And she, in that very
innocence which amuses me so, has no suspicion--"
He turned, and vainly David keyed his ears to catch the final
words. The voices in the cabin grew lower. Twice he heard the soft
laughter of the woman. St. Pierre's voice, when he spoke, was
unintelligible.
The thought that his random adventure was bringing him to an
important discovery possessed Carrigan. St. Pierre, he believed,
had been on the very edge of disclosing something which he would
have given a great deal to know. Surely in this cabin there must
be a window, and the window would be open--
Quietly he felt his way through the darkness to the shore side of
the cabin. A narrow bar of light at least partly confirmed his
judgment. There was a window. But it was almost entirely
curtained, and it was closed. Had the curtain been drawn two
inches lower, the thin stream of light would have been shut
entirely out from the night.
Under this window David crouched for several minutes, hoping that
in the calm which was succeeding the storm it might be opened. The
voices were still more indistinct inside. He scarcely heard St.
Pierre, but twice again he heard the low and musical laughter of
the woman.
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