Kitabı oku: «The Ebbing Of The Tide», sayfa 9
V
The timid and respectful manner of the islanders had now so impressed the master of the brigantine that in a fatal moment he decided to anchor. Telling the mate to range the cable and clear away all ready, he descended to the cabin and tapped at the door of a state-room.
“I am going to anchor, Mrs. Deschard, but as there are a lot of rather curious-looking natives on board, you and the young ladies had better keep to your cabin.”
The door opened, and a girl of seventeen or eighteen appeared, and, taking the captain’s hand, she whispered—
“She is asleep, captain. She kept awake till daylight, hoping that my father would come in the night. Do you think that anything has happened either to him or Maurice?”
Maru, the Ambrym cabin-boy, said that the captain “patted the girl’s hand” and told her to have no fear—that her father was on the island “sure enough,” and that Maurice would return with him by breakfast time.
The brigantine anchored close in to the shore, between Kuria and Oneaka, and in a few minutes the long boat was lowered to proceed on shore and bring off Maurice and Deschard. Four hands got into her and then the mate. Just as he was about to cast off, the English-speaking native begged the captain to allow him and the rest of his countrymen to go ashore in the boat. Unsuspicious of treachery from unarmed natives, the captain consented, and they immediately slipped over the side into the boat.
There were thus but four white men left on board—the captain, second mate, two A.B.‘s—and the half-caste boy Maru. Arms and ammunition, sufficient for treble the crew the brigantine carried, were on board. In those days the humblest merchant brig voyaging to the East Indies and China coast carried, in addition to small arms, either two or four guns (generally 6-pounders) in case of an attack by pirates. The brigantine was armed with two 6-pounders, and these, so the Ambry half-caste said, were still loaded with “bags of bullets” when she came to an anchor. Both of the guns were on the main deck amidships.
Contrary to the wishes of the mate, who appeared to have the most unbounded confidence in the peace-ableness of the natives, the captain had insisted upon his boat’s crew taking their arms with them.
No sooner had the boat left the vessel than the English-speaking native desired the mate to pull round to the east side of Oneaka, where, he said, the principal village was situated, and whither Maurice had gone to seek Deschard. It must be remembered that this native and those with him were all members of Corton’s clientèle at Kuria, and were therefore well aware of his treachery in seizing the messenger to Deschard, and that Maurice had been seized and bound the previous night.
In half an hour, when the boat was hidden from the view of those on board the brigantine, the natives, who outnumbered the whites two to one, at a signal from their leader suddenly threw themselves upon the unsuspecting seamen who were rowing and threw every one of them overboard. The mate, a small, active man, managed to draw a heavy horse pistol from his belt, but ere he could pull the trigger he was dealt a crushing blow with a musket stock. As he fell a native thrust him through and through with one of the seamen’s cutlasses. As for the unfortunate seamen, they were killed one by one as they struggled in the water. That part of the fell work accomplished, the natives pulled the boat in towards Oneaka, where some ten or fifteen large native double-ended boats and canoes, all filled with savages lusting for blood and rapine, awaited them.
Deschard, a man of the most savage courage, was in command of some twenty or thirty of the most noted of the Oneaka warriors; and on learning from Tebarian (the native who spoke English and who was Corton’s brown familiar) that the two guns were in the waist of the ship, he instructed his white comrades to follow in the wake of his boat, and, once they got alongside, board the ship wherever their fancy dictated.
There was a muttered E rairai! (Good!) of approval from the listening natives, and then in perfect silence and intuitive discipline the paddles struck the water, and the boat and canoes, with their naked, savage crews, sped away on their mission of death.
VI
But, long before they imagined, they had been discovered, and their purpose divined from the ship. Maru, the keen-eyed half-caste, who was the first to notice their approach, knew from the manner in which the canoes kept together that something unusual was about to occur, and instantly called the captain. Glass in hand, the latter ascended the main rigging for a dozen ratlins or so and looked at the advancing flotilla. A very brief glance told him that the boy had good cause for alarm—the natives intended to cut off the ship, and the captain, whom Maru described as “an old man with a white head,” at once set about to make such a defence as the critical state of affairs rendered possible.
Calling his men to him and giving them muskets, he posted two of them on top of the deckhouse, and with the remainder of his poor force stationed himself upon the poop. With a faint hope that they might yet be intimidated from attacking, he fired a musket shot in the direction of the leading boat. No notice was taken; so, descending to the main deck with his men, he ran out one of the 6-pounders and fired it. The roar of the heavily-charged gun was answered by a shrill yell of defiance from two hundred throats.
“Then,” said Maru, “the captain go below and say good-bye to women and girls, and shut and lock cabin door.”
Returning to the deck, the brave old man and his second mate and two men picked up their muskets and began to fire at the black mass of boats and men that were now well within range. As they fired, the boy Maru loaded spare muskets for them as fast as his trembling hands would permit.
Once only, as the brigantine swung to the current, the captain brought the gun on the port side to bear on them again, and fired; and again there came back the same appalling yell of defiance, for the shower of bullets only made a wide slat of foam a hundred yards short of the leading boat.
By the time the gun was reloaded the brigantine had swung round head to shore again; and then, as the despairing but courageous seamen were trying to drag it forward again, Deschard and his savages in the leading boat had gained the ship, and the wild figure of the all but naked beachcomber sprang on deck, followed by his own crew and nearly two hundred other fiends well-nigh as bloodthirsty and cruel as himself. Some two or three of them had been killed by the musketry fire from the ship, and their fellows needed no incentive from their white leaders to slay and spare not.
Abandoning the gun, the captain and his three men and the boy Maru succeeded in fighting their way through Deschard’s savages and reaching one of the cabin doors, which, situated under the break of the high poop, opened to the main deck. Ere they could all gain the shelter of the cabin and secure the door the second mate and one of the seamen were cut down and ruthlessly slaughtered, and of the three that did, one—the remaining seaman—was mortally wounded and dying fast.
Even at such a moment as this, hardened and merciless as were their natures and blood-stained their past, it cannot be thought that had Deschard and his co-pirates known that white women were on board the brigantine they would have perpetrated their last dreadful deed. In his recital of the final scene in the cabin Maru spoke of the white woman and the two girls coming out of their state-room and kneeling down and praying with their arms clasped around each other’s waists. Surely the sound of their dying prayers could never have been heard by Deschard when, in the native tongue, he called out for one of the guns to be run aft.
“By and by,” said Maru, “woman and girl come to captain and sailor-man Charlie and me and cry and say good-bye, and then captain he pray too. Then he get up and take cutlass, and sailor-man Charlie he take cutlass too, but he too weak and fall down; so captain say, ‘Never mind, Charlie, you and me die now like men.’”
Then, cutlass in hand, the white-haired old skipper stood over the kneeling figures of the three women and waited for the end. And now the silence was broken by a rumbling sound, and then came a rush of naked feet along the deck.
“It is the gun,” said Maru to the captain, and in an agony of terror he lifted up the hatch of the lazarette under the cabin table and jumped below. And then Deschard’s voice was heard.
“Ta mai te ae” (Give me the fire).
A blinding flash, a deafening roar, and splintering and crashing of timber followed, and as the heavy pall of smoke lifted, Deschard and the others looked in at their bloody work, shuddered, and turned away.
Pedro, the Portuguese, his dark features turned to a ghastly pallor, was the only one of the four men who had courage enough to assist some of the natives in removing from the cabin the bodies of the three poor creatures who, but such a short time before, were full of happiness and hope. Deschard and the three others, after that one shuddering glance, had kept away from the vicinity of the shot-torn cabin.
VII
The conditions of the cutting off of the brigantine were faithfully observed by the contracting parties, and long ere night fell the last boatload of plunder had been taken ashore. Tebarau, chief of Oneaka, had with his warriors helped to heave up anchor, and the vessel, under short canvas, was already a mile or two away from the land, and in his hiding-place in the gloomy lazarette the half-caste boy heard Corton and Deschard laying plans for the future.
Only these two were present in the cabin. Pedro was at the wheel, and Tamu somewhere on deck. Presently Corton brought out the dead captain’s despatch box, which they had claimed from the natives, and the two began to examine the contents. There was a considerable amount of money in gold and silver, as well as the usual ship’s papers, &c. Corton, who could scarcely read, passed these over to his companion, and then ran his fingers gloatingly through the heap of money before him.
With a hoarse, choking cry and horror-stricken eyes Deschard sprang to his feet, and with shaking hand held out a paper to Corton.
“My God! my God!” exclaimed the unhappy wretch, and sinking down again he buried his face in his hands.
Slowly and laboriously his fellow ex-convict read the document through to the end. It was an agreement to pay the captain of the brigantine the sum of one hundred pounds sterling provided that Henry Deschard was taken on board the brigantine at Woodle’s Island (me name Kuria was known by to whaleships and others), the said sum to be increased to two hundred pounds “provided that Henry Deschard, myself, and my two daughters are landed at Batavia or any other East India port within sixty days from leaving the said island,” and was signed Anna Deschard.
Staggering to his feet, the man sought in the ruined and plundered state-room for further evidence. Almost the first objects that he saw were two hanging pockets made of duck—evidently the work of some seaman—bearing upon them the names of “Helen” and “Laura.”
Peering up from his hiding-place in the lazarette, where he had lain hidden under a heap of old jute bagging and other débris, Maru saw Deschard return to the cabin and take up a loaded musket. Sitting in the captain’s chair, and leaning back, he placed the muzzle to his throat and touched the trigger with his naked foot. As the loud report rang out, and the cabin filled with smoke, the boy crawled from his dark retreat, and, stepping over the prostrate figure of Deschard, he reached the deck and sprang overboard.
For hours the boy swam through the darkness towards the land, guided by the lights of the fires that in the Gilbert and other equatorial islands are kindled at night-time on every beach. He was picked up by a fishing party, and probably on account of his youth and exhausted condition his life was spared.
That night as he lay sleeping under a mat in the big maniapa on Kuria he was awakened by loud cries, and looking seaward he saw a bright glare away to the westward.
It was the brigantine on fire.
Launching their canoes, the natives went out to her, and were soon close enough to see that she was burning fiercely from for’ard to amidships, and that her three boats were all on board—two hanging to the davits and one on the deckhouse. But of the four beachcombers there was no sign.
Knowing well that no other ship had been near the island, and that therefore the white men could not have escaped by that means without being seen from the shore, the natives, surmising that they were in a drunken sleep, called loudly to them to awake; but only the roaring of the flames broke the silence of the ocean. Not daring to go nearer, the natives remained in the vicinity till the brigantine was nothing but a mastless, glowing mass of fire.
Towards midnight she sank; and the last of the beachcombers of Kuria sank with her.
NELL OF MULLINER’S CAMP
Mulliner’s Camp, on the Hodgkinson, was the most hopeless-looking spot in the most God-forsaken piece of country in North Queensland, and Haughton, the amalgamator at the “Big Surprise” crushing-mill, as he turned wearily away from the battery-tables to look at his “retorting” fire, cursed silently but vigorously at his folly in staying there.
It was Saturday night, and the deadly melancholy of Mulliner’s was, if possible, somewhat accentuated by the crash and rattle of the played-out old five-head battery, accompanied by the wheezings and groanings of its notoriously unreliable pumping-gear. Half a mile away from the decrepid old battery, and situated on the summit of an adder-infested ironstone ridge, the dozen or so of bark humpies that constituted Mulliner’s Camp proper stood out clearly in the bright starlight in all their squat ugliness. From the extra display of light that shone from the doorway of the largest and most dilapidated-looking of the huts, Haughton knew that the Cooktown mailman had come in, and was shouting a drink for the landlord of the “Booming Nugget” before eating his supper of corned beef and damper and riding onward. For Mulliner’s had gone to the bad altogether; even the beef that the mailman was eating came from a beast belonging to old Channing, of Calypso Downs, which had fallen down a shaft the previous night. Perhaps this matter of a fairly steady beef supply was the silver lining to the black cloud of misfortune that had so long enshrouded the spirits of the few remaining diggers that still clung tenaciously to the duffered-out mining camp, for whenever Mulliner’s ran out of meat a beast of Channing’s would always—by some mysterious dispensation of a kindly goldfield’s Providence—fall down a shaft and suffer mortal injuries.
Just at the present moment Haughton, as he threw a log or two into the retort furnace and watched the shower of sparks fly high up over the battery roof, was thinking of old Channing’s daughter Kate, and the curious state of affairs existing between her and his partner Ballantyne. Briefly stated, this is what had occurred—that is, as far as Haughton knew.
Twelve months before, Mrs. Channing, a meek-faced, religious-minded lady, had succumbed to the worries of life under the combined and prostrating influences of a galvanised iron roof, an independent Chinaman cook, and a small powerful theological library. Immediately after her death, old Channing at once wrote to his daughter, then at school in Sydney, to come back “and cheer up his lonely life.”
“Poor dad,” said Kate, “I suppose he means for me to continue poor mother’s feeble remonstrances to Chow Kum about giving away so much rations to the station gins, and to lend a hand when we muster for branding.”
However, being a dutiful girl, she packed up and went.
On board the steamer she had met Ballantyne, who was returning to Queensland to resume his mining pursuits in the Palmer District. He knew old Channing well by reputation as a wealthy but eccentric old squatter, and in a few days he managed to make the girl fall violently in love with him. The day that the steamer reached Brisbane a telegram was brought on board for Miss Channing. It was from her father, telling her that Mrs. Lankey, of Mount Brindlebul, was coming up from Sydney in another week, and she was to wait in Brisbane for her. Then they were to travel northward together.
If there was one woman in the world she hated it was Mrs. Lankey, of Mount Brindlebul station, in the Gulf country, and Ballantyne, from whom she could hide nothing, saw his opportunity, and took it. He took her ashore, placed her in lodgings, went to an hotel himself, and the day before her future escort arrived, married her.
Perfectly satisfied with the cogent reasons he gave for secrecy in not apprising her father of their marriage, and shedding tears at the nonchalant manner in which he alluded to a honeymoon “some time in a year or so when the old man comes to know of it,” pretty Kate Channing went back alone to her lodgings to await Mrs. Lankey and cogitate upon the peculiarly masterful way in which Ballantyne had wooed and won her.
Six months afterwards she got a letter from Ballantyne, telling her that he had bought Petermann’s crushing mill at Mulliner’s Camp, “so as to be near you, my pet,” he said. At the same time he warned her of the folly of their attempting to meet, at least openly; but added that Haughton, his partner, who knew of his marriage, would visit Calypso Downs occasionally and give her news of him; also that they could correspond by the same medium.
Thus matters stood between them for some months, till Kate, wearying to meet the cold, calculating Ballantyne, adopted the device of riding over late every Sunday afternoon to Mulliner’s for the mail, instead of her father sending over one of his black boys.
But instead of meeting her with kisses, Ballantyne terrified her with savage reproaches. It was madness, he said, for her to run such a risk. By and by he would be in a better position; at present he was as poor as a rat, and it was best for them to be apart. And Kate, thoroughly believing in him, bent to his will. She knew that her father was, as Ballantyne thoughtfully observed, such a violent-tempered old man that he would cast her off utterly unless he was “managed” properly when he learnt of her marriage.
“And don’t come down this way from Mulliner’s,” added the careful Ballantyne. “There’s an old mail tin, about a mile or so away from here, near the worked-out alluvial patch. You can always drop a letter in there for me. Haughton’s such a good-natured ass that he’ll play Mercury for you. Anyway, I’ll send him to look in the tin every Sunday night.”
That, so far, was the history of Mr. and Mrs. Ballantyne.
“Another duffing crushing,” muttered Haughton, as he stooped and placed his hand into the bucket of quicksilver under the nozzle of the retort pipe. “What between a reef that doesn’t pan out five pennyweights to the ton, and a woman that pans out too rich, I’m sick of the cursed place.”
As he stood up again, and, hands on his hips, looked moodily into the fire, a woman came down the rough path leading from Ballantyne’s house to the battery. Walking quickly across the lighted space that intervened between the blacksmith’s forge and the fire, she placed a billy of tea on the brick furnace-wall, and then turned her handsome black-browed, gipsy-like face up to his. This was Nell Lawson, the woman who had “panned out too rich.”
“Here’s your tea, Dick,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said, taking it from her, and then with a quick look over towards the battery, “I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘Dick’ when any of the hands are about; Lawson might hear of it, and I don’t want you to get into any trouble over me.”
The black eyes sparkled, and the smooth olive-hued features flushed darkly in the firelight as she grasped his arm.
“You lie!” and she set her teeth. “A lot you care! Do you think I’m a silly? Do you think as I don’t know that you want to sling me and don’t know how to go about it?” and she grasped his arm savagely.
Haughton looked at her in gloomy silence for a few seconds. Standing there, face to face, they looked so alike in features—he wiry, muscular, black-bearded, and bronzed to the hue of an Arab, and she tall, dark-haired, with oval, passionate face—they might have been taken for brother and sister.
She let his arm free, and then, being only a working miner’s wife, and possessing no handkerchief, whipped her apron to her eyes.
“You’re a damned cur!” she said, chokingly. “If it hadn’t ha’ been for you I’d ha’ gone along all right wi’ Bob, and put up wi’ livin’ in this place; an’ now–”
“Look here, Nell,” said Haughton, drawing her away into the shadow of the forge, “I’m a cur, as you say; but I’d be a worse cur to keep on this way. You can’t marry me, can you?”
“You used to talk about our boltin’—once” and she snapped out the last word.
Haughton tried to explain why the “bolting” so trenchantly referred to did not eventuate. He was stone-broke. Ballantyne was going to do his own amalgamating at the battery, and it would be cruel of him to ask her to share his fortunes. (Here he began to appreciate his leaning to morality.) If she was a single girl he would stay at Mulliner’s and fight it out with bad luck for her sake; but they couldn’t go on like this any more. And the people at Mulliner’s were beginning to talk about them, &c, &c.
She heard him in silence, and then gave a short, jarring laugh—the laugh that ought to tell a man that he is no longer believed in—by a woman who has loved him.
“I know,” she said, quietly, “you want to get clear o’ me. You’re took up with Kate Channing, the proper Miss Channing that rides over here o’ Sundays to meet you on the sly.”
At first he meant to undeceive her, then he thought, “What does it matter? I’ll be away from here in a day or so, and after I’ve gone she’ll find I’m not so base as she thought me, poor girl;” so, looking away from her so as to avoid the dangerous light that gleamed in her passionate eyes, he made the plunge.
“That’s it, Nell. I’m hard up and desperate. If you were a free woman–”
She struck him in the mouth with her clenched hand—“I’ll kill her first, Dick Haughton,” and then left him.
A mile or so out from the battery, on a seldom used track that led to an abandoned alluvial workings, a stained and weather-worn biscuit-tin had been nailed to an iron-bark tree. In the prosperous days of Mulliner’s it had been placed there by the diggers as a receptacle for letters, and its location there saved the mailman a long détour to their camp. At present poor loving Kate Channing and Dick Haughton were the only persons who ever looked into it. After getting the station letters from the landlord of the “Booming Nugget,” Kate would ride through the bush and come out on the track just opposite; then, bending down from her horse, she would peer eagerly into the tin to see if a letter had been left there for her. Generally there was not. So, with a sad, wistful look in her blue eyes, she would drop her own tenderly-worded letter in and ride away home.
Twice Nell Lawson had seen her passing over the ridge towards the old workings, and had wondered what had taken her so far off the road; and on each of these occasions she had seen Dick Haughton follow in the same direction shortly after. He was never away more than half an hour. The first time she simply wondered, the next she grew suspicious, and as she saw him returning went and stopped him. As she threw her arms around his neck she felt the rustling of a letter that lay loosely in the front of the dungaree jumper he always wore when at work. She said nothing, but determined to watch, and one day, with the bitterest hatred gathering at her heart, she saw Kate Channing ride up to the tin on the iron-bark, look carefully inside, and then drop in a letter. And as Nell Lawson could not read she let it lay there untouched. But from that hour murder lay in her passionate heart.
That evening, as she entered Bob Lawson’s humpy, her husband, a big, heavy-featured man, looked up and saw the ghastly pallor of her face.
“Why, what’s the matter wi’ ‘ee, Nell? You be lookin’ quite sick-loike lately. Tell ‘ee what, Nell, thee wants a cheange.”
“Mulliner’s be a dull pleace,” she answered, mechanically.
“Aye, lass, dull as hell in a fog. Mebbe I’ll take thee somewheres for a spell.”
For nearly another week she nursed her hatred and planned her revenge; and Haughton, as he saw the dark rings forming under her eyes, and the cold, listless manner as she went about her work, began to experience a higher phase of feeling for her than that of the mere passion which her beauty had first awakened in him long months before.
It was five o’clock on Sunday afternoon. The fierce, blinding sun had just disappeared behind the hideous basalt range twenty miles away from the “Big Surprise,” when Nell Lawson put on her white sun-hood and walked slowly towards the old alluvial workings. When well out of sight from any one, near the battery, she turned off towards the creek and made for a big Leichhardt tree that stood on the bank. Underneath it, and evidently waiting for her, was a black fellow, a truculent-looking runaway trooper named Barney.
“You got him that fellow Barney?” she asked, in a low voice.
“Yo ai,” he replied, keeping one hand behind his back. “Where that plenty fellow money you yabber me vesterday?”
“Here,” and she showed him some silver; “ten fellow shilling.”
Barney grinned, took the money, and then handed her an old broken-handled crockery teapot, which, in place of a lid, was covered over with a strip of ti-tree bark, firmly secured to the bottom by a strip of dirty calico.
As soon as the black fellow had gone she picked up that which he had given her and walked quickly along the track till she reached the old mail tin. She stood awhile and listened. Not a sound disturbed the heated, oppressive silence. Placing the teapot on the ground, she lifted the stiff, creaking lid of the tin and pushed it well back. Then, taking up the teapot again, she placed one hand firmly upon the ti-tree bark covering the top, while with the other she unfastened the strip of rag that kept it in position. In another moment, grasping the broken spout in her left hand, she held it over the open tin, and, with a rapid motion, turned it upside down, and whipped away her right hand from the piece of bark.
Something fell heavily against the bottom of the tin, and in an instant she slammed down the lid, and threw the empty teapot in among the boulders, where it smashed to pieces. Then, an evil smile on her dark face, she placed her ear to the side of the tin and listened. A faint, creeping, crawling sound was all she heard. In another minute, with hand pressed tightly against her wildly beating heart, she fled homewards.
“This will be my last ride over, dear Ted,” was the beginning of the letter to Ballantyne that lay in Channing’s bosom. “Father is very ill, and I cannot leave him. Do let me tell him, and ask his forgiveness; it is so miserable for me to keep up this deceit.”
Darkness had set in by the time she had got the mail from the landlord of the “Booming Nugget,” and turned her horse’s head into the track that led over the ridge to the old workings.
Two hours before daylight, Kate Channing’s horse walked riderless up to the sliprails of Calypso Downs, and the stockman who had kept awake awaiting her return, went out to let his young mistress in.
“Got throwed somewhere, I suppose,” he grumbled, after examining the horse. “This is a nice go. It’s no use telling the old man about it, he’s too sick to be worried just now, anyway.”
Taking a black boy with him, and leading Kate’s horse, he set out to look for her, expecting, unless she was hurt, to meet her somewhere between the station and Mulliner’s Camp. Just as daylight broke, the black boy, who was leading, stopped.
“Young missus been tumble off horse here,” and he pointed to where the scrubby undergrowth on one side of the track was crushed down and broken.
The stockman nodded. “Horse been shy I think it, Billy, at that old fellow post-office there?” and he pointed to the old mail tin, which was not ten feet from where Billy said she had fallen off.
“Go ahead, Billy,” said the stockman, “I believe young missus no catch him horse again, and she walk along to Mulliner’s.”
“Yo ai,” answered the black boy, and he started ahead. In a few minutes he stopped again with a puzzled look and pointed to Kate Channing’s tracks.
“Young missus been walk about all same drunk.”
“By jingo, she’s got hurted, I fear,” said the stockman. “Push ahead, Billy.”
A hundred yards further on they found her dead, lying face downwards on the track.
Lifting her cold, stiffened body in his arms, the stockman carried his burden along to Ballantyne’s house. Haughton met him at the door. Together they laid the still figure upon the sofa in the front room, and then while the stockman went for Nell Lawson, Haughton went to Ballantyne’s bunk and awoke and told him. His mouth twitched nervously for a second or two, and then his hard, impassive nature asserted itself again.
“‘Tis a terrible thing this, Ballantyne,” said Haughton, sympathetically, as they walked out together to see the place where she had been thrown.
“Yes,” assented the other, “dreadful. Did you hear what Channing’s black boy told me?”
“No!”
“He says that she has died from snake-bite. I believe him, too. I saw a boy die on the Etheridge from snake-bite, and he looked as she does now; besides that, there is not a scratch or bruise on her body, so she couldn’t have received any hurt unless it was an internal one when she was thrown. Here’s the place,” and then he started back, for lying at the foot of the tree was the panting, trembling figure of Nell Lawson.
She had tried to get there before them to efface all traces of her deadly work.
