the Everglades.  I came through here, once—­oh, it must be twenty years ago—­I was a school-kid, at the time.  An old Seminole chief, with the picturesque Indian name of Aleck, showed it to me.  His dad once cut off a party of refugees, somewhere along here, on their way to the sea, and deleted them.  Several of the modern Seminoles knew the path, he said.  But almost no white men ....  Get that queer odor, and that flapping sound over to the left?  That was a ’gator.  And he seems to be fairly big and alive, from the racket he made.  Lucky we’re on the path and not in the undergrowth or the water!”

He talked on, as though not in the least concerned as to whether or not she might hear or heed.  And, awed by the gruesome stillness and gloom of the place, Claire had not the heart to bid him be silent.  Any sound was better, she told herself, than the dead noiselessness of the surrounding forest.

“That’s the tenth mosquito I’ve missed,” cheerily resumed Brice, slapping futilely at his own cheek.  “In the old days, they used to infest Miami.  Now they’re driven back into the swamps.  But they seem just as industrious as ever, and every bit as hungry.  It must be grand to have such an appetite.”

As Claire disregarded this flippancy, he fell silent for a space, and together they moved on, through the thick of the swamp.  Then: 

“There’s something I’ve been trying to figure out,” he recommenced, speaking more to himself than to Claire.  “There must be some sort of sense to all the signaling Hade does when he comes out of this swamp, onto your lawn.  If it was only that he doesn’t want casual visitors to know he has come that way, he could just as well go around by the road to the south of the swamp, and come openly to the house, by the front.  And, if things are to be moved to or from the house, they could go by road, at night, as well as through here.  There must be something more to it all.  And, I have an idea I know what it is ....  That enclosed space, with the high palings and the vines all over it, to the north of your house, I think you said that was a little walled orchard where Standish is experimenting on some ‘ideal’ orange, and that he is so jealous of the secret process that he won’t even let you set foot in it.  The funny part of it is:—­”

He stopped short.  Claire had been walking a few yards in advance, and they had come out on the widest part of the trail, about midway through the woods.  To one side of the beaten path was a tiny clearing.  This clearing was strewn thick with a tangle of fallen undergrowth, scarce two feet high at most.

And they reached it, the girl gave a little cry of fright and stepped back, her hands reaching blindly toward Gavin, as if for support or comfort.  The gesture caused her to drop the flashlight.  Its button was “set forward,” so it did not go out as it fell.  Instead, it rolled in a semi-circle, casting its ray momentarily in a wide irregular arc as it revolved.  Then it came to a stop, against an outcrop of coral, with a force that put its sensitive bulb permanently out of business.