Yet even though unvexed by this gruesome knowledge, after two or three days I noticed that Cookie was ill at ease.  As the leisure member of the party, I enjoyed more of Cookie’s society than the rest.  On this occasion while the morning was still in its early freshness he was permitting me to make fudge.  But his usual joviality was gone.  I saw that he glanced over his shoulder at intervals, muttering darkly to himself.  Also that a rabbit’s foot was slung conspicuously about his neck.

Having made my fudge and set the pan on a stone in the stream to cool, I was about to retire with a view to conducting a limited exploring expedition of my own.  The immunity of the umbrellas and the assurances of Mr. Shaw—­not personally directed to me, of course; the armed truce under which we lived did not permit of that—­had convinced me that I had not to dread anything more ferocious than the pigs, and the wildest of them would retire before a stick or stone.  Besides, I boasted a little automatic, which I carried strapped about my waist in a businesslike manner.  Mr. Vane had almost got me to the point where I could shoot it off without shutting my eyes.

Thus equipped, I was about to set off into the woods.  Secretly I had been rehearsing a dramatic scene, with myself in the leading role: 

Treasure-seekers assembled, including a cold and cynical Scot.  Enter Virginia Harding.  She wears an expression elaborately casual, but there is a light of concealed triumph in her eye.

Aunt Jane:  You thoughtless child, where have you been?  Really, my state of mind about you—­etc., etc.

V.  H.:  Only for a stroll, dear aunt.  And by the way, in case it’s of interest to any one, I might mention that during my walk I fell over a boulder which happened to be marked with the letters B. H. and a cross-bones.

Immense commotion and excitement.  Every gaze turned to V. H. (including that of cynical Scot) while on every cheek is the blush of shame at remembering that this is the same Young Person whom Miss Higglesby-Browne was permitted to cut off by treaty from the ranks of the authorised treasure-seekers.

Lured by this pleasing vision I had turned my back on Cookie and the camp, when I was arrested by an exclamation: 

“Miss Jinny!”

I turned to, find Cookie gazing after me with an expression which, in the familiar phrase of fiction, I could not interpret, though among its ingredients were doubt and anguish.  Cookie, too, looked pale.  I don’t in the least know how he managed it, but that was the impression he conveyed, dusky as he was.

“Miss Jinny, it mos’ look lak yo’ ‘bout to go perambulatin’ in dese yere woods?”

“I am, Cookie,” I admitted.

The whites of Cookie’s eyes became alarmingly conspicuous.  Drawing near in a stealthy manner he whispered: 

“Yo’ bettah not, Miss Jinny!”