“No. He not dead!” He sank back into the chair.
Sensing somehow that whether he spoke truth or falsehood, this man’s word was not to be disputed, she held her peace.
After a time he spoke again. This time his story was long and rambling. It told of two boys made prisoner and kept in the cabin of an airplane. His description of the older of these boys fitted Johnny Thompson so well that Joyce could not mistake it.
“More romance,” she told herself, “but let him talk.”
The man rambled on. He spoke of the “Gray Streak,” of a hunchbacked Indian, of swift dog teams and of a curious cavern beneath the snow-covered earth.
She listened. But all the time she was thinking: “I wish this dreamer would go away. I wish father were here.”
In time both her wishes were granted.
With her father came the fortunate young gold hunter, Lloyd Hill.
“Do you know who that is?” Lloyd exclaimed before she had half finished telling of her visitor. “He is known as the Voice. Everyone who lives in this land believes he speaks the truth. I have never known a case in which he erred.”
“But he said Drew Lane was not dead.”