Who had visited the place excepting those from whom she and Stormont had fled, did not appear. She had no idea why her step-father's mattress and bed-quilt lay in the pantry.
Her heart heavy with ceaseless anxiety, Eve carried mattress and bed-clothes to Clinch's chamber, re-made his bed, wandered through the house setting it in order; then, in the kitchen, seated herself and waited until the strange dread that possessed her drove her out into the starlight to stand and listen and stare at the dark forest where all her dread seemed concentrated.
* * * * *
It was not yet dawn, but the girl could not endure the strain no longer.
With electric torch and rifle she started for the forest, almost running at first; then, among the first trees, moving with caution and in silence along the trail over which Clinch should long since have journeyed homeward.
In soft places, when she ventured to flash her torch, footprints cast curious shadows, and it was hard to make out tracks so oddly distorted by the light. Prints mingled and partly obliterated other prints. She identified her own tracks leading south, and guessed at the others, pointing north and south, where they had carried in the wounded and had gone back to bring in the dead.
But nowhere could she discover any impression resembling her step-father's, — that great, firm stride and solid imprint which so often she had tracked through moss and swale and which she knew so well.
Once when she got up from her knees after close examination of the muddy trail, she became aware of the slightest taint in the night air — stood with delicate nostrils quivering — advanced, still conscious of the taint, listening, wary, every stealthy instinct alert.
She had not been mistaken: somewhere in the forest there was smoke. Somewhere a fire was burning. It might not be very far away; it might be distant. Whose fire? Her father's? Would a hunter of men build a fire?
The girl stood shivering in the darkness. There was not a sound.