“You—” the man stepped back. “How did you know me?”
“I’ve always known you, at—at least for a very long time. But why are you here?”
“That,” he smiled, a strange smile, “that, dear child, is a long story.”
“A child,” said Greta, “likes to hear stories.”
“Is it not enough,” he laughed a low laugh, “that I have saved you from a wild and ferocious beast who, joking aside, would have slept right there all night? And must I tell you a story besides?”
“Perhaps,” said the girl soberly, “you have more to gain by telling the story than I have by listening.”
A frown gathered on his brow. She shuddered in fear. Yet again the ready smile returned.
“Stories,” he said quietly, “must be told in just the right setting. This is not the time. Another day perhaps. Not now. I—”
He broke short off. His face took on a look of horror. “Wha—what was that?”
Up from the depths below, where darkness was falling among the black fir trees, rising like a siren, had come one long, piercing scream.
Then silence and falling darkness settled over them like a shroud.
CHAPTER XXII
THE WHITE FLARE
“That scream! What was it?” The figure of Percy O’Hara had suddenly grown tense. In the gathering darkness he seemed cast in bronze.
To the slim girl who but the moment before had thought of this marvelous violinist as a phantom, the whole thing seemed unreal. “Have you never heard 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 an airplane. There’s a lodge of some sort and a small rowboat. They carried someone into the lodge, someone who was helpless, crippled or bound. I could 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. “But I—you see I’ve wanted to be alone. If you go about spying on others you’re likely to be found out yourself. I did not hear the scream at midnight. Sound asleep. But we must do something. We—”
“Look!” The girl gripped his arm impulsively. “Look! It’s Florence! The white flare!”
Even as she spoke night shadows were banished and every smallest shrub and bush stood out as in the light of day.
“Come!” she cried. “We must go! It is Florence. That is a signal, a sign of danger. But—” her tone changed, “how could that be a signal? I never told her about the white flares. They were given to me as a signal to be used 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 short trail. We’ll be there at once.” Her new found friend disappeared into the night.
At once the girl’s mind was awhirl with questions. So this was the phantom. Why had this wonderful musician hidden himself away here on Isle Royale? 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 Florence lighted 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 have heard.
Percy O’Hara was not to be seen. That which met her gaze set her knees trembling afresh. Once again she was looking into what appeared to be a hundred 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’ll lead the way.” Without another word he marched straight ahead, leaving her to follow on.
He walked unerringly as some wild creature of the forest, straight to the small 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, broke short off to stare.
“Wha—what happened?” Greta panted. “This is Mr. O’Hara. Tell me what happened!”
“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 struck something 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 save myself. And now—”
“And now,” Greta broke in, “Vincent Stearns will come all the way up the ridge 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 before we 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 was reassuring. He seated himself comfortably on a mossy rock. “I think that scream really meant trouble of some sort. It would seem to be our duty to investigate. And when there’s investigating to be done there’s safety in numbers. 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 the firelight. “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.” For all her laughing denial, she set about the task of sending delicious aromas drifting along the slope of Greenstone Ridge.
The “phantom’s” delight in the food set before him could not have been denied. No empty words of praise were his. For all that, fingers that trembled ever so slightly, eyes that smiled in a way one could not forget, told Florence her skill as brewer of coffee and broiler of bacon was appreciated fully.
When the simple meal had ended, with a low fire of bright coals gleaming red on the great flat rock, they settled themselves upon cushions of moss to 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 more soared aloft to at last settle down upon that narrow lake. She looked again upon those black waters, saw the rowboat, the moving figures, the helpless one being carried away.
“What does it mean?” she whispered. Then again she seemed to hear that piercing scream.
All this occupied her alert mind only a few short moments. Then her dark enquiring eyes were upon the face of that man who sat staring dreamily at the 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 a matchless smile, opened his lips as if to speak, then seeming to think better 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. She studied his face. Well worth her study, that face. A rather handsome, strong, sensitive face, an honest, kindly face it was. She looked in vain for traces of deep sorrow. They were not to be found. She tried casting him 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 under his chin, he began to play. The music that came to her ears did not seem human. 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 did not speak.
“Perhaps,” she told herself, “he is wondering what lies in the future for him, the immediate future, when he goes down the hill to that—that place.”
She looked at his fingers. Slim, delicate, they were the fingers of a true artist. “And with these he will defend someone,” she told herself as a little thrill crept up her back. “How—how impossible that seems!
“And yet, great musicians are not cowards.” She was thinking of that celebrated Polish patriot who, having played for the rich and great of all lands, had put aside his music when his country called.
“He will not tell us tonight,” she assured herself, “The Phantom will not speak, perhaps never at all. Secrets are our own. No one has a right to pry 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 Greenstone Ridge. 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 I shall 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 some distance down the ridge. This was followed by a loud, “Yoo Hoo!”
CHAPTER XXIII
MUSICAL ENCHANTMENT
“Yoo Hoo! What’s up?” came from below.
“It’s Vincent Stearns!” Greta sprang to her feet.
She cast one wistful glance toward Percy O’Hara. He, too, was on the move.
“The spell is broken,” she told herself with a sigh. “His story will not be told, at least, not now. Perhaps never.”
“Nothing of importance has happened,” Greta said aloud to Vincent Stearns as he came toiling up the slope. “At least not to us. It was just an accident. Florence fell over a flare and kicked it into the fire. We—”
“A fortunate accident I should say!” Percy O’Hara’s tone was full of meaning. “Far as we can tell, there’s something going on down there by that little lake that needs looking into. And now we have reinforcements.”
“Sounds like an adventure.” The young newspaper photographer’s face took on a look of unwonted animation. “I’ll turn reporter and get a scoop for my paper.”
“When we have finished you may not be in a mood for writing.” Percy O’Hara did not smile as he said this.
In as few words as possible he told the little they knew of the mysterious ones who came and went in a hydroplane and who uttered unearthly screams in the night. “We might as well get right down there and have the thing over with at once,” he added at the end. “I don’t like interfering any more than I like being interfered with. It has been more than a year since I went into voluntary exile up here.” He paused to look away at the forest and distant waters all aglimmer with the light of the moon.
“Voluntary exile,” Greta thought, “I wonder why? Can it have been anything very terrible that drove him into seclusion? He does not appear to fear being taken back.”
“I’ve been thankful for the solitude,” Percy went on. “But there are times when one has no right to be left alone. Those people down there appear to have forfeited that right.
“I have a light rifle,” he added. “Thought I might use it sometimes to kill rabbits if necessity demanded it. I’ve never used it.”
“I’ve a gun of a sort,” Vincent added his bit. “I have a notion that persuasion is better than firearms, though. What say we get going? Young ladies—”
“We’re coming along,” Florence put in. “I’m strong as a man. I’ll do my part if need be, and Greta can be the nurse, in—in case—” She did not finish.
“But you’re lame!” Percy protested.
“Only a little. Some raven came along with bandages and liniment.” She smiled knowingly. “It’s just about got me fixed up.”
They were away. It was strange, this trooping away down the ridge, single file, in the night.
“W—weird!” Greta whispered to her companion. “What do you think it is?”
“Pr—probably nothing.” Florence was all aquiver.
Working their way silently down the hillside, they at last arrived on the lower plateau. Here they came upon a well worn moose trail that, they thought, must lead to the lake.
They were not mistaken. Before they reached the shore they caught the sound of splashing.
“Moose.” Greta’s lips formed the word she did not speak.
Looking across the lake, they caught a dull glow of light.
“That—that’s the place.” She could not prevent her teeth from chattering.
“Have to follow round the lake.” Percy O’Hara marched on as once more they took up the trail leading to the mysterious unknown.
For a full half hour they moved silently through the evergreen forest that skirted the lake. The low plump-plump of feet on mossy trail, the swish of branches, was all that broke the silence, the deep silence of night.
At last, quite suddenly, they came to a narrow cleared space, and there at its back was the house of mystery.
For a moment they stood there, the four of them, Greta, Florence, Percy O’Hara, and Vincent Stearns, before a low structure that, standing dark and threatening among the black spruce trees and shadows of night, seemed to dare them to move forward. With her own eyes Greta had seen a helpless one carried from a hydroplane to this place. Three times with her own ears she had heard an unearthly scream rise from this spot. And now, now as the hour hand approached midnight they stood there listening, breathing hard, waiting. Waiting for what?
Not a sound save the low splash of a moose feeding from the bottom of the lake reached their ears. From the single window, small and low, a dull light gleamed. The place seemed asleep.
And yet, the instant Vincent tapped lightly on the door a hand was on the latch. “Now—” Greta took a step forward. “Now—”
The door was thrown open. A man, seeming very tall and thin in that dull light, stood before them. His voice when he spoke was low, melodious, friendly, and quite disarming. There was, too, a note of sadness.
“Come in! Have you lost your way? May I help you?”
Greta at this moment recalled those startling screams, and shuddered.
There was about the place an air of comfort. A gasp of surprise escaped Greta’s lips. “Chairs, couches, books, fireplace. Might be the living-room of any home. And up here!”
“We—we’ve made a mistake?” she whispered to Florence.
“Wait!” was the answer.
The silence grew painful. “No,” Percy O’Hara said at last, as if there had been no silence. “We didn’t lose our way. In fact I could not lose myself up here if I tried. I’ve lived on this ridge for more than a year. We came—”
“Wait!” The tall man, whose hair was graying about the temples, held up a hand. “You need not go on. I understand perfectly. I—I’m sorry you came. But since you are here, you have a right to be told certain things. Won’t you be seated?”
He drew chairs to the fire, chairs with deep, soft cushions. As she sank into one of these Greta thought with a shudder how difficult it would be to rise from such a chair in a hurry, should necessity demand it.
“I—” their host began, “I am considered a rich man. In fact a company I control owns more than half this island. This shelter rests on my land. You have been camping, all of you, on my land.” He paused as if to permit the words to sink in.<
br />
“It is supposed,” he went on at last, “that rich men are the privileged ones of earth. Truth is they have few privileges. Here I am at the heart of an all but deserted island, living on my own land. I own every foot of land within ten miles of this spot! And yet, when I choose, I cannot be alone!”
“I wish we hadn’t come!” Greta whispered.
“Wait!” Florence replied once more.
At this juncture a very short chubby man with an air of briskness about him entered the room.
“Ah!” He rubbed his small hands together. “We have company, Percy O’Hara, Vincent Stearns, Greta Bronson and Florence Huyler.”
Greta started. How could this little man know their names? She was to wonder still more.
“You have no notion, Mr. Van Zandt,” the little man said, turning to his tall companion, “how famous our company is! A successful newspaper photographer, a very famous violinist, not to speak of the lady violinist and her friend.”
He turned to the astonished group. “Your arrival has saved me the bother of hunting you up—providing now I may count upon your services.”
Never had the two girls found themselves in so strange a position. They had come here with the others to assist—assist in what?
Vincent half rose, then dropped back to his place. Percy O’Hara gripped the arms of his chair. Only Florence appeared at ease, and it was she who at last spoke. “I am sure,” she replied evenly, “that we shall be glad to render any service possible to Doctor Prince.”
Once again Greta stared, this time at Florence. How could Florence know this man?
“Ah!” the little man replied, not denying his identity, “I had hoped so. It is, however, from your musical friends that I expect to secure aid.
“Mr. Van Zandt,” he addressed the other respectfully, “have I your permission to inform them?”
A pained expression passed over the man’s face as he nodded assent.
Next day, just as the shadows were beginning to lengthen on the hillside, Greta found herself joined in an undertaking the like of which she had never before known. Her part seemed as simple as the song of a bird who on a branch far above her head warbled in his own sweet way; yet she threw into it every atom of her being.
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 131