“That fire,” she said slowly, “must have burned itself out years ago; perhaps fifty years. Those bones are from the legs of a reindeer or caribou. They’re old, too. How gray and dry they are! They are about to fall into dust.”
She studied the spot for some time. At last she straightened up.
“Not much to it, after all,” she sighed. “It’s interesting enough to know that some storm blown traveler who attempted the pass, as we did, once spent the night here. But he left no relic of interest behind, unless—why—what have you there?” She turned suddenly to her companion.
Attatak was holding a slim, dull brown object in her hand.
“Only the broken handle of an old cow-drill,” she said slowly, still studying the thing by the candle light.
“It’s ivory.”
“Eh-eh.”
“And quite old?”
“Mebby twenty, mebby fifty years. Who knows?”
“Why are you looking at it so sharply?”