“Greta!” she called once more, this time softly. No answer.
“It couldn’t be Greta.” She experienced a wild flutter at her heart. “We have no rope like that. But who can it be?”
“There’s somebody waiting for you up there.” The words of the young fisherman came back to her, this time with a force that carried conviction.
“Someone up here,” she murmured, “but who, and why? What can that person be like?”
Recalling the face in the little book, she drew the book again from her pocket, struck a match, then peered at the picture.
A youngish face topped by a mass of all but white hair seemed to smile at her from the book.
“A man!” She caught her breath. “He’s handsome. I never saw him.”
Then realizing that she might be seen in that circle of yellow light, she snuffed out the match, snapped the book shut, then stood at attention, listening.
Aside from the long-drawn whistle of some small bird, no sound reached her ears.
“Well,” she sighed, “there’s no good in delay.”