And then the soft whispering of the leaves through the trees, and no other sound.
"What is it? What is it?" Polly cried out. "What a horrible voice!"
Captain Francis Newcombe's hand, hidden in his pocket, held a revolver. To get rid of the girl now! The voice had come from the woods in the direction of the shore. A voice! Shadow Varne! Who called Shadow Varne here on this island where Shadow Varne had never been heard of? He was cold as ice now; cold with a merciless fury battering at his heart. He did not know—but he would know! And then—
"You run along into the house, Polly." He forced a cool sang-froid into his voice. "It's probably nothing more than some of the negroes you spoke of in your letter cat-calling out there on the water; or else some one with a perverted sense of humour in the woods here trying to spoof us—and in that case a lesson is needed. Quick now, Polly! It's time you were in bed anyway. And say nothing about it—there's no use raising an alarm over what probably amounts to nothing. I'll tell you all about it in the morning."
She was still staring at him in a frightened, startled way.
"But, guardy," she faltered, "you—"
Damn the girl! She was wasting precious moments! But he could not explain that he had a personal interest in that cursed voice, could he?
He smiled reassuringly.
"I'll tell you all about it in the morning—if there's anything to tell," he repeated. "Now, run along. Good-night, dear!"
"Good-night, guardy," she said hesitatingly.