"There's nothing as square as that in nature's panorama. And a native does not build a house like that."
"And if it is?"
"If it is, we must trust ourselves to their care, though I'd almost rather they were natives." She closed her eyes and saw again the rough, unkempt white men, beach combers, who lived by trading, hunting and whaling with the natives. They were a hard, bad lot, and she knew it.
"Well," she sighed, "come on. Let's go down."
Down they went, each turn of the path bringing them closer to the mysterious house.
"There's no light," said Lucile at last.
"There are no tracks in the snow," added Marian, a moment later.
"It's boarded up," said Lucile, as they came closer. It would have been hard to judge whether there was more of relief or of disappointment in the tone in which she said this.
They stood there staring at the house. It was a nice house, a bungalow such as one might desire for a summer home in the mountains or at the seashore.
"Who do you suppose brought all that fine lumber up here and built that house?" said Lucile.