When Florence had told her story Greta sat for a long time staring at the fire. When at last she spoke it was in a subdued and mellow tone. “That,” she said, pointing to the little book that lay open before them, “is the picture of Percy O’Hara. Strange name for a great musician. But the Irish, they say, have musical souls.
“It was more than three years ago that I heard him play. It happened that I was with one of his personal friends. After the concert I was introduced to him. Can you imagine?” Her laugh was low and melodious. “Actually shook hands with him, the truly great O’Hara.
“I’m afraid I was a bit romantic. I was young. He became my hero in a way. I tried to keep track of his triumphs. But quite suddenly his triumphs ceased to be. I heard nothing about him. There was a rumor that he had disappeared. What do you think could have happened? Surely one who had entranced thousands with his delirious music would not voluntarily allow himself to be lost—lost from the world that loves him!”
“Something terrible may have happened to him.” Florence was staring at the fire. “Terrible things do happen these days.”
“And this picture?” Greta whispered.
“Probably belongs to some ardent admirer like yourself.”
“But listen, Florence—” Greta’s lips tightened, a fresh light shone in her face. “I too have had an adventure, discovered a mystery. There is a narrow lake off there to the right and below us. A monoplane landed there today. Someone was lifted from the plane into a boat. They rowed to the shore where there is some sort of lodge. What can that mean?”
“As far as we are concerned,” Florence responded soberly, “it seems to mean that we should strike our tent and descend to less inhabited regions where we can enjoy ourselves in peace.”
“And leave those people to go on with their evil deeds?”
“How do you know they are evil?”