Darkness slowly gathered. Nothing happened. At intervals Stonor shouted—only to be mocked by the silence. Just to be doing something he built a great fire outside the shack. If Imbrie should be on the way back it would at least warn him of the presence of visitors.
Stonor was suddenly struck by the fact that Mary had not expressed herself as to the situation. It was impossible to tell from the smooth copper mask of her face of what she was thinking.
“Mary, what do you make of it?” he asked.
She shrugged, declining to commit herself. “All the people say Eembrie got ver’ strong medicine,” she said. “Say he make himself look like anything he want.”
Stonor and Clare exchanged a rueful smile. “I’m afraid that doesn’t help much,” said the former.
Mosquitoes drove them indoors. Stonor closed the door of the shack, and built up the fire in the fireplace. Stonor no longer expected the man to return, but Clare was still tremulously on the qui vive for the slightest sound. Mary went off to bed in the store-room. The others remained sitting before the fire in Imbrie’s two chairs. For them sleep was out of the question. Each had privately determined to sit up all night.
For a long time they remained there without speaking.
Stonor had said nothing to Clare about the conclusions he had arrived at concerning Imbrie, but she gathered from his attitude that he was passing judgment against the man they had come in search of, and she said at last:
“Did you notice that little book that I picked up off the desk?”
Stonor nodded.