He bent again, this time as if to ransack the chest.
“I’ll carry what’s left, and do the rowing. You can sit still, and think it over.”
A growl was the only answer.
“Don’t bear malice,” Tony protested lightly. “Can’t afford that. Better stay by me. Where else would the money come from? That’s the talk, up and doing! You’re all right. Now, then, dowse your lantern, and carry on.”
Darkness fell. The dry crunch of moccasins on frosty snow passed away into silence.
Miles, aching and benumbed, still waited to hear their oars, then ploughed through into the deserted clearing. Beside him stooped the girl, as they tossed aside the loose boughs from the cache. When at last their mittens slid over a glossy surface, he struck a match. The tiny flare revealed a broad lid of polished yellow wood, the corners capped with brass, and a curious, foreign padlock hanging broken on the staple. He saw all this, and yet, even while he threw open the chest, saw more keenly the face above his shoulder,—the pure oval of her cheeks, her large eyes shining from the black shelter of a hood.
The first match went out. His second and last lighted the whole depth of the chest, and showed it empty. A faint, persuasive odor lingered within, exotic, alien to the winter air, new to their experience.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He shook his head, and dropped the burning splinter.
“But what are they doing?”