The man who called himself Ambrose slipped away into the shadows. Joan tried to follow him with perception, but this she found curio usly hard to do. He returned in a few minutes with several straight sticks which he broke to a uniform length of about twenty inches. These he proceeded to bind firmly to Ben’s left shin with a roll of cloth which he had removed from his trouser pocket.
When he was satisfied that the primitive splint was firm, he picked Coburn up in his arms, handling the not inconsiderable mass as if it were a child. “Come,” he said.
They followed him without a word, back the way they had come, single file through the hurrying snowflakes. Five hundred yards, six hundred yards, then he took a turn that had not been on the path followed by Joan and the two men, and strode confidently away in the gloom.
Joan noticed that he was wearing a light cotton shirt with neither coat nor sweater, and wondered that he had come so far with so little protection against the weather. He spoke to her over his shoulder, “I like cold weather, ma’am.”
He walked between two large boulders, apparently disappeared into the side of the mount ain.
They followed him and found themselves in a passageway which led diagonally into the living rock. They turned a corner and were in an octagonal living room, high ceilinged and panelled in some mellow, light-colored wood. It was softly illuminated by indirect lighting, but possessed no windows. One side of the octagon was a fireplace with a generous hearth in which a wood fire burned hospitably. There was no covering on the flagged floor, but it was warm to the feet.
The old man paused with his burden and indicated the comfortable fittings of the room—three couches.
Chapter Five “—Through a Glass, Darkly”
When Phil entered the living room the next morning he found a small table set with a very sound breakfast for three. While he was lifting plate covers and wondering whether good manners required him to wait until joined by others, Joan entered the room. He looked up.
“Oh! It’s you. Good morning, and stuff. They set a proper table here. Look.” He lifted a plate cover. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a corpse.” She joined his investigations. “They do understand food, don’t they? When do we start?”
“When number three gets here, I guess. Those aren’t the clothes you had on last night.”
“Like it?” She turned around slowly with a swaying mannequin walk. She had on a pearl grey gown that dropped to her toes. It was high waisted; two silver cords crossed between her breasts and encircled her waist, making a girdle. She was shod in silver sandals. There was an air of ancient days about the whole costume.
“It’s swell. Why is it a girl always looks prettier in simple clothes?”
“Simple—hmmf! If you can buy this for three hundred dollars on Wilshire Boulevard, I’d like to have the address of the shop.”
“Hello, troops.” Ben stood in the doorway. They both stared at him. “What’s the trouble?”
Phil ran his eye down Ben’s frame. “How’s your leg, Ben?”
“I wanted to ask you about that. How long have I been out? The leg’s all well. Wasn’t it broken after all?”
“How about it, Phil?” Joan seconded. “You examined it, I didn’t.”
Phil pulled his ear. “It was broken—or I’ve gone completely screwy. Let’s have a look at it.”
Ben was dressed in pajamas and bathrobe. He slid up the pajama leg, and exposed a shin that was pink and healthy. He pounded it with his fist. “See that? Not even a bruise.”
“Hmm—You haven’t been out long, Ben. Just since last night. Maybe ten or eleven hours.”
“Huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Impossible.”
“Maybe so. Let’s eat breakfast.”
They ate in thoughtful silence, each under pressing necessity of taking stock and reaching some reasonable reorientation. Toward the end of the meal they all happened to look up at once.
Phil broke the silence, “Well . . . How about it?”
“I’ve just doped it out,” volunteered Joan. “We all died in the snow storm and went to Heaven. Pass the marmalade, will you, please?”