“First time was all of a year ago. Last time, early this spring.”
“Then—then perhaps he’s gone. This is August, you know.”
“Maybe, miss. Somehow I don’t think so.”
“Why would anyone stay a whole year in such a place? Think what it would mean!” Her eyes had opened wide. “No companions! No food except what you have taken up. All alone!”
“You’re assuming there’s only one. I don’t know. There might be more. Articles have been found missing from cottages closed for the winter, food and clothing. Always paid for, though. One fisherman, who was very poor, found the price of three pairs of boots left for one pair; well-worn ones they were, too.
“But why do they stay up there?” he went on. “It’s your question. Perhaps you will find the answer.”
“Wh—why haven’t you been up there to see?” Florence asked.
“Me? See here, miss, I’m a fisherman—belong to the water. No land lubberin’ for mine! And besides, I’ve a father and mother to look after. I got my money for the things he took, didn’t I? Then what call do I have looking into places like that?”
Once again the girl had looked away to the place where the ridge must be. It was gone, swallowed up in the night. Not a light had shone up there. Not a campfire gleamed.
“There is no one up there,” she had whispered to herself as she stood alone on the deck of the wrecked ship, straining her eyes for even a very small gleam against the sky. “There can’t be. They’d have a lamp of some sort, even if it were only a pine knot torch.”