“But what is the ‘song and dance,’ as you call it?”
“Write your guess on one side of a sheet of paper and send it to the puzzle editor,” chuckled Carfax, adding: “If we had begun doing that at first, the editor would have a choice collection by this time, don’t you think?”
“I have been making a few more guesses,” Tregarvon offered. “I was coming in to unload them on you when my eyes went shut. What time is it?”
“About two o’clock—the real witching hour. I want to go home.”
“Go out and tell the old conjurer yonder; perhaps he may have a magic square of carpet in his basket,” suggested Tregarvon. Then: “Doesn’t the wild and weird atmosphere of this heritage of mine get on your nerves to the queen’s taste? Something doing all the time. I’m going to put a notice on the derrick frame: ‘Don’t shoot the stunt-setter; he is doing the best he can.’”
“’Sh! what is the old ‘ghost doctor’ up to now?”
The droning chant had ceased and the old negro was crouching or kneeling at one end of the oblong figure traced by the enclosing row of white objects. The silence was profound; so complete that the snapping of a twig coming suddenly shattered it like the report of a pistol. Both of the watchers started at the sound, but the kneeling negro seemed not to have heard it.
“What was that?” whispered Carfax.
“I’m guessing once more: the obi-devil, possibly, coming in answer to the old medicine-man’s prayers.”
“Guess again!” Carfax thrust in excitedly. “Look this way—get a line on the corner of the derrick frame and follow it over into the woods. Do you see him?”