THE WHITE FLARE
“That scream! What was it?” The figure of Percy O’Hara had suddenly grown
tense. In the gathering darkness he seemed cast in bronze.
To the slim girl who but the moment before had thought of this marvelous
violinist as a phantom, the whole thing seemed unreal. “Have you never
heard it before?” she asked with a voice that trembled.
“Heard that scream before?” He stared at her.
“I heard it two nights ago. But that was late, near midnight,” she said.
“There are people down below by a narrow lake. They come and go in an
airplane. There’s a lodge of some sort and a small rowboat. They carried
someone into the lodge, someone who was helpless, crippled or bound. I
could not tell.”
“You know all this, you who have been here so short a time?”
“Yes.”
“I knew that someone came and went over there.” He spoke slowly. “But
I—you see I’ve wanted to be alone. If you go about spying on others
you’re likely to be found out yourself. I did not hear the scream at
midnight. Sound asleep. But we must do something. We—”
“Look!” The girl gripped his arm impulsively. “Look! It’s Florence! The
white flare!”
Even as she spoke night shadows were banished and every smallest shrub
and bush stood out as in the light of day.
“Come!” she cried. “We must go! It is Florence. That is a signal, a sign
of danger. But—” her tone changed, “how could that be a signal? I never
told her about the white flares. They were given to me as a signal to be
used in case of danger.”
“A signal to whom?”
“Vincent Stearns,” she replied, her voice all atremble. “He will come.
Something terrible has happened! We must hurry!”
“In just one moment. I will be back. Don’t go without me. I know a short
trail. We’ll be there at once.” Her new found friend disappeared into the
night.
At once the girl’s mind was awhirl with questions. So this was the
phantom. Why had this wonderful musician hidden himself away here on Isle
Royale? Had he committed some grave crime? It was unthinkable. And yet,
why was he here? Would she ever know?
Then her thoughts took another turn. Who had screamed? Why had Florence
lighted the white flare? Because of the scream? She would hardly do that,
and besides she did not know of the flares.
“Oh why did we come here?” Greta said the words aloud.
Then turning instinctively, she looked to see if Percy O’Hara might have
heard.
Percy O’Hara was not to be seen. That which met her gaze set her knees
trembling afresh. Once again she was looking into what appeared to be a
hundred pairs of green and gleaming eyes.
“Here we are!” She started violently.
Percy O’Hara was at her side. “We’ll go this way. Follow the ridge. I’ll
lead the way.” Without another word he marched straight ahead, leaving
her to follow on.
He walked unerringly as some wild creature of the forest, straight to the
small tent beside the big flat rock.
They found Florence quite unharmed, but in a state of great agitation.
“Oh, Greta!” she exclaimed. Then, catching sight of Percy O’Hara, broke
short off to stare.
“Wha—what happened?” Greta panted. “This is Mr. O’Hara. Tell me what
happened!”
“Nothing happened—that is, nothing much. Did you hear that scream?”
“Yes. We—”
“Well, I heard it and came dashing from the tent. My foot struck
something and sent it bounding into the fire. Before I could grab it,
there came a blinding white flare. I jumped back just in time to save
myself. And now—”
“And now,” Greta broke in, “Vincent Stearns will come all the way up the
ridge from—from wherever he is. He—he’ll bring others, like as not, to—to
save us from some—something terrible. Oh!” she fairly wailed, “that’s
what one gets for keeping secrets! He gave me those flares before we
started. And I—I never told you!” Greta seemed ready for tears.
“It might be a great deal worse,” Percy O’Hara broke in. His tone was
reassuring. He seated himself comfortably on a mossy rock. “I think that
scream really meant trouble of some sort. It would seem to be our duty to
investigate. And when there’s investigating to be done there’s safety in
numbers. I think we’ll do well to await the arrival of your friend.
Perhaps someone will come with him.
“By the way,” his tone changed and his bright eyes gleamed in the
firelight. “Have I been smelling bacon, coffee and all that these days,
or have I not?”
“Pure imagination!” Florence laughed. “We live on nuts and berries.” For
all her laughing denial, she set about the task of sending delicious
aromas drifting along the slope of Greenstone Ridge.
The “phantom’s” delight in the food set before him could not have been
denied. No empty words of praise were his. For all that, fingers that
trembled ever so slightly, eyes that smiled in a way one could not
forget, told Florence her skill as brewer of coffee and broiler of bacon
was appreciated fully.
When the simple meal had ended, with a low fire of bright coals gleaming
red on the great flat rock, they settled themselves upon cushions of moss
to wait.
“Wait for what?” Greta asked herself. “For the coming of Vincent Stearns.
And then?”
Who could find an answer? Before her mind’s eye the seaplane once more
soared aloft to at last settle down upon that narrow lake. She looked
again upon those black waters, saw the rowboat, the moving figures, the
helpless one being carried away.
“What does it mean?” she whispered. Then again she seemed to hear that
piercing scream.
All this occupied her alert mind only a few short moments. Then her dark
enquiring eyes were upon the face of that man who sat staring dreamily at
the fire.
“Percy O’Hara!” she whispered low. “The Phantom Violin! Why is he here?”
As if feeling her eyes upon him, he turned half about, favored her with a
matchless smile, opened his lips as if to speak, then seeming to think
better of it, turned his face once more toward the fire.
“Oh!” she thought, “he was going to tell me!”
But he did not speak. Instead he continued to stare at the fire. She
studied his face. Well worth her study, that face. A rather handsome,
strong, sensitive face, an honest, kindly face it was. She looked in vain
for traces of deep sorrow. They were not to be found. She tried casting
him in the role of a man fleeing from justice. It could not be done.
“And yet—”
Once again his eyes were upon her.
This time he took his violin from its case by his side. Tucking it under
his chin, he began to play. The music that came to her ears did not seem
human. So fine, so all but silent was it, yet so exquisitely beautiful,
it might have been the song of a bird on the wing, or angels in heaven.
“Oh!” she breathed as the last faint note died away, and again “Oh!”
Wrapping the priceless instrument carefully, he returned it to its case.
“Now,” she whispered, “now the Phantom will tell his story.” Still he did
not speak.
“Perhaps,” she told herself, “he is wondering what lies in the future for
him, the immediate future, when he goes down the hill to that—that
place.”
She looked at his fingers. Slim, delicate, they were the fingers of a
true artist. “And with these he will defend someone,” she told herself as
a little thrill crept up her back. “How—how impossible that seems!
“And yet, great musicians are not cowards.” She was thinking of that
celebrated Polish patriot who, having played for the rich and great of
all lands, had put aside his music when his country called.
“He will not tell us tonight,” she assured herself, “The Phantom will not
speak, perhaps never at all. Secrets are our own. No one has a right to
pry into our lives.”
Only once during that long wait did the Phantom speak. Turning to Greta,
he said, “Where are you staying on the island?”
Greta nodded at the small tent.
“But before that?”
“We have been living on the wreck of the _Pilgrim_.”
“The wreck!” His eyes shone. “How wonderful! Better than Greenstone
Ridge. Only,” he added, “people would come to see you there.”
“Yes. And you will come?” Greta’s tone was eager.
Once again his eyes shone upon her. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I fancy I
shall be doing just that sometime.”
It was a promise in answer to a prayer. The girl could ask no more.
Ten minutes later there came the sound of movement in the bushes some
distance down the ridge. This was followed by a loud, “Yoo Hoo!”