“Then she may have followed us here.”
“The whispering voice didn’t sound like hers,” Penny insisted. “No, I can’t believe it was Lorinda.”
Salt started back toward the cottage. “Whoever it was, let’s not be bluffed out, Penny. We’ll see what’s inside the wooden chest.”
The cottage door was closed. To the photographer’s annoyance, it refused to open even when he thrust his weight against it.
“Now what?” he demanded. “Did you close the door when you came out, Penny?”
“Not that I recall. The wind must have blown it shut.”
“Wind? What wind? Look at the trees.”
Scarcely a leaf was stirring.
“Then I’m afraid it must have been the jungle ghost,” Penny said with a nervous giggle. She glanced at her wrist watch. “Salt, it’s getting late. We must go.”
“Not yet,” retorted Salt grimly.