Ginger and Harry were gone.
I swore. I called Harry every name in the book, but it didn't help. Hell, he had had ample time to be alone with Ginger. Of all the fool stunts—
"You'd better find them, Roberts, and find them now," Mr. Stevenson said, his voice flat and cold. "That's my little girl he has out there."
I nodded grimly and we went back along the trail a slow step at a time, trying to pierce the green twilight gloom on either side. The jungle was very quiet—deadly quiet. Wompan quiet. The animals told us soundlessly. The Wompan was nearby.
"Harry?" I called.
"Can you chance it?" Mr. Stevenson whispered.
"I've got to."
We went back slowly, at a crawl. We covered twenty yards. Thirty. There was nothing.
"Harry," I called. "Harry?"
Mr. Stevenson's hand gripped my shoulder. He pointed. "What's that out there?"