CHAPTER XIX MYSTERY FROM THE SKY
Petite Jeanne loved children. They need not be dressed in silks. Intruth, she thought that Nelse and Freda, the tots who had come with Swen,dressed as they were in their quaint home-made garments, were about themost fascinating creatures she had seen in all the wide world. While Swenenjoyed his coffee and told Bihari in an excited manner of that which hadhappened at his house during his absence on the evening before, she ledher two young friends to the prow where the bear, like a huge dog, laysprawled out on the deck.
Seeing their eyes open big with wonder and fear, she seized the bear bythe paws, dragged him to his feet, and led him across the deck in aclumsy dance.
In less time than it takes to tell it, they were whirling about in aring-around-a-rosy, Nelse and Freda, Jeanne and the big brown bear.
"Do you stay here all through the cold winter?" she asked, when at last,quite exhausted, they dropped in a pile on the deck.
"Oh, yes," Nelse said cheerfully. "There is great fun! Snow for forts,ice for sliding. Winter is grand!"
"But there is no school!" she protested.
They did not seem very sorry about this, but Jeanne, recalling Swen'sdesire for a boat that more money might be made by fishing and that theselittle ones might go to the mainland where there were schools, wishedharder than ever that Florence's dream of finding a barrel of gold mightcome true.
"A barrel of gold!" she murmured. "What a lot of gold that must be!"
She thought of her castle in France and almost wished she might spend itfor these bright-eyed little ones.
"But then," she sighed, "one may not spend a castle. And there isGreat-Aunt Minyon who would not allow me to spend a penny of it, even ifit were possible. No! No! We must find our barrel of gold!"
All this time there remained in the back of the little French girl's heada question. "What did Swen mean when he said his doorstep had beenbroken, his bench overturned and bits of cloth scattered before his door?Just what he said, to be sure.
"And the bear!" she whispered. "He was on shore a long time. What did hedo?"
To these questions she was destined to find no certain answer. When shehad told Swen her part of the story and together they had searched thevicinity of Swen's strange home for some clue as to the whereabouts ofthe head hunter, they could arrive at no definite conclusions regardingany part of the mysterious affair.
"One thing is sure," Swen declared at last. "We will not make him happyif he comes about our place again! We do not wish our moose killed, northe good people who visit our island disturbed."
It did not seem probable that the man would return to this spot. "Butwhere will we hear of him next?" Jeanne's brow wrinkled. She thought ofher two good pals up there somewhere on the ridge, then of their desertedhome, the wreck.
"Does he belong to that black schooner with the diver on board?" sheasked herself. She did not think so. "But what of that schooner?"
She decided in the end to abandon the task of solving mysteries and togive herself over, for the time, to the wild care-free life of Bihari andhis band. For all that, as the _Ship of Joy_, riding the long sweepingwaves that follow every storm, went plowing its way out of Rock Harborand into the open lake, this little French girl sat upon the deck,staring at the sky. Her eyes were seeing things in the clouds.
"A barrel of gold!" she whispered. Then, in a hoarse exclamation, "Howabsurd! And yet, one must dream."
* * * * * * * *
In the meantime Greta, impelled by memory of a strange vision seen in thecavern of fire, had started out in search of her companion. She foundlittle to guide her on her way. Florence had gone away to the right oftheir camp. This much she knew; nothing more.
She had not proceeded far before she discovered that the narrow plateauwas a bewildering labyrinth of trees, bushes, and rocks. More than this,its surface was as irregular as the face of the deep in time of storm.Here it rose steep as a stairway, there sloped away to end in a stretchflat as a floor.
"Never find her in such a place," she grumbled.
"Florence!" she shouted. "Florence!"
No answer save the long-drawn whistle of a bird.
The silence and loneliness of the place began to oppress her. The memoryof that scream in the night remained in her mind as something distinct,sinister.
"Who could that have been?" she asked herself with a shudder. "Why didthey scream? What could have happened?"
Her mind was filled with pictures of crimes committed in secret places.
"It's absurd!" She paused to stamp her foot. "Nothing of importance willcome of it. Mysteries fade before the light of day. The sun is shining.Why do I shudder? And for that matter, why am I here at all? A visionbrought me here, a dream dreamed out by the fire. I--"
She broke off short to listen. Faint and from far away there came thedrone of an airplane motor.
"The amphibian from Houghton," she told herself. "Wonder if it will comenear?"
Every day in summer, sometimes two or three times a day, this greatbi-motored plane brings passengers and sightseers to Isle Royale. Themoose feeding on grass at the bottom of inland lakes have learned toglance up at its approach, then go on with their feeding.
This girl thought little of an airplane's approach. Indeed, she had allbut forgotten it when, as she reached a rocky space quite devoid of treesand found herself in a position to look down upon another plateau thatlay some two hundred feet below, she was made doubly conscious of itspresence.
"Why it--it's not the bi-motor at all!" she exclaimed. "It's some strangeplane, all white, and it--it's landing!"
Instinctively she drew back into the shadow.
On the surface of that other plateau she discovered a narrow lake, littlemore than a pond in size, but doubtless quite deep. It was on this lakethat the plane was about to land. Having circled twice, it came swoopingdown to touch the water gently, gracefully as some wild migrating bird.
"Wonderful!" she murmured in admiration.
But that was not all. She had assumed for the moment that this was but achance landing, caused perhaps by motor trouble. That it was not she wassoon enough to know, for the plane taxied toward a large clump of darkspruce trees. And to the girl's astonishment a narrow boat, painted thecolor of the water, stole out from that shore to at last glide alongsidethe now motionless plane.
"Sol--solitude!" she murmured. "No one up here. They told us that. Andnow look! There must be a settlement. What--"
Something strange was going on down there. She crawled back among thepine needles. Someone was being lifted out of the plane and into theboat. Now the boat with its apparently helpless burden was pulling forthe shore. Studying this shore for a space of seconds, she thought shemade out some sort of lodge there among the trees.
Her heart pounded painfully. What was this? A kidnaping? A murder?Strange doings! Curious sort of place they had chosen for it all!
She did not wait to see more. Gliding about the pine tree, she headedstraight for her own camp; nor did she pause till the white of theirsmall tent showed through the trees.
* * * * * * * *
And Florence? At the very moment Greta sighted their tent, she stoodcontemplating the rope that had so miraculously come to her aid.
"Greta!" she called once more, this time softly. No answer.
"It couldn't be Greta." She experienced a wild flutter at her heart. "Wehave no rope like that. But who can it be?"
"There's somebody waiting for you up there." The words of the youngfisherman came back to her, this time with a force that carriedconviction.
"Someone up here," she murmured, "but who, and why? What can that personbe like?"
Recalling the face in the little book, she drew the book again from herpocket, struck a match, then peered at the picture.
A youngish face topped by a mass of all but white hair seemed to smile ather from the book.
"
A man!" She caught her breath. "He's handsome. I never saw him."
Then realizing that she might be seen in that circle of yellow light, shesnuffed out the match, snapped the book shut, then stood at attention,listening.
Aside from the long-drawn whistle of some small bird, no sound reachedher ears.
"Well," she sighed, "there's no good in delay."
Putting her hand to the rope, she tested it. "Solid! Solid as the rockitself. Now! Up I go!"
Florence was no weakling. Indeed she was above all else a perfectphysical being. No cigarette had ever stained her lips. She had livedclean. She had not neglected her physical inheritance. Boating, swimming,hiking in summer, skating and skiing in winter, kept her ever at herbest. A forty-foot climb up a rope with a stone wall for footing wasplay.
She did not pause to tell herself how easy it would be. A tight grippingat the rope, a quick breath, a leap upward, and she was away. Havingscaled the steep portion, she paused for a second breath, then racedupward to find--
"No--no one here!" she breathed as her keen eyes took in every detail,rock, bush, and tree.
"Someone heard me call. Came to my aid, then vanished. How--how weird!"
As if possessed by the idea that the place might be haunted, leaving therope as it hung, she quickly lost herself on the hillside.
"Where--where have you been?" Greta demanded as she at last hurried intocamp. "Have--have you been in great peril?"
Florence stared at her speechless. For a full moment she could not speak.When she found her voice she blurted out:
"Mean to tell me you lowered that rope, then bolted?"
"What rope?" Greta stared.
"The rope in the old mine."
"What mine?"
Florence burst out laughing. "What a world! You ask me if I have been ingreat danger. I have. But, after all, you seem to know nothing of it.How--how come?" She dropped to a place before the freshly kindled fire.
"I dreamed it, I guess," Greta replied slowly. "But please do tell meabout it."
"I will. But first--" Florence drew the small blank book from her pocket,opened it to the place of the picture, then asked quietly, "Ever see himbefore?"
"Why, yes, I--" Greta's face was a study. "Florence, where _did_ you getthat?"
"It came tumbling down into the mine."
There was a touch of something akin to awe in the slim girl's voice asshe said hoarsely, "That is a picture of the most wonderful musician Ihave ever heard. He plays the violin with a touch almost divine."
"The violin!"
"Yes. But, Florence--" Greta leaned forward eagerly. "Tell me all aboutit. Tell me what happened to you!"
When Florence had told her story Greta sat for a long time staring at thefire. When at last she spoke it was in a subdued and mellow tone. "That,"she said, pointing to the little book that lay open before them, "is thepicture of Percy O'Hara. Strange name for a great musician. But theIrish, they say, have musical souls.
"It was more than three years ago that I heard him play. It happened thatI was with one of his personal friends. After the concert I wasintroduced to him. Can you imagine?" Her laugh was low and melodious."Actually shook hands with him, the truly great O'Hara.
"I'm afraid I was a bit romantic. I was young. He became my hero in away. I tried to keep track of his triumphs. But quite suddenly histriumphs ceased to be. I heard nothing about him. There was a rumor thathe had disappeared. What do you think could have happened? Surely one whohad entranced thousands with his delirious music would not voluntarilyallow himself to be lost--lost from the world that loves him!"
"Something terrible may have happened to him." Florence was staring atthe fire. "Terrible things do happen these days."
"And this picture?" Greta whispered.
"Probably belongs to some ardent admirer like yourself."
"But listen, Florence--" Greta's lips tightened, a fresh light shone inher face. "I too have had an adventure, discovered a mystery. There is anarrow lake off there to the right and below us. A monoplane landed theretoday. Someone was lifted from the plane into a boat. They rowed to theshore where there is some sort of lodge. What can that mean?"
"As far as we are concerned," Florence responded soberly, "it seems tomean that we should strike our tent and descend to less inhabited regionswhere we can enjoy ourselves in peace."
"And leave those people to go on with their evil deeds?"
"How do you know they are evil?"
"Who would hide away up here if their purposes were lawful? Think,Florence! They may be kidnapers! That person may be a victim!"
"Yes," exclaimed Florence, springing to her feet, "and they may belaw-abiding citizens! Come, you have given me the creeps. Besides, I'mstarving. You get some bacon frying while I start the coffee brewing.We'll eat. That will brighten our horizon."
Nine o'clock came. Seated before a fire of brightly gleaming coals, theircozy bed of blankets and balsam boughs awaiting them, the two girlsforgot the mysteries and adventures of the day to sit and talk, as youngpeople will, of home, of friends, of hopes and fears, and of the futurethat stretches on and on before them like a golden pathway. They weredeep in this whispered revery when, gripping her companion's arm, Gretaexclaimed, "There it is again!"
A wild, piercing, blood-curdling scream had rent the air of night.
"Wha--what can it be?" As if for protection, the slim girl threw herselfinto the arms of her stout companion.
"It's no loon!" Florence measured her words. "It's some human being indistress."
"I told you!" The slim girl shuddered.
"We should go to their aid."
"But just two girls! What could we do? We--"
"Listen!" Florence touched Greta's lips. From afar, as on that othernight, there came, wafted in faint and glorious tones, the whisper of aviolin.
"I'll tell you!" Greta sprang to her feet. "That man playing the violinhas nothing to do with this other affair. He couldn't possibly, or howcould he play so divinely?"
"He couldn't. He must be a friend of Percy O'Hara or he wouldn't have hadhis picture. He is interested in others or he would not have lowered thatrope to me. We must hunt him out and make him help us."
"But how do you know it is a man? Why not a girl, or two girls likeourselves?" Greta doubted.
"It must be a man, just must be! Come!" Florence pulled her companion toher feet. "Come, we will follow the sound of the phantom violin."
Florence led the way. It was strange, this following a sound into thenight. More than once Greta found herself in the grip of an almostirresistible desire to turn back; yet always that cry of terror appearedto ring in her ears and she whispered: "We must!"
The trail they followed was one made by wild creatures. And night istheir time for being abroad. Now as they pressed forward they caught thesound of some wolf or lynx sneaking away into the brush. Would theyalways flee? Greta shuddered as she asked the question.
From time to time they paused to listen for those silver notes of thephantom violin. "Growing louder," Florence whispered on each occasion.
Once, after they had remained motionless for some time, she said with anair of certainty, "Comes from over the ridge."
Soon after that they took a side trail and began to climb. This path wassteep, all but straight up. More than once Greta caught her breathsharply as her foot slipped. The sturdy Florence struggled steadilyupward until with a deep sigh she exclaimed, "There!"
She said no more. For a space of seconds the violin had been silent. Now,as the music burst once more upon their ears, it seemed all but uponthem.
"A--a little farther." The slender girl gripped Florence's arm until ithurt.
Just then the moon went under a cloud.
"Look!" Greta whispered in an awed tone. "Look! What is that?"
What indeed? Before them, just how far away they could not tell, shonewhat appeared to be innumerable pairs of eyes.
"Green eyes," Greta whispered.
Next moment her voice rose i
n a note of sheer terror.
"Florence! Florence! Where are you?"
No answer. Florence had vanished into the night.