CHAPTER XXII THE WHITE FLARE
"That scream! What was it?" The figure of Percy O'Hara had suddenly growntense. In the gathering darkness he seemed cast in bronze.
To the slim girl who but the moment before had thought of this marvelousviolinist as a phantom, the whole thing seemed unreal. "Have you neverheard it before?" she asked with a voice that trembled.
"Heard that scream before?" He stared at her.
"I heard it two nights ago. But that was late, near midnight," she said."There are people down below by a narrow lake. They come and go in anairplane. There's a lodge of some sort and a small rowboat. They carriedsomeone into the lodge, someone who was helpless, crippled or bound. Icould not tell."
"You know all this, you who have been here so short a time?"
"Yes."
"I knew that someone came and went over there." He spoke slowly. "ButI--you see I've wanted to be alone. If you go about spying on othersyou're likely to be found out yourself. I did not hear the scream atmidnight. Sound asleep. But we must do something. We--"
"Look!" The girl gripped his arm impulsively. "Look! It's Florence! Thewhite flare!"
Even as she spoke night shadows were banished and every smallest shruband bush stood out as in the light of day.
"Come!" she cried. "We must go! It is Florence. That is a signal, a signof danger. But--" her tone changed, "how could that be a signal? I nevertold her about the white flares. They were given to me as a signal to beused in case of danger."
"A signal to whom?"
"Vincent Stearns," she replied, her voice all atremble. "He will come.Something terrible has happened! We must hurry!"
"In just one moment. I will be back. Don't go without me. I know a shorttrail. We'll be there at once." Her new found friend disappeared into thenight.
At once the girl's mind was awhirl with questions. So this was thephantom. Why had this wonderful musician hidden himself away here on IsleRoyale? Had he committed some grave crime? It was unthinkable. And yet,why was he here? Would she ever know?
Then her thoughts took another turn. Who had screamed? Why had Florencelighted the white flare? Because of the scream? She would hardly do that,and besides she did not know of the flares.
"Oh why did we come here?" Greta said the words aloud.
Then turning instinctively, she looked to see if Percy O'Hara might haveheard.
Percy O'Hara was not to be seen. That which met her gaze set her kneestrembling afresh. Once again she was looking into what appeared to be ahundred pairs of green and gleaming eyes.
"Here we are!" She started violently.
Percy O'Hara was at her side. "We'll go this way. Follow the ridge. I'lllead the way." Without another word he marched straight ahead, leavingher to follow on.
He walked unerringly as some wild creature of the forest, straight to thesmall tent beside the big flat rock.
They found Florence quite unharmed, but in a state of great agitation."Oh, Greta!" she exclaimed. Then, catching sight of Percy O'Hara, brokeshort off to stare.
"Wha--what happened?" Greta panted. "This is Mr. O'Hara. Tell me whathappened!"
"Nothing happened--that is, nothing much. Did you hear that scream?"
"Yes. We--"
"Well, I heard it and came dashing from the tent. My foot strucksomething and sent it bounding into the fire. Before I could grab it,there came a blinding white flare. I jumped back just in time to savemyself. And now--"
"And now," Greta broke in, "Vincent Stearns will come all the way up theridge from--from wherever he is. He--he'll bring others, like as not,to--to save us from some--something terrible. Oh!" she fairly wailed,"that's what one gets for keeping secrets! He gave me those flares beforewe started. And I--I never told you!" Greta seemed ready for tears.
"It might be a great deal worse," Percy O'Hara broke in. His tone wasreassuring. He seated himself comfortably on a mossy rock. "I think thatscream really meant trouble of some sort. It would seem to be our duty toinvestigate. And when there's investigating to be done there's safety innumbers. I think we'll do well to await the arrival of your friend.Perhaps someone will come with him.
"By the way," his tone changed and his bright eyes gleamed in thefirelight. "Have I been smelling bacon, coffee and all that these days,or have I not?"
"Pure imagination!" Florence laughed. "We live on nuts and berries." Forall her laughing denial, she set about the task of sending deliciousaromas drifting along the slope of Greenstone Ridge.
The "phantom's" delight in the food set before him could not have beendenied. No empty words of praise were his. For all that, fingers thattrembled ever so slightly, eyes that smiled in a way one could notforget, told Florence her skill as brewer of coffee and broiler of baconwas appreciated fully.
When the simple meal had ended, with a low fire of bright coals gleamingred on the great flat rock, they settled themselves upon cushions of mossto wait.
"Wait for what?" Greta asked herself. "For the coming of Vincent Stearns.And then?"
Who could find an answer? Before her mind's eye the seaplane once moresoared aloft to at last settle down upon that narrow lake. She lookedagain upon those black waters, saw the rowboat, the moving figures, thehelpless one being carried away.
"What does it mean?" she whispered. Then again she seemed to hear thatpiercing scream.
All this occupied her alert mind only a few short moments. Then her darkenquiring eyes were upon the face of that man who sat staring dreamily atthe fire.
"Percy O'Hara!" she whispered low. "The Phantom Violin! Why is he here?"
As if feeling her eyes upon him, he turned half about, favored her with amatchless smile, opened his lips as if to speak, then seeming to thinkbetter of it, turned his face once more toward the fire.
"Oh!" she thought, "he was going to tell me!"
But he did not speak. Instead he continued to stare at the fire. Shestudied his face. Well worth her study, that face. A rather handsome,strong, sensitive face, an honest, kindly face it was. She looked in vainfor traces of deep sorrow. They were not to be found. She tried castinghim in the role of a man fleeing from justice. It could not be done.
"And yet--"
Once again his eyes were upon her.
This time he took his violin from its case by his side. Tucking it underhis chin, he began to play. The music that came to her ears did not seemhuman. So fine, so all but silent was it, yet so exquisitely beautiful,it might have been the song of a bird on the wing, or angels in heaven.
"Oh!" she breathed as the last faint note died away, and again "Oh!"
Wrapping the priceless instrument carefully, he returned it to its case.
"Now," she whispered, "now the Phantom will tell his story." Still he didnot speak.
"Perhaps," she told herself, "he is wondering what lies in the future forhim, the immediate future, when he goes down the hill to that--thatplace."
She looked at his fingers. Slim, delicate, they were the fingers of atrue artist. "And with these he will defend someone," she told herself asa little thrill crept up her back. "How--how impossible that seems!
"And yet, great musicians are not cowards." She was thinking of thatcelebrated Polish patriot who, having played for the rich and great ofall lands, had put aside his music when his country called.
"He will not tell us tonight," she assured herself, "The Phantom will notspeak, perhaps never at all. Secrets are our own. No one has a right topry into our lives."
Only once during that long wait did the Phantom speak. Turning to Greta,he said, "Where are you staying on the island?"
Greta nodded at the small tent.
"But before that?"
"We have been living on the wreck of the _Pilgrim_."
"The wreck!" His eyes shone. "How wonderful! Better than GreenstoneRidge. Only," he added, "people would come to see you there."
"Yes. And you will come?" Greta's tone was eager.
Once again
his eyes shone upon her. "Yes," he said quietly, "I fancy Ishall be doing just that sometime."
It was a promise in answer to a prayer. The girl could ask no more.
Ten minutes later there came the sound of movement in the bushes somedistance down the ridge. This was followed by a loud, "Yoo Hoo!"