  In strained silence the brother and sister stood listening, waiting in the dark. Roderick had snapped off the small pocket light which he carried. The sounding footsteps in the distance became hesitant, uncertain. “Sounds as if the person, whoever he may be, were a stranger to the place,” whispered Jean. “Why shouldn’t he be? Place hasn’t been visited for hundreds of years. Look at the dust.” “But he followed us.” “Yes. I wonder why.” For a long time after that they waited in breathless silence. All the time the person, who now halted, now moved a few steps forward, was coming closer and closer. Who could it be? What did he want? Did he know the secrets of this mysterious place, of the magic door? He might. There was hope in that. “Oh, switch on your light,” Jean whispered impatiently. “What’s the use? He’s bound to find us in the end.” Realizing the truth of this, Roderick snapped on his light and sent its rays gleaming straight down the corridor. As it fell full upon the face of the one who had followed them there came a half-suppressed, shrill cry of a child. It was none other than the daughter of the great chief, the one whose life Johnny had saved. “Wianda!” exclaimed Jean, calling the girl’s name as she started forward to embrace her. Unfortunately, this name was the only word they had in common. For a moment the Indian girl’s eyes roamed from one to the other, then with a sudden gesture she held up first three fingers, then only two, as much as to say: “There were three of you. Now there are but two. Where is the other?” For answer, Jean took up the heavy walking stick, and after pointing at the stone door, made as if to push it back. The girl’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Then as her face became thoughtful she backed away to sit down upon the flat rock. There, for five minutes, with head bent low, hands pressing her temples, she sat perfectly still. “Thinking it out,” whispered Roderick. “I wonder what she will do.” In spite of her fears for Johnny’s safety, Jean felt a certain great confidence in this child’s ability to solve the puzzle and set her hero free. Why not? Was she not a native of the place? Did she not know the secrets of the land? “And yet,” she thought with a sinking heart, “why should she? She is little more than a child, while the secrets of this place, if one is to judge by the dust and crumbling decay of rocks, are old as time itself.” Suddenly the Indian girl leaped to her feet. With a swift movement she crossed the corridor and pressed her ear against the stone door. As she stood there listening, across her face there spread such a smile of joy as it had seldom been Jean’s privilege to see. Then the Indian girl motioned for Jean to put her ear against the stone door as she had done. What she heard was a faint tick-tick-tick, or the drip-drip-drip of water. She could not tell what it was, the sound was so very faint. Her heart beat wildly. What could it mean? Why had the Indian girl become so suddenly joyous? Was it a token, this ticking or dripping? Was it a sign that all would be well? It was all very strange, all so unreal that she found herself all but overcome. On her wrist Jean wore a small watch. In her idle hours she had amused herself by teaching the Indian girl to tell the time of morning, noon or evening by it. Now, to her astonishment, she found the girl alternately pointing to the three o’clock mark on the dial, then away at the stone door. “It’s one o’clock,” said Jean. “What can she mean?” “Probably means that at three the door will open of its own free will,” said Roderick, who with his usual skepticism placed little faith in the native girl. “I’m starved,” he grumbled. “Let’s get out of this vile place and find something to eat. Thompson’ll get out of that hole some way. Leave it to him. Any way, we can’t help any.” “We can’t be sure of that,” said Jean soberly. “You may leave if you wish. As for me, I will stay here as long as this native girl does. I’m not going to be shamed by such a little brown one as she.” Roderick sauntered sulkily up and down the corridor for a moment, then sank down upon a rock with a sigh. As for the Indian girl, after listening once more at the door, with the look of joyous satisfaction on her face she sat down in composure to wait. Wait for what? What was to happen in two hours? Jean could not so much as guess. So, without trying, she sat down beside the native girl. To her surprise she found after a time that by listening intently she could catch the faint tap-tap-tap. It was weird, mysterious, fascinating, that steady continuous sound that was so much like the ticking of a clock, yet somehow so different. “What can it mean?” she asked herself. “Can it be that those ancient people held some secrets of motion and power of which we know nothing? Does that door, like the door to a bank vault, open and close to a time schedule? And could it be working after all these years? “How—how impossible!” she breathed. The Indian girl heard the sound of her whisper and, as if understanding the meaning of it, put a hand upon her knee as much as to say: “All things are possible.” “And yet,” Jean went on to assure herself, “it is impossible. Even were it all true, how could this child know the secret of it all?” At that moment there flashed through her mind things Johnny had told her about the ancient Maya civilization, of their culture, their sculpture, their architecture, their art expressed in the working of precious metals and polishing of jewels. “They had mastered the art of writing, too,” she told herself, “and had great libraries. Many of these were destroyed, but some remain. Who knows but these, their descendants, have read from these scrolls the secrets of this strange underground cavern?” So she reasoned, hoped and waited. A half hour passed, an hour, an hour and a half. As the hour of three approached even the skeptical Roderick grew restless. He rose and paced the floor. Jean pulled him down. “I can’t hear the tap-tap when you are walking,” she said. “Listen!” she exclaimed in an awed whisper. “It—it’s stopped!” That was a dramatic moment. The Indian girl knew, too, for her face had suddenly become animated with some great emotion. Gliding swiftly to the white girl’s side, she placed her fingers on her lips. Instantly Jean read her meaning. She sprang to her feet, and at once there came from her throat the clear notes of their call: “Whoo-hoo-hoo, Whoo-hoo-hoo, Whoo-hoo-hoo.” Johnny Thompson, sitting alone in the dark, heard and sprang to his feet. The next moment as the call was repeated again and again, he found himself feeling his way by following the sound closer and closer to the singer. Jean had kept up the call for three minutes when, after holding up a hand for silence, the Indian girl lifted the stout stick as if it were a fairy’s wand and pressed it against the top of the stone door. Amazed, stupified, the brother and sister stared in silence as the great rock began to fall back. Back, back, back it moved until it lay flat upon the floor. At that dramatic moment, smiling like a fairy prince released from an enchanted prison, Johnny stepped over the threshold, free. Could Johnny be pardoned if he embraced his fair deliverers? Well, he must be, for that is exactly what he did, both of them, and the action seemed to him a part of a beautiful ending to a horrible dream. As they turned once more toward the rock that was a door, they saw it was again rising slowly, and with a silence that suggested great power. “Come on,” said Johnny with a shudder. “Let’s get out of here.” “Yes. We must,” said Jean, leading the way. As she glanced back from time to time, Jean saw that Johnny walked as one who is lame, or who carries a heavy burden on his hip. Being a person of unusual judgment, she asked no questions. As they left the outer opening and made their way through the bush to the outer air, Johnny was rather longer than the others in emerging. When he did appear he had lost his limp. Again Jean read the signs, but asked no questions. |
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