Hilary called aloud, “Tia Eusebia!” and “Lotta!” but no answer came from the lodge or from the wood.
“There is something not quite right here,” Margaret said. “Jorge! Marianela! Even the children do not answer.”
“We will soon find what is amiss. Hola! Tia Eusebia! I believe that the lodge is empty.”
“That looks bad for Ramón; but we’ll soon know.”
They both ran to the lodge, calling.
“I’ll go in,” he said.
“Be careful, Hilary.”
“I will, my dear,” he said. “If one of these big black marimbas has come in, there’ll be somebody dead here.”
He rattled with his machete at the door and then went into the lodge. The oil lamp was burning on the table beside a pipkin full of frijoles. The room was empty: the bunks at the side were empty.
“Lotta,” he called. “Marianela! It’s as I thought, Pearl. There’s nobody here at all. But they’ve not been long gone; these frijoles in the dish are warm.”