Overcome by astonishment, Dexter stood motionless and breathless, peering at the far-off figure with swimming senses, exerting all his will force to keep the binoculars from wabbling in his tightly gripped hands. He had come there looking for Alison Rayne—on a fool's chase, he persuaded himself a moment before—and now, when he actually saw her he found himself staring across space with the awed wonderment of a man who beholds a miraculous apparition.
So the boy in the cabin yonder had reached her with his message of warning. Speaking in low-pitched, half-muttered accents, under pretense of sleep talking, his voice must have carried by some strange sorcery through the leagues of forest, to be heard by listening ears. He had called to Alison, and the girl had answered. He advised her to flee to the Saddle Mountain, and she had come to the appointed place. All of which seemed to establish positive proof that the two were in communication during that dark morning hour when Dexter had aroused at the sound of the voice in the cabin bunk.
The incredible staggering facts defied all reason. Without radio equipment or the strung wires of a telephone line, there was no imaginable way in which two people might hold long distance conversations. Yet it was manifest that these two had done something of the sort.
By what hidden medium the word had passed Dexter was utterly unable to guess. He did not know what to think. He only knew that young Smith had attempted to deceive him. Not only was it certain now that the boy knew Alison Rayne, but it was apparent that there was some secret, sympathetic understanding between them. And by inference it must also seem that both were implicated in the affairs at the other cabin, where a woman's voice had been transmitted in the same mysterious way.
With his features set in an eloquent scowl, Dexter surveyed the distant heights. As far as he could make out, the girl was alone. So it was evident that in some manner she had outwitted the vigilant Devreaux: must have escaped some time during the previous night. If the colonel were alive and able to travel, he would be following her. It was the logical supposition that he was on her trail now, following, probably, not far behind. The fact that she was taking a short cut to the lower valley, over the brink of a dangerous cliff, would indicate desperate haste.
No pursuer was visible at that moment, but from his position the corporal was unable to see what might be happening behind the brow of the high terrace. It was quite possible that a second moving speck would soon heave in sight.
Meanwhile, Dexter turned his glasses back towards the girl, and his lips twisted at the corners into a grim, inexorable smile. Thanks to the hunter's instinct he had traveled to this place on blind impulse, disregarding logic and reason; and now he held the strategic ground, waiting to cut off the girl's escape.
At the distance the cliff had the appearance of a smooth-faced, perpendicular wall. But presumably the surface was not as steep as the observer first imagined, or else there were cracks and projecting points to afford a foothold. At any rate, the tiny figure seemed to cling securely to the dizzy pitch, as a swift hangs against the side of a chimney; and slowly, by almost imperceptible degrees, crept downward from the brink.
As Dexter watched with bated breath he could not help but marvel at the resolution and cool-headed nerve that dared attempt such a hazardous descent. To gain the valley by a safer path, however, would mean a four- or five-mile tramp by way of the cañon-like notch that broke into the northern shoulder of the mountain. In all probability the fugitive was closely pursued, and as Dexter had found out by previous experience Alison Rayne was not the sort to weigh difficulties and dangers when freedom was at stake. Apparently she had reason to accept a life or death chance at the threat of recapture. And not knowing Devreaux, as the men of his command knew him, she might too readily assume that the bulky, middle-aged policeman would think twice before clambering after her over the top of a precipice.
Dexter looked out fearfully, with his tongue between his teeth. Even through his binoculars, the form on the cliff was limned in miniature, like an animated toy. The small figure crept downward with agonizing slowness, feeling cautiously for each new foothold, groping with clinging fingers, counting the distance gained by niggard inches. Realizing the danger of startling the girl by showing himself at such a moment, the corporal restrained his anxieties, and held his position, waiting.