Scrambling up the muddy bank, the pair paused to take bearings. Voices now had died away and to all appearances the island might have been deserted.
Treading with utmost caution, Penny and the Widow Jones tramped along the shore until they came to a path. Abruptly, the girl halted, sniffing the air.
“I smell wood burning,” she whispered. “From a campfire probably.”
“An’ I smell somethin’ more,” added the Widow Jones grimly. “Cain’t ye notice thet sickish, sweet odor in the air?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“We’ll find out,” replied Mrs. Jones. “But if we git cotched, I’m warnin’ ye we won’t never git away from here. Ye sure ye want to go on?”
“Very sure.”
“Then come on. And be keerful not to crackle any leaves underfoot.”
The path led to a low, tunnellike opening in the thicket. Penny, who again had taken the lead, crouched low, intending to crawl through.
Before she could do so, she heard a stifled cry behind her. Turning, she saw that Mrs. Jones had sagged to one knee, and her face was twisted with pain.