape: this though
the members of it must all know that the rising of another sun would see
their retreat cut off by the impounded flood.

After he had returned the field-glass to its case on the wall of the
office the ticking telegraph instrument on Bromley's table called him,
signing "E--T," the end-of-track on the High Line Extension. It was
Bromley, wiring in to give the time of the probable return of the
excursion trains for Garou's supper serving.

"How are you getting on?" clicked Ballard, when the time had been given.

"Fine," was the answer. "Everything lovely, and the goose honks high.
Enthusiasm to burn, and we're burning it. Just now the baa-lambs are
surrounding Mr. Pelham on the canal embankment and singing 'For he's a
jolly good fellow' at the tops of their voices. It's great, and we're
all hypnotised. So long; and take care of that pinched arm."

After Bromley broke and the wire became dumb, the silence of the
deserted camp