"They've been dragged off and killed! I just know it!" she moaned.
"Don't cry, please, dear," begged Ted. "We're not sure yet. This may not be their island—their fire. Somebody else may have camped here. Let's look about a bit."
Slowly they walked around the place, examining the ground for some forgotten belonging that would identify the former campers. Noticing a pile of leaves where someone had evidently made a bed, Louise kicked them aside with her foot, and she saw an empty matchbox. It wasn't much, but it was something, and she leaned over and picked it up.
The letters on the lid leaped out at her like living tongues. Marked with a purple rubber-stamp over the trade-mark, were the words:
"J. Vetter, Spring City, Ohio."
The explanation was only too plain. No one but Dot and Linda could have used that box. Louise dropped to the ground in an agony of wretchedness, and buried her face in her hands.
Even the optimistic Ted found all his hopes blasted by this little box. Gloom spread over his features, and he sat down beside his wife, comforting her as best he could.
For fifteen minutes, perhaps, they remained motionless, overcome by the thought of their friends' awful death. The food which they had brought with the idea of sharing a gay picnic lunch with Dot and Linda was forgotten. Though they had not eaten since breakfast, neither Ted nor Louise could have swallowed a mouthful.
At last Ted got up, gently raising Louise to her feet. Each silently decided to make one more search—a gruesome one this time—for the girls' bodies.
Round and round the island they walked, looking carefully, among the underbrush, near to the beach, even scanning the water with their spyglasses. But they saw nothing. That one matchbox had been their only evidence. Like good campers to the end, Linda and Dot had burned every trace of rubbish.