“Don’t say that,” she whispered—“reminds me of old man Lewis!”
“They’re coming this way. I guess they got tired of beating the woods for us. Take my hand again. We’ve got to find that chimney.”
They went perhaps ten paces more when Bill brought up short again.
“Here’s the cliff—wait where you are—be back in a minute.”
He drew his fingers from her clasp and she heard him move off. Standing in utter darkness she could hear the men splashing toward them along the shallow river bed, and still others tramping through the woods with flashing lights that moved nearer every second.
Not once did her alert mind question the advisability of trying to scale Raven Rocks on a coal-black night. Not once did she waste a thought on the danger of that perilous enterprise. Dorothy Dixon never counted the cost when it was to help a friend. Her entire attention was centered on their pursuers. Who they were, or why they sought George and his letter were points of little consequence now. All that mattered was that they be kept on their search for as many hours as possible.
Presently they would come abreast and their lights would pick her out at the foot of the cliff. The sopping skirt of her frock sagged about her knees, dank and clammy beneath her slicker. She gathered it in her hands and squeezed what water she could from it, more for want of something to do than for any other reason.
No longer could she hear Bill stumbling about. What could have happened to him? The lights were only a dozen yards away now. In another minute or two their glare would pick her up for a certainty.
For the first time that evening, Dorothy became fidgety. Bill had told her to remain here. That was an order, and must be obeyed. But—oh! if Bill would only come!