In marked contrast to this scene, the plain was apparently lifeless. When Blake rose, a small brown lizard darted away across the sand. Otherwise there was neither sight nor sound of a living creature. Blake pondered this as he gathered his clothes into the shade and began to dress.
“Looks like the siesta is the all-round style in this God-forsaken hole,” he grumbled. “Haven’t seen so much as a rabbit, nor even one land bird. May be a drought–no; must be the dry season– Whee, these things are hot! I’m thirsty as a shark. Now, where’s that softy and her Ladyship? ’Fraid she’s in for a tough time!”
He drew on his shoes with a jerk, growled at their stiffness, and club in hand, stepped clear of the brush to look for his companions. The first glance along the foot of the cliff showed him Winthrope lying under the shade of the overhanging ledges, a few yards beyond the sand beach. Of Miss Leslie there was no sign. Half alarmed by this, Blake started for the beach with his swinging stride. Winthrope was awake, and on Blake’s approach, sat up to greet him.
“Hello!” he called. “Where have you been all this time?”
“’Sleep. Where’s Miss Leslie?”
“She’s around the point.”
Blake grinned mockingly. “Indeed! But I fawncy she won’t be for long.”
He would have passed on, but Winthrope stepped before him.
“Don’t go out there, Blake,” he protested. “I–ah–think it would be better if I went.”
“Why?” demanded Blake.