The Best Wadsworth Camp Mysteries. Charles Wadsworth Camp
voice reached them, very faintly.
Miller sprang to his feet.
“Stay here,” he said.
He ran to the hall, drawing his revolver from his pocket.
“Jim!” Molly cried. ” Where are you going?”
“Don’t come, Andy,” he called,” unless I shout.”
He flung the front door open and ran into the clearing.
Momentarily the moon swayed free of its enveloping clouds. Abruptly the tiny section of the inlet flashed back its light. There, in a frame of trees with a background of black and ragged dunes, stood the fisherman on the deck of his rotten tub—gigantic, statuesque.
Immediately the clouds snatched the moon back to their obscure embrace. The picture snapped out.
The wind strained and tore past Miller. He could scarcely keep his eyes open to its fury. But he started across the clearing towards the path, for he fancied even in this darkness there was something there at the edge of the clearing. He raised his revolver. He crept forward, muttering to the night :
“Come out! Whoever you are don’t try to run back. Come out! Come out!”
A figure threw itself against him and raised warm hands to his face. His arm with the revolver dropped.
“You—” he began.
“I have been at the edge of the forest,” the girl said.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“To tell you to go back. Last night—remember. Tonight you must run this way. The island is not safe.”
“Why?” he said. “I shall not run.”
“Yes. You must run to the river. You cannot go back this way. You cannot get to the inlet. I didn’t think I could get through, but I got through to tell you that. Run to the river. It may be safe there.”
“For God’s sake,” he begged, “tell me what it is.”
“The island is full of death tonight.”
“Then go to the house. Take the Andersons to the river. There’s a boat there.”
“Come with me.”
“No. I shall stay and fight this death. I have to know what it is. Don’t be afraid for me.”
He could feel her trembling beneath her heavy black cloak. She dragged at his arm.
“No, no. I love you. I will leave the island with you.”
By sheer strength she pulled him a step or two backwards.
“You have lied to me,” she said fiercely. “If you loved me you couldn’t question now.”
Suddenly her face was etched against the darkness. A blue gleam seemed to play over it, to disclose its tortured, passionate terror.
And, as she pulled at his arm, the light reached her wrists. Her wrists were torn and bleeding.
Miller grasped them with a cry and turned. Above the dangerous forest floated a pallid, unnatural light. It was blue. It wavered. It increased. It seemed to fill the sky.
The girl sank to the ground. He tried to raise her, but she drew back.
“It is too late,” she said in a dead voice. “You wouldn’t listen. There is no hope now.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PATH TO THE FLAME
Miller slipped his revolver in his pocket and caught the girl up in his arms. As he carried her towards the steps their shadows were flung by the blue light in grotesque distortions across the surface of the coquina house.
He thought she had fainted, but when at the door he stooped and kissed her lips she responded with a quick abandonment.
Anderson waited fretfully in the hall. He threw the door open. Molly was at his back. Tony stood hesitant, just within the diningroom.
“Who—” Anderson began. “The girl! Where—”
“She came with a warning,” Miller answered.
Molly cried out:
“What is that light, Jim?”
Anderson ran down the steps.
“The woods have been fired between here and the plantation!”
“No, Andy,” Miller called after him. ” The light is above the trees. It is not fire.”
He carried the girl to a chair in the diningroom.
“Take care of her, Molly. I—”
He broke off. Molly looked at him, guessing the truth. Anderson returned quickly.
“That ghastly light!” he said. “It isn’t fire.”
Miller pointed at the girl’s torn wrists. She quivered before his gesture and tried to hide her hands.
“The wrists again!” Molly whispered.
Tony shrank against the mantel.
“Tell me,” Miller demanded, “how were your wrists injured?”
She thrust her wrists behind her back.
“Answer me,” he said almost roughly. “Was it coming through that piece of woods?”
She pressed her lips tightly together. There was no colour in her face.
“The one physical clue!” Miller cried “Answer me! Answer me! Do you know how your wrists were torn?”
After a moment she nodded slowly.
“Then tell us! So much depends on that! Tell us!”
She hung her head. She would not answer.
“Tell us!” he begged, “or, after all, are you leagued with the infernal place against us—against me?”
When at last she answered the words came with a dreadful slowness as though their passage tortured her throat.
“No. But I can’t tell you that. It would be easier to die than to tell you that.”
Her head fell forward. She would not expose her hands, so, although she tried to turn away, the others could see the tears fill her eyes and overflow and drop to her cloak.
Miller stepped aside.
“Molly!” he said softly.
While Molly went to her he drew Anderson to the window. Many shadows thrown by the blue light danced in the clearing.
“There’s nothing for it, Andy,” he said in an undertone, “I’m going—there,”
“Jim! After all that’s happened in those woods?”
“Yes. One is not safe here for that matter. She said so. But the truth is there tonight for the taking,”
He glanced at the girl.
“I have to have the truth. I must clear this up no matter what the risk. But don’t worry. If one takes the initiative—you see that’s not been done on Captain’s Island yet. I shall do it.”
“Then, of course,” Anderson said, “I shall come with you.”
Miller shook his head.
“Molly!” he reminded, “and the girl! I don’t have to tell you, Andy—From the first day—You can see for yourself they can’t be left. Tony’s in a funk—worthless. One of us must go, one must stay. I have more