“I—I—” Florence hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“Then we should go for it at once. The wind is rising. It is offshore. The boat will drift across the bay. I have a rowboat. Perhaps you would do well to come with me. It will be something of a task to right it.”
She had spoken to Florence. When Petite Jeanne understood that she was to be left alone in this windowless cabin, she shuddered ever so slightly, but said not a word.
“I will go,” replied Florence. She turned to Jeanne. “You will be more contented here. The night air is very cold.”
They departed. Jeanne was alone. When she had made sure they were out of hearing distance, she closed the door and dropped the massive oaken bar in place.
Scarcely had she done this than she found herself possessed of the idea that someone beside herself was in the cabin.
“There may be other rooms,” she told herself. She searched in vain for doors leading to them. She looked under the bed.
Convinced at last that she was alone, she looked with wide-eyed interest at her surroundings. The walls were made of oak paneling, very well executed and polished to the last degree. The fireplace was massive. It was built entirely of the strange honeycomb-like stone that is found in places along the upper bays of Lake Huron.
“But why does she live where there is no light?” she asked herself in amazement.
Hardly had she thought this than she became conscious for the first time of a faint flush of yellow light lying on the floor at her feet.