The memory-voice died and was lost. Vainly he racked his brain for more of the tale. Where did that man say the place was? In these Shawangunks? Farther south in the Ramapos? Up north in the Catskills, or far beyond in the Adirondacks? No answer came. The rest of the story, its beginning and end, were lost in the fog of many such chance conversations at odd moments and in odd places.
But he was sure that the locale of that legend was somewhere in the mountains of New York State. And out there across the Traps was a long mountain wall with but one way of entrance. And this girl’s father and mother were of mongrel blood, and——
“By the Lord Harry, it fits!” he exclaimed aloud. “If this isn’t the place it ought to be. And there’s been a lady—a real, high-bred lady—in your family not many generations ago, Miss Marion, or I’m a Chinaman!”
The surrounding rocks reverberated with his words. The blanket before him moved quickly. Out from it rose dancing gray eyes, glowing cheeks, and laughing red lips.
“Mornin’, Mister Detective!” she caroled. “Are you talkin’ into your sleep, or did you find a drink somewheres? You’re foolish, sounds like.”
Somewhat sheepish, he stood a moment without reply. His eyes dwelt on the wealth of tumbled hair, now glowing like forest-fire in the clean light of the new day: no pale sandy tresses, but rich, vivid, Titian red. Nowhere in it showed dark streak or telltale kink.
“Listen,” he countered. “Did you ever hear of a crowd of men—white and red and black—who went out through the Gap over yonder and brought in women and made slaves of them?”
At once her friendly face turned cold.
“You’re huntin’ into the wrong place,” she told him, lifting her chin. “Our fellers don’t do that. You better look somewheres else.”
“Oh, shucks! Can’t you get rid of that idea that I’m hunting somebody? These desperadoes were all dead long before we were born. But haven’t you heard some such story from the old folks?”