The feeling that he had no right to protect her hurt him
keenly, and I could see that he was itching to do something to help,
and liked him for it. His expression said plainly that he would tear in
a thousand pieces anything that dared to injure a hair of her head. We lit our pipes and strolled over in silence to the men’s quarters,
and it was his odd Canadian expression “Gee whiz!” that drew my
attention to a further discovery. “The brute’s been scratching round my tent too,” he cried, as he
pointed to similar marks by the door and I stooped down to examine
them. We both stared in amazement for several minutes without speaking. “Only I sleep like the dead,” he added, straightening up again, “and so
heard nothing, I suppose.”

We traced the paw-marks from the mouth of his tent in a direct line
across to the girl’s, but nowhere else about the Camp was there a
sign of the strange visitor. The deer, dog, or whatever it was that
had twice favoured us with a visit in the night, had confined its
attentions to these two tents. And, after all, there was really
nothing out of the way about these visits of an unknown animal, for
although our own island was destitute of life, we were in the heart
of a wilderness, and the mainland and larger islands must be swarming
with all kinds of four-footed creatures, and no very prolonged swimming
was necessary to reach us. In any other country it would not have
caused a moment’s interest--interest of the kind we felt, that is. In our Canadian camps the bears were for ever grunting about among
the provision bags at night, porcupines scratching unceasingly, and
chipmunks scuttling over everything. “My daughter is overtired, and that’s the truth of it,” explained
Maloney presently when he rejoined us and had examined in turn the
other paw-marks. “She’s been overdoing it lately, and camp-life, you
know, always means a great excitement to her. It’s natural enough. If
we take no notice she’ll be all right.” He paused to borrow my tobacco
pouch and fill his pipe, and the blundering way he filled it and
spilled the precious weed on the ground visibly belied the calm of his
easy language. “You might take her out for a bit of fishing, Hubbard,
like a good chap; she’s hardly up to the long day in the cutter. Show
her some of the other islands in your canoe, perhaps. Eh?”

And by lunch-time the cloud had passed away as suddenly, and as
suspiciously, as it had come. But in the canoe, on our way home, having till then purposely ignored
the subject uppermost in our minds, she suddenly spoke to me in a way
that again touched the note of sinister alarm--the note that kept on
sounding and sounding until finally John Silence came with his great
vibrating presence and relieved it; yes, and even after he came, too,
for a while. “I’m ashamed to ask it,” she said abruptly, as she steered me home,
her sleeves rolled up, her hair blowing in the wind, “and ashamed of
my silly tears too, because I really can’t make out what caused them;
but, Mr. Hubbard, I want you to promise me not to go off for your long
expeditions--just yet. I beg it of you.” She was so in earnest that
she forgot the canoe, and the wind caught it sideways and made us roll
dangerously. “I have tried hard not to ask this,” she added, bringing
the canoe round again, “but I simply can’t help myself.”

It was a good deal to ask, and I suppose my hesitation was plain; for
she went on before I could reply, and her beseeching expression and
intensity of manner impressed me very forcibly. “For another two weeks only----”

“Mr. Sangree leaves in a fortnight,” I said, seeing at once what she
was driving at, but wondering if it was best to encourage her or not. “If I knew you were to be on the island till then,” she said, her face
alternately pale and blushing, and her voice trembling a little, “I
should feel so much happier.”

I looked at her steadily, waiting for her to finish. “And safer,” she added almost in a whisper; “especially--at night, I
mean.”

“Safer, Joan?” I repeated, thinking I had never seen her eyes so soft
and tender. She nodded her head, keeping her gaze fixed on my face. It was really difficult to refuse, whatever my thoughts and judgment
may have been, and somehow I understood that she spoke with good
reason, though for the life of me I could not have put it into words. “Happier--and safer,” she said gravely, the canoe giving a dangerous
lurch as she leaned forward in her seat to catch my answer. Perhaps,
after all, the wisest way was to grant her request and make light of
it, easing her anxiety without too much encouraging its cause. “All right, Joan, you queer creature; I promise,” and the instant look
of relief in her face, and the smile that came back like sunlight to
her eyes, made me feel that, unknown to myself and the world, I was
capable of considerable sacrifice after all. “But, you know, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” I added sharply; and
she looked up in my face with the smile women use when they know we are
talking idly, yet do not wish to tell us so. “_You_ don’t feel afraid, I know,” she observed quietly. “Of course not; why should I?”

“So, if you will just humour me this once I--I will never ask anything
foolish of you again as long as I live,” she said gratefully. “You have my promise,” was all I could find to say. She headed the nose of the canoe for the lagoon lying a quarter of a
mile ahead, and paddled swiftly; but a minute or two later she paused
again and stared hard at me with the dripping paddle across the thwarts. “You’ve not heard anything at night yourself, have you?” she asked. “I never hear anything at night,” I replied shortly, “from the moment I
lie down till the moment I get up.”

“That dismal howling, for instance,” she went on, determined to get
it out, “far away at first and then getting closer, and stopping just
outside the Camp?”

“Certainly not.”

“Because, sometimes I think I almost dreamed it.”

“Most likely you did,” was my unsympathetic response. “And you don’t think father has heard it either, then?”

“No. He would have told me if he had.”

This seemed to relieve her mind a little. “I know mother hasn’t,” she
added, as if speaking to herself, “for she hears nothing--ever.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was two nights after this conversation that I woke out of deep
sleep and heard sounds of screaming. The voice was really horrible,
breaking the peace and silence with its shrill clamour. In less than
ten seconds I was half dressed and out of my tent. The screaming had
stopped abruptly, but I knew the general direction, and ran as fast as
the darkness would allow over to the women’s quarters, and on getting
close I heard sounds of suppressed weeping. It was Joan’s voice. And
just as I came up I saw Mrs. Maloney, marvellously attired, fumbling
with a lantern.