e marge, were the tracks of those who
had gone before. And there was but one way these could lead. For upon
the left hand the cliffs came down to the water and there was no path;
upon the right there was a six-foot strip of uneven beach.

The sudden sound of a voice shouting dropped down to him. Jerking his
head up he made out the form of Lieutenant Max at the top of this
devil's stairway down which he had just come. Drennen laughed shortly
and turned northward along the lake shore. He had lost time but he
would lose no more. He still had two hours the best of it; it would
take Max fully that long to make the descent.

"When he comes up with me," was Drennen's quick thought, "my work will
have been done!"

CHAPTER XXIII

CHATEAU BELLAIRE

Now Drennen, having passed around the shore of Red Deer Lake, having
often dipped his body into the icy water where there was little room to
pass between the lake and the cliffs, having fought his way upward
again much as he had travelled downward but by an easier path, came at
last, in the late afternoon, to the grove of giant trees upon the crest
of the great ridge. And, as he paused a moment, a new wonder was upon
him.

He had expected to find here merely a rude camp; he found himself
staring at a house under the trees! Such a house as he had never seen
in all of his life, but a house none the less. It was screened from
him by the tree trunks until he stood within fifty yards of it; it was
disguised now in the very manner of its construction.

The corners were great stacks of high piled flat stones; across the
rude columns lay tree trunks roughly squared with axes; the roof was a
sloping shed-roof, steep pitched, made of saplings, covered a foot deep
with loose soil. In this soil grew the hardy mountain grasses; even
two or three young trees were seeking life here where the cones had
fallen from the lofty branches of the mother trees. Over the great,
square door was a long slab of wood, carefully cut into a thick board,
the marks of the axe blades still showing. And inscribed deep into
this board, the letters having been burned there with a red hot iron,
were the words:

CHATEAU BELLAIRE.

Drennen's pause was brief. From the low, awkward building there were
voices floating out to him. He had come to the end of the long trail.
One voice, low toned and clear, drove the blood racing through his
body. His hand shook upon his rifle stock. In spite