Along a path overgrown with ferns and flowers, in thick profusion, the little party went single file to the veranda of the bungalow. Not a person was in sight; the place looked empty. Had Sprague and his wife run away again—or were they only hiding?
Jardin stepped boldly up to the door and rapped. A native boy answered his summons in a minute or two.
“Meester Jardin,” he said, with a grin of welcome.
“Is your master about?” asked the agent.
The boy nodded and beckoned for them to come inside.
The room to which the door opened was deserted. A plain, bare room, with only a few rough chairs, a table, and a hard cot. Not exactly the kind of place a woman would enjoy.
“I get him,” said the boy, indicating for the visitors to be seated, and going out of the front door again.
Linda and Dot sat down upon the hard chairs, but Chase wandered aimlessly around the room, examining its scanty contents with curiosity. Another native boy came in with a pitcher of water, and Jardin inquired for Mrs. Long.
“She sick,” he explained, briefly, pointing to another room beyond, and he, too, disappeared.
They drank their water, and waited tensely. Why didn’t the man come? Did he suspect something? Chase continued to walk about the room, peering with interest, at the closed door where the girl was supposed to be lying, stopping now at the table beside a window, and picking up a little tool that looked like a nut-pick, that was lodged in a crack between the table and the window-sill.