He crossed the river bed, leaping from stone to stone, and stepped up so
close to the falling water that the spray splashed him. It was somewhere
about here, he thought, that the man, Blake, had focused his field-glass
from the roadside.

There was absolutely nothing out of the way here that he could see. The
brush was kept cleared out at the foot of the dam for a dozen feet or
so; there seemed to be no cover here. Not a stone had been overturned
along this cleared path.

The water splashed and bubbled at the foot of the fall. Did it seem to
splash more vigorously just here at the edge of the pool, hidden by the
spray in part, and partly by the overhang of a great rock on which
Whistler stood?

The observant youth stooped, then knelt beside the stream. The rock was
wet and his garments were fast becoming saturated. But he paid no
attention to this.

There was something down there in the pool, at its edge, struggling
beneath the surface. Not a fish, of course!

Suddenly he thrust in his hand, wetting his sleeve to the elbow. Quickly
he made sure that his suspicion was correct. There was some kind of
water wheel whirling down there.

He moved a flat stone which seemed to have lain for ages in its present
position. Yet under that stone was the end of the wheel's axle with
cogwheels rigged to pass on the power engendered by the wheel to some