When she rose for the third time the captain said, “Come on. Hop in. We’ll fly over and see what’s happened.”
They did fly. And they did see. Jeanne had marked the spot where Florence had stood. It was between three great rocks. Already the fire had come that far. Three times they circled. No trace of their lost comrades did they find. What had happened? Would they ever know? Jeanne sank back into her seat.
She did not remain so for long. Of a sudden she sat up to clutch the pilot and to scream in his ear, “Captain Frey please circle back over that bare knob of rock.”
“Right.” The captain turned the wheel.
A crimson spot on that bare flat rock had caught Jeanne’s attention. This, she reasoned must be the boy in the crimson sweater. He it had been that had lured her good friend Florence into the fire trap. Well, he should pay for that. He should have a warning this very moment. Deftly forming a bit of string and her handkerchief into a tiny parachute, she attached a bit of greenstone rock to it, then clutched it between her knees while she scribbled a note. This note read:
“You are suspected of setting these fires. If you are guilty you shall be caught. We are on your trail. Gypsies never forget.”
Binding this note to the greenstone rock she waited. The plane soared lower and lower. They would pass over the rock at a hundred feet. Accustomed to judge the speed of planes, she leaned far over and waited. Then, as she found herself all but looking into the eyes of the mysterious youth, she allowed the tiny parachute to go drifting away.
Watching, she saw the white spot dropping lower and lower. “Good! He sees it!” she exclaimed, “He can’t miss it.” Then she whispered low, “The gypsies’ first warning.”
It was with trembling fingers that Florence unbound the pocket on Plumdum’s collar. Together she and Mike studied the crude map which Captain Frey had drawn.
“Let’s see,” the girl murmured. “That gap between fires must be in that direction.” She pointed toward a low ridge.