CHAPTER IX
THE WAY OUT
Far away in the broken hut in the snow-blinded forest, Robert Vane gazed in perplexity at the useless webs which Joe held up for his inspection.
“How did I do that?” he asked. “I don’t remember anything of that sort.”
“You didn’t do it,” she answered. “It was done by the Danglers—my relatives.”
“But I don’t understand. And why did they leave me here—with the cord at my wrists so loose that I slipped my hands free? Why didn’t they do me in for keeps, if they feel that way about me?”
The girl let her snowshoes fall with a clatter.
“They did for you,” she said. “They knew nothing about me. When they tore the webbing they killed you as surely as if they had cut your throat—as far as they knew. You have no compass, no food, no matches, no blankets, no snowshoes—nothing. You are weak—for they have hurt you. You are lost—and the snow is deep and still falling. You are lost. They lost you.”
“I see. You have saved my life.”
“I know the way out; and I have matches, but nothing to eat—and nothing to mend your rackets with.”