CHAPTER XXIV THE LITTLE BLACK TRAMP
It was evening of the following day. The fire on that big flat rockburned brightly. Florence and Greta sat sipping hot chocolate from papercups. For a full half hour, while twilight faded into night, neitherspoke.
It was Greta who broke the silence. "Florence," she said soberly, "lifeis strange."
"Yes," Florence agreed.
"Here we are on Greenstone Ridge," the dark-eyed girl went on. "We camehere to explore and to--to search out the secrets of the phantom. Wefound the phantom. We solved the mystery. And yet--"
"The phantom is more mysterious than before." Florence smiled a dreamysmile.
"Yes," Greta replied quickly, "he is! And perhaps we shall never delvemore deeply into this mystery. We have not seen him since that nightwhen, like knights of old, we marched down upon that mysterious cabin bythe lake."
"We have heard his music but have not seen him, your strange PercyO'Hara," Florence said quietly.
This was exactly true. When the strange little doctor had suggested thatthey assist him in his marvelous cure of that boy afflicted with mentalterror, Percy O'Hara had agreed at once, but had suggested that Gretashould furnish the music close at hand and that his should be little morethan an echo. This arranged, he had slipped away into the night. Sincethen they had heard him twice, had seen him not at all.
"Why?" Greta whispered to herself. "Why?" There came no answer.
"Florence," she said, springing to her feet, "our work here is done.Doctor Prince has told us that our assistance is no longer needed. As forthe phan--phantom, Percy O'Hara, we have no right to pry into hisaffairs. I--I'd like to go down to the camping ground by Duncan's Bay."She seemed ready to weep.
"Tonight?" Florence rose slowly to her feet.
"Tonight."
"All right." The big girl began stuffing things into her bag. "We'll beaway in a jiffy."
A half hour later two dark figures, guided only by a flashlight, madetheir way over the long moose trail leading along the ridge, thence downto the shores of a dark and silent bay. And all the time Greta wasthinking of Percy O'Hara, who had charmed thousands upon thousands withhis matchless music, hiding away there on the ridge. Once she whispered,"Green eyes, a hundred pairs of green eyes."
As they neared the shores of the bay, however, her thoughts returned toher good friend Jeanne and their home, the wreck of the old _Pilgrim_.Once she whispered low, "A barrel of gold."
Had you chanced to look down upon that narrow stretch of level land onthe shores of Duncan's Bay later that night, you might have spied, hiddenaway in a shadowy corner, a small tent. Beneath that tent two girlsslept, Florence and Greta. For them Greenstone Ridge had become a memory.
They were up at dawn. Their boat, hidden deep among some scrub sprucetrees, awaited them. So did a bright and shimmering lake. And beyondthis, dark and silent, was their home, the wreck.
"Perhaps Jeanne has come back," said Florence. "We will row over atonce."
They had covered half the distance to the wreck and were watching eagerlyfor some sign of life on its sloping decks, when Greta, whose gaze hadstrayed away to the left, cried out quite suddenly, "Look, Florence! Whatis that over there?"
Shading her eyes, Florence followed the younger girl's gaze, then saidwith a slow tone of assurance, "It's a boat, a small black boat adrift.Some ship, or perhaps only a schooner, has lost her lifeboat. We'll takeit in tow, tie it up over at the wreck."
The small black boat was soon tied behind their own. Florence's strongarms did double duty as she covered the remaining distance to the wreck.
Greta had climbed on board the wreck, Florence had finished tying up herown boat and was giving her attention to the small black tramp, when shenoted something of mild interest. In the bottom of that boat was watertwo or three inches deep, from a rain, perhaps. Floating on the surfaceof that water was a small square of paper.
"Might give some clue," she thought as she put out a hand.
Once she had spread the paper on the boat's seat, her lips parted insurprise.
"Greta!" she cried, "Greta! Come here. See what I have found!"
When Greta arrived all she saw was a sheet of water-soaked paper. In thecenter of that paper, done with a purple pencil, badly blurred but stillquite easily read, were four words:
"A BARREL OF GOLD."
"Isn't that strange!" Florence exclaimed. "Here we've been dreaming in asilly sort of way about a barrel of gold. And now, here it is, allwritten out by a stranger!"
"Perhaps Jeanne wrote it," Greta suggested.
"She can't have. It's not her writing. And look!" Florence studied thepaper more closely. "There are two lines drawn under those words as ifsome other words had been crossed out and these inserted. And that--" shestraightened up, "that is exactly what happened. There are faint tracesof pencil marks all over the paper. The water has about washed them away.Perhaps when the paper is dry we can read the entire message."
Placing the paper carefully on her outspread hand, she carried it to thedeck, then smoothed it out on a board in the sun.
"Jeanne is not here," Greta said quietly. "She's not been here.Everything is just as we left it, except--" she hesitated.
"Except what?" Florence stared.
"I can't be sure, but I think there are fresh marks of a black schoonerthat has been tied up alongside this wreck. Come and see."
"Can't be any doubt of it," Florence agreed a few moments later. "Theblack schooner, it's been here again, Greta! Greta!" She gripped theslender girl's arm. "Do you suppose there could have been a barrel ofgold hidden on this wreck? And have they carried it away?
"Of course not!" she exploded, answering her own question. "There arethree or four barrels of oil in the hold. That was all they left. Swentold us that, and he should know."