“You know all this, you who have been here so short a time?”
“Yes.”
“I knew that someone came and went over there.” He spoke slowly. “But I—you see I’ve wanted to be alone. If you go about spying on others you’re likely to be found out yourself. I did not hear the scream at midnight. Sound asleep. But we must do something. We—”
“Look!” The girl gripped his arm impulsively. “Look! It’s Florence! The white flare!”
Even as she spoke night shadows were banished and every smallest shrub and bush stood out as in the light of day.
“Come!” she cried. “We must go! It is Florence. That is a signal, a sign of danger. But—” her tone changed, “how could that be a signal? I never told her about the white flares. They were given to me as a signal to be used in case of danger.”
“A signal to whom?”
“Vincent Stearns,” she replied, her voice all atremble. “He will come. Something terrible has happened! We must hurry!”
“In just one moment. I will be back. Don’t go without me. I know a short trail. We’ll be there at once.” Her new found friend disappeared into the night.
At once the girl’s mind was awhirl with questions. So this was the phantom. Why had this wonderful musician hidden himself away here on Isle Royale? Had he committed some grave crime? It was unthinkable. And yet, why was he here? Would she ever know?