The phantom violin

“Rock broke loose.” She dodged.

The thing struck her on the head. No rock. It was soft.

Gropingly she felt for and found it.

“Leather,” she whispered. “Some little book.”

Lighting a match, she examined it. She had just opened this blank book and was looking at a picture between the pages, when of a sudden her heart stood still.

Something was coming down the wall, not bumping, but gliding.

As she waited breathless, her match burned her fingers. And still there came that scraping, gliding sound. Her match sputtered out. She was in the dark.

“Th—there it is,” she breathed as she pressed back against the wall. “It—it’s a snake!”

She was ready to scream with fright when the real nature of that gliding thing came to her.

“It’s a rope! A rope!” she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. Then—

“Greta! Greta! Are you there?”

No answer. The rope had ceased to glide. All was still as the grave.

Her heart thumped madly. Who was up there? Had the mystery man of Greenstone Ridge come to her aid? Who was he? What was he like? Why did he stay on the ridge?

Suddenly she found herself more afraid than before.

“I don’t want to touch that rope.” Her whisper ended in tremor.

“And yet I must!”

CHAPTER XIX
MYSTERY FROM THE SKY

Petite Jeanne loved children. They need not be dressed in silks. In truth, 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 the most fascinating creatures she had seen in all the wide world. While Swen enjoyed his coffee and told Bihari in an excited manner of that which had happened at his house during his absence on the evening before, she led her two young friends to the prow where the bear, like a huge dog, lay sprawled out on the deck.

Seeing their eyes open big with wonder and fear, she seized the bear by the paws, dragged him to his feet, and led him across the deck in a clumsy dance.

In less time than it takes to tell it, they were whirling about in a ring-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’s desire for a boat that more money might be made by fishing and that these little ones might go to the mainland where there were schools, wished harder than ever that Florence’s dream of finding a barrel of gold might come 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 it for these bright-eyed little ones.

“But then,” she sighed, “one may not spend a castle. And there is Great-Aunt Minyon who would not allow me to spend a penny of it, even if it 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 head a question. “What did Swen mean when he said his doorstep had been broken, 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 he do?”

To these questions she was destined to find no certain answer. When she had told Swen her part of the story and together they had searched the vicinity of Swen’s strange home for some clue as to the whereabouts of the head hunter, they could arrive at no definite conclusions regarding any part of the mysterious affair.

“One thing is sure,” Swen declared at last. “We will not make him happy if he comes about our place again! We do not wish our moose killed, nor the good people who visit our island disturbed.”

It did not seem probable that the man would return to this spot. “But where will we hear of him next?” Jeanne’s brow wrinkled. She thought of her two good pals up there somewhere on the ridge, then of their deserted home, the wreck.

“Does he belong to that black schooner with the diver on board?” she asked herself. She did not think so. “But what of that schooner?”

She decided in the end to abandon the task of solving mysteries and to give herself over, for the time, to the wild care-free life of Bihari and his band. For all that, as the Ship of Joy, riding the long sweeping waves that follow every storm, went plowing its way out of Rock Harbor and 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, “How absurd! And yet, one must dream.”

* * * * * * * *

In the meantime Greta, impelled by memory of a strange vision seen in the cavern of fire, had started out in search of her companion. She found little to guide her on her way. Florence had gone away to the right of their camp. This much she knew; nothing more.

She had not proceeded far before she discovered that the narrow plateau was 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 stretch flat 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 memory of 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 did they 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 will come 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 vision brought me here, a dream dreamed out by the fire. I—”

She broke off short to listen. Faint and from far away there came the drone of an airplane motor.

“The amphibian from Houghton,” she told herself. “Wonder if it will come near?”

Every day in summer, sometimes two or three times a day, this great bi-motored plane brings passengers and sightseers to Isle Royale. The moose feeding on grass at the bottom of inland lakes have learned to glance up at its approach, then go on with their feeding.

This girl thought little of an airplane’s approach. Indeed, she had all but forgotten it when, as she reached a rocky space quite devoid of trees and found herself in a position to look down upon another plateau that lay some two hundred feet below, she was made doubly conscious of its presence.

“Why it—it’s not the bi-motor at all!” she exclaimed. “It’s some strange plane, 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, little more than a pond in size, but doubtless quite deep. It was on this lake that the plane was about to land. Having circled twice, it came swooping down 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 a chance landing, caused perhaps by motor trouble. That it was not she was soon enough to know, for the plane taxied toward a large clump of dark spruce trees. And to the girl’s astonishment a narrow boat, painted the color of the water, stole out from that shore to at last glide alongside the now motionless plane.

“Sol—solitude!” she murmured. “No one up here. They told us that. And now look! There must be a settlement. What—”

Something strange was going on down there. She crawled back among the pine needles. Someone was being lifted out of the plane and into the boat. Now the boat with its apparently helpless burden was pulling for the shore. Studying this shore for a space of seconds, she thought she made 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 headed straight for her own camp; nor did she pause till the white of their small tent showed through the trees.

* * * * * * * *

And Florence? At the very moment Greta sighted their tent, she stood contemplating 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. “We have no rope like that. But who can it be?”

“There’s somebody waiting for you up there.” The words of the young fisherman came back to her, this time with a force that carried conviction.

“Someone up here,” she murmured, “but who, and why? What can that person be like?”

Recalling the face in the little book, she drew the book again from her pocket, struck a match, then peered at the picture.

A youngish face topped by a mass of all but white hair seemed to smile at her 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, she snuffed out the match, snapped the book shut, then stood at attention, listening.

Aside from the long-drawn whistle of some small bird, no sound reached her ears.

“Well,” she sighed, “there’s no good in delay.”

Putting her hand to the rope, she tested it. “Solid! Solid as the rock itself. Now! Up I go!”

Florence was no weakling. Indeed she was above all else a perfect physical being. No cigarette had ever stained her lips. She had lived clean. She had not neglected her physical inheritance. Boating, swimming, hiking in summer, skating and skiing in winter, kept her ever at her best. A forty-foot climb up a rope with a stone wall for footing was play.

She did not pause to tell herself how easy it would be. A tight gripping at the rope, a quick breath, a leap upward, and she was away. Having scaled the steep portion, she paused for a second breath, then raced upward 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 the rope as it hung, she quickly lost herself on the hillside.

“Where—where have you been?” Greta demanded as she at last hurried into camp. “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 in great 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 me about 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 him before?”

“Why, yes, I—” Greta’s face was a study. “Florence, where did you get that?”

“It came tumbling down into the mine.”

There was a touch of something akin to awe in the slim girl’s voice as she said hoarsely, “That is a picture of the most wonderful musician I have ever heard. He plays the violin with a touch almost divine.”

“The violin!”

“Yes. But, Florence—” Greta leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me all about it. Tell me what happened to you!”

When Florence had told her story Greta sat for a long time staring at the fire. 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 the picture of Percy O’Hara. Strange name for a great musician. But the Irish, they say, have musical souls.

“It was more than three years ago that I heard him play. It happened that I was with one of his personal friends. After the concert I was introduced 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 a way. I tried to keep track of his triumphs. But quite suddenly his triumphs ceased to be. I heard nothing about him. There was a rumor that he had disappeared. What do you think could have happened? Surely one who had entranced thousands with his delirious music would not voluntarily allow himself to be lost—lost from the world that loves him!”

“Something terrible may have happened to him.” Florence was staring at the 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 in her face. “I too have had an adventure, discovered a mystery. There is a narrow lake off there to the right and below us. A monoplane landed there today. Someone was lifted from the plane into a boat. They rowed to the shore where there is some sort of lodge. What can that mean?”

“As far as we are concerned,” Florence responded soberly, “it seems to mean that we should strike our tent and descend to less inhabited regions where 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 be law-abiding citizens! Come, you have given me the creeps. Besides, I’m starving. 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, their cozy bed of blankets and balsam boughs awaiting them, the two girls forgot the mysteries and adventures of the day to sit and talk, as young people will, of home, of friends, of hopes and fears, and of the future that stretches on and on before them like a golden pathway. They were deep in this whispered revery when, gripping her companion’s arm, Greta exclaimed, “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 herself into the arms of her stout companion.

“It’s no loon!” Florence measured her words. “It’s some human being in distress.”

“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 other night, there came, wafted in faint and glorious tones, the whisper of a violin.

“I’ll tell you!” Greta sprang to her feet. “That man playing the violin has nothing to do with this other affair. He couldn’t possibly, or how could he play so divinely?”

“He couldn’t. He must be a friend of Percy O’Hara or he wouldn’t have had his picture. He is interested in others or he would not have lowered that rope 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 like ourselves?” Greta doubted.

“It must be a man, just must be! Come!” Florence pulled her companion to her feet. “Come, we will follow the sound of the phantom violin.”

Florence led the way. It was strange, this following a sound into the night. More than once Greta found herself in the grip of an almost irresistible desire to turn back; yet always that cry of terror appeared to ring in her ears and she whispered: “We must!”

The trail they followed was one made by wild creatures. And night is their time for being abroad. Now as they pressed forward they caught the sound of some wolf or lynx sneaking away into the brush. Would they always flee? Greta shuddered as she asked the question.

From time to time they paused to listen for those silver notes of the phantom violin. “Growing louder,” Florence whispered on each occasion.

Once, after they had remained motionless for some time, she said with an air of certainty, “Comes from over the ridge.”

Soon after that they took a side trail and began to climb. This path was steep, all but straight up. More than once Greta caught her breath sharply as her foot slipped. The sturdy Florence struggled steadily upward 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 upon them.

“A—a little farther.” The slender girl gripped Florence’s arm until it hurt.

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, shone what appeared to be innumerable pairs of eyes.

“Green eyes,” Greta whispered.

Next moment her voice rose in a note of sheer terror.

“Florence! Florence! Where are you?”

No answer. Florence had vanished into the night.

CHAPTER XX
AID FROM THE UNKNOWN

As Greta called for the second time, “Florence! Florence! Where are you?” an answer came floating up to her.

“Here! Down below. I—I’m coming up.” There was a suggestion of suppressed pain in Florence’s voice. “Wait, you wait there.”

Greta had never found waiting easy. To wait now, with a hundred green eyes focussed upon her was all but impossible. And yet, what more was to be done? Florence, having fallen down the hillside in the dark, had taken the flashlight with her. And the darkness all about was intense. Without willing it, again and again she fixed her eyes on those small glowing orbs of green. “If I only knew!” she whispered, and again, “If I only did!”

She heard her companion’s panting breath as she struggled up the uncertain slope. “Must be half way up,” she whispered finally.

There came the sound of tumbling rocks. “She—she slipped!” Catching her breath, she waited. Yes, yes, she was climbing again.

And then as she was about to despair, a bulk loomed beside her, a strong arm encircled her.

“Greta,” a voice whispered, “I’ve sprained my ankle; not too badly. The flashlight is broken. We must try to find our way back.”

Two hours of groping and stumbling, with many a fall; two hours of fighting vines and brambles, then the dull glow of their burned out campfire greeted their tired eyes.

“Home!” Florence breathed. “Home!” And to this girl at that hour the humble six-foot-square tent, which they had set up that evening, was just that—nothing less.

It was Florence who could not sleep that night. The throbbing pain in the sprained ankle defied repose. The strange events of that day and those that had gone before had at last broken through her staunch reserve and entered her inner consciousness.

“Sleep!” she exclaimed at last in a hoarse whisper. “Who can sleep?”

* * * * * * * *

Strangely enough, at that moment in a little cabin at Chippewa Harbor, Vincent Stearns, the young newspaper photographer who had given Greta the white flares, lay on his cot looking away at the moon and wondering in a vague sort of way what was happening to his dark-eyed friend up there on Greenstone Ridge.

“Hope she finds some rare greenstones,” he said to the moon. “Hope she is finding adventure, happy adventure.

“Happy adventure.” He repeated the words softly. “Guess that’s what we all hope to have in life. But so few adventures are happy ones.

“And if that little girl’s adventures are not happy ones, there will come the white flare in the night.

“The white flare.” He found himself wishing against the will of his better self that he might catch the gleam of that white light against the skyline. “What an adventure!” he murmured. “Racing away to Lake Ritchie, paddling like mad, then struggling up the ridge in the night to find—”

Well, what would he find? What did he expect to find? He did not know. Yet something seemed to tell him that perhaps at some unearthly hour the flare would stand out against the sky.

* * * * * * * *

Adventure. Having given up thoughts of sleep, Florence was going over in her mind the events of that day.

“The hydroplane,” she whispered. “Who can be coming up here to hide away on the shore of that narrow lake? And why?

“How simple it is after all, coming up here in a plane without attracting attention! The plane from Houghton comes and goes at all hours. The people at Rock Harbor hear it. If it does not land at their door, they say, ‘It has gone to Tobin’s Harbor or Belle Isle.’ The folks at Tobin’s Harbor and Belle Isle think it has gone to Rock Harbor. The strange plane may come and go up here as its pilot wishes, and no one the wiser.

“After all,” she sighed, “we are not officers of the law. It’s really not our affair. And yet—”

She was thinking of the scream Greta had heard, and of the apparently helpless one carried to a boat and then to land, and after that of the scream they had both heard in the night.

“Life,” she told herself, “all human life is so precious that it is the duty of all to protect those who are in danger.

“Probably nothing very terrible,” she assured herself. “Nothing to be afraid of. We—”

She broke her thoughts square off to lean forward and listen with all her ears. Had she caught some sound from without, the snapping of a twig perhaps?

“Some prowling wolf or a moose passing.”

Not satisfied with this, she opened the flaps of the tent and peered into the moonlight.

The moon was high. The silence was uncanny. Every object, trees, bushes, rocks stood out like pictures in fairyland. Shadows were deep wells of darkness.

Some ten feet from their tent was a large flat rock, their “table.” This stood full in the moonlight. That they had left nothing on this “table” she knew right well. She had washed it clean with a canvas bucket full of water from a spring. And yet—

She rubbed her eyes to look again. No, she was not mistaken. Two objects rested on that rock, one white as snow, the other dark and gleaming.

“Well,” she sighed, “have to see.”

Creeping from the warm blankets, she stepped on the cold, damp floor of night. “Oo!” she shuddered. Next instant her hands closed on the mysterious objects.

“How—how strange!” She shuddered again, but not from the cold, then beat a hasty retreat.

Inside the tent, she turned the objects over in her hands. One was a large roll of bandages, the other a bottle of liniment.

“Who—” she whispered, “who can that have been?”

The answer came to her instantly. “The one who lowered the rope into the copper mine. And, perhaps, the one who plays the violin so gloriously. And who is he?” Here was a question she could not answer.

“‘Take, eat,’” she whispered the words of a half forgotten poem.

At that she rubbed the liniment over her swollen ankle vigorously, bound it tightly, then crept beneath the blankets once more.

Though the bandage relieved her somewhat, she was still conscious of pain. Our waking thoughts as well as our dreams are often inspired by physical sensations. Pain awakens within us a longing for some spot where we have known perfect peace. To Florence, at the moment, this meant the deck of the unfortunate Pilgrim. There, with the waves lapping the old ship’s sides, the gentle breezes whispering and the gulls soaring high, she had found peace.

As she allowed her mind to drift back to those blissful days, she was tempted to wish that she and the slender, dark-eyed Greta at her side had never set foot on Greenstone Ridge.

“And yet—” she whispered. The words of some great prophet came to her. “‘There is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may.’”

“It was written in the stars that we should be here,” she told herself. “And, being here, we shall do what we can for those who are nearest us.

“But, God willing, we shall go back. And then?”

She thought of the narrow camping grounds on the shores of Duncan’s Bay. “There is treasure hidden there,” she told herself. “How can it be otherwise? It is the only bit of level land on that side of Blake’s Point. Countless generations of men have camped there. We will go back there and dig deep.

“And when I am weary of digging—” she laughed a low laugh. “I’ll go back and get that monster of a pike. I’ll go all by myself. And will I land him? Just you wait!”

A shadow passed over her brow as she thought of the head hunter. “Terrible man! Where can he be now?”

She thought of the strange black schooner with a deep-sea diver on board. “Some treasure on that old ship. When I’m back I’ll try diving to see what’s there. Might be more important than the wreckers, who stripped the ship, knew.

“All we need,” she whispered dreamily as the drugging odor of balsam and the silence of night crept over her, “all we need is a barrel of gold. One barrel of—”

She did not finish. She had fallen asleep.

CHAPTER XXI
A SONG FROM THE TREE TOPS

Greta Clara Bronson was by nature a musician, an artist, a person of temperament. The dawn of another day found her in no mood for seeking adventure. The troubles of others, if indeed there were troubled ones in these hills, seemed far away.

Having made sure that her companion’s sprained ankle was not a matter of serious consequence, she found herself ready for a day of rest and thought; not serious thought, but the dreamy sort that leads one’s mind, like a drifting cobweb, into unknown lands.

All the long forenoon she lay upon a bed of moss in the sun. At times she dreamed of her home and mother. This seemed very far away. Would she return to it all? Surely, “‘When the frost is on the pumpkin,’” she whispered. Looking up at the sun, she smiled.

For an hour she dreamed of the wreck and of the shady shores of Duncan’s Bay. “Dizzy,” she whispered, “I wonder where he is?” Before leaving the wreck, they had set their pet loon free. He seemed quite able to care for himself. “Probably he’s gone ashore and has laughed his head off at some crazy loon that looks just like him,” she chuckled.

“But Jeanne?” Greta asked herself. “Is she truly happy with those queer gypsy people? How strange it seems!”

* * * * * * * *

Yes, Jeanne was happy with “those queer people.” Having, as of old, forgotten all thought of the morrow, she had in true gypsy fashion thrown herself with abandon into the joys of each new day.

At Chippewa Harbor there were a few small cabins and many tents. The visitors showered silver down upon her tambourine when her dance with the bear was over. “Frank, joyous, kindly people, these Americans,” she thought. “What a glorious land!”

And yet her keenest joy came when, after climbing a ridge, she came at last upon a lake three miles long, a mile wide, where there was no one. “Dark forests, darker water, wild moose, wild birds and the deep, glorious silence of God,” she whispered to the companion at her side. “How grand to pitch a tent on these shores and live many long days!”

So the Ship of Joy made its way slowly along the shores of Isle Royale, and still the dark-eyed Greta sat far up on that ridge dreaming the hours away.

After a lunch of toast, bacon and black tea, Greta declared her intention of going out to play for the birds.

Tucking her violin under her arm, she wandered away up the ridge. At the summit, somewhat to her surprise, she found a hard-beaten trail. Traveling here with ease, she wandered on and on until with a little start she found herself recognizing a certain jagged rock formation.

“Must have been here before.” She stopped dead in her tracks. “I have! Last night!”

Should she turn back? Where were the green eyes?

“Green eyes do not shine in the day!” She laughed a little. “Ghosts, witches, green eyes, they all vanish at dawn.”

Seating herself on a moss covered rock, she began thrumming the strings of her violin. Then she sent out some little plaintive snatches of song.

She paused to lean far forward, intent, alert, expectant. Yes, there it was. A bird had answered.

After listening with all her ears, she imitated his call. Then she listened again.

“Yes, yes, my little one!” Her heart warmed to the tiny whistler of Greenstone Ridge. “He’s coming closer.”

Once more she repeated his song. This time there were two replies, one near and one far away. Soon it seemed the bushes, the trees, the very air was filled with little gray and brown songsters. Thrilled by this unique experience, she forgot both time and place as she proceeded to charm her tiny auditors.

Place was brought back to her with startling force. Some great creature came thrashing through the brush.

With a low cry, she gripped her precious violin and sprang for the nearest tree.

Just in time she was, for a bull moose charged full upon the spot where she had been. Why he charged will remain a mystery. Perhaps he did not love music. Perhaps he was just mean by nature. Enough that he was here; and here, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he meant to stay.

Having spent a full ten minutes sharpening his jagged antlers on a dead cottonwood tree, he marched up to Greta’s fir tree, leaned his full weight against it, then gave forth a most terrifying roar. Finding the tree quite solid and alive, he dropped with a grunt on the bed of moss at the foot of the tree and pretended at least to fall asleep.

“Our next number,” Greta said quite soberly, “will be a cradle song entitled ‘When father moose goes to sleep.’”

The thing she played, perched there like a nightingale on a limb, was not that at all, but an exquisite fantasy written after some all-but-forgotten folk song of the gypsies.

Caught by the charm of it, she played it over and over.

Then, to her vast astonishment, as the notes faded away and she rested there among the branches, someone took up her song.

“A violin!” she whispered. “The phantom violin! And so close at hand!”

The effect, there in the gathering twilight, was like a touch of magic.

The silence that followed the stranger’s last note was most profound, so perfect that the flutter of a small bird’s wings might be heard ten yards away. Charmed by this little touch of the dramatic in life, Greta forgot that she was perched in a tree, that a monstrous moose lay at the foot of that tree, and that darkness was falling. Lips parted, ears strained, she waited for one more note from that magic violin.

It did not come. Instead she heard a pleasing voice say, “What are you doing up there?”

“Quiet!” she warned. “There is a moose.”

“Oh ho! That’s it!” There came a mellow laugh. “Some bluffing old moose has you treed. Watch!”

Next instant an ear-splitting shout rent the air.

Came a terrific thumping at the foot of her tree, followed by a sound of crashing of bushes that rapidly diminished in the distance.

“He’s gone,” the voice said. “Come down!”

A brief scramble, then she found herself looking into a smiling face. The face was framed by a tangled mass of gray hair; yet the face was young. It was the face of the picture in that little blank book Florence had found in the mine.

“Per—Percy O’Hara!” Her lips could scarcely frame the words.

“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.