Arrived at Birch Island, they found the fisherman’s cottage just as Jeanne had left it. But when, after a silent march down the island, they came to the spot where the log shelter had stood, they discovered that it was gone.
“Every trace of it,” Florence exclaimed.
No, this was not quite true. Dry moss had been strewn over the spot upon which it had stood. When this was dragged away, they found a smooth, hard surface which once had been an earthen floor.
“Jeanne was not dreaming.” Florence looked about her as if expecting the mysterious boy to appear. “There has been a shelter here. But now it’s gone.”
“Easy to move,” said Indian John. “Take ’em down logs. Put ’em in boat. Row away, that’s all.”
“Yes, or just throw the logs into the lake and let them float away,” said Katie.
For some time they stood there in silence. At last Florence said, “I am not Jeanne and not a gypsy, but she says there is always a third warning and so there shall be.”
Imitating Jeanne, she wrote her warning on birch bark. It read:
“The Gypsy’s third warning. And the last. A last chance to clear yourself. Once we leave Birch Island, we shall set a company of fire-fighters on your trail.
Signed, The Gypsy’s Friend.”
After pinning this note to a tree with the aid of three long thorns, she was prepared to follow her companions back to the fisherman’s cabin.