“Must have run off the cliff in her flight,” suggested Colton.
“An almost untenable hypothesis,” said Professor Ravenden argumentatively. “The place where your brother was unhorsed is a mile from here, at least. We heard the animal’s death-cry an hour after your brother’s encounter. Could you devise any form of terror which would so afflict a horse as to drive it over a hundred-foot cliff, a full hour after the origin of the panic?”
“No, I couldn’t. Whatever it was that terrified, the poor brute must have followed it. The juggler, I suppose.”
“But for what purpose? However, I think we would best climb the cliff, and taking opposite directions examine the ground for any possible indications.”
So the professor struck off westward, while Colton took the line toward the lighthouse. Soon his path led him down into one of the precipitous gullies. Inland from him a sharp turn shielded by large rocks cut off the view, beyond which appeared the upper foliage of a scrub-oak patch. From among the rocks Dick heard a strange sound, like a gasp.
His hand went to his revolver, and he stopped short. Again the sound came in a succession of cadences, like interrupted breathing. Dick moved forward. A stone slipped under his foot and rattled down among other stones. There was instant silence.
Keeping himself sheltered, he walked firmly forward. Before a large rock he paused, then holding the weapon ready he stepped around it. Helga Johnston stood there, her hands pressed to her breast, her face tear-stained. She gave a little cry of relief.
“Ah, it is you!” she said.
“Did I frighten you?” asked Dick. “I’m awfully sorry. You’ve been crying.”
“Yes,” said the girl.