“What does it mean?” said Denham. “Some poor devil got lost, and died of starvation beside his own fire?”
Verna shook her head. She was gazing down thoughtfully at the white bones and their surroundings.
“That’s not the reading of it,” she said. “That’s no white man’s skull. Look at the teeth. Further, its owner’s end was not starvation.”
“How knowest thou that, O Sherlock Holmes up to date?” Denham had picked up the skull and was examining it with interest. “At any rate, he didn’t die from a bang on the head.”
“No; but he was killed, all the same, by others.”
“Sherlock Holmes again. Go on.”
“Well, no self-respecting native with the fear of Inswelaboya and other horrors of the night before his eyes, that is to say, any native, would dream of coming in here alone for anything you could offer him.”
“Wait a bit, Sherlock,” laughed the other. “I think I’ve got you on one point. You said ‘horrors of the night.’ How do you know it was night?”
“I deduce it from the size of the fire. Such a big one as it was would never have been built in the daytime. There must have been several in it; the ground is too dry for tracks to show, but for some reason or other this one has been killed by the rest.”
“Verna, you are simply wonderful. Talk about woodcraft!”