“I tried that,” she went on “and it didn’t make any sense at all, so I ran the last thirteen, backwards. By trying each of the two possible letters in each instance, I got the message I just read to you.”
“Which must be just about right,” Johnny breathed. “Mildred—you’re a wonder! Now let the old green arrow blink! We’ll always know what it’s saying—and we may make some startling discoveries.” With that he seized her hands and whirled her wildly about the broad porch.
“List—listen,” she panted, as, quite out of breath, she dropped into a chair, “what’s that?”
“Natives singing, I suppose” said Johnny, “they are fond of singing.”
“Those singers are not natives!” The girl held up a hand for silence. “They never sing like that. Besides—all those voices are men’s!”
CHAPTER VII
MYSTERY SINGERS OF THE NIGHT
Mildred was leaning forward, lips parted, listening intently.
“What are they singing?” she whispered.
“I can’t make it out,” was Johnny’s slow reply. “Too far away. Besides—it doesn’t sound like English, at all.”
“Now,” she said, softly, “now it is coming out stronger.” A sudden breeze wafted the distant voices toward them.