Still caught together, though in tatters, by long strings
of shells and beads, they shone, a ghostly film of white from out the
dimness. A breath, and the whole would have crumbled into dust. Yet the
beads, she noticed, were still perfect as when strung by slim brown
fingers centuries before. Only half believing it was not all of it a
dream, she lifted them strand after strand. Then, suddenly, she gave a
little cry. Somewhere from out the torn folds a slender chain had
slipped. Trembling with a curiosity that bordered close on terror, she
carried it to the light, and there it glowed, a glancing stream of
crimson, in her hand.
"Wildenai's necklace!" she breathed, and hid her face.
There came the sound of a step outside. The manzanita branches were
pushed impatiently aside and he stood before her.
The journey across the channel from Los Angeles had seemed twice as long
as when he made it a few weeks before, and he had hurried all the way
from the hotel straight to the little cavern. But now that he had found
her again, there seemed to be plenty of time for everything, and he
stood quite silent looking down at her. He was glad he had found her
there, glad, in a curious, unreasoning way, for the quiet of the late
afternoon, for the faint fragrance of the Mariposa lilies blooming just
beyond the ledge.
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