Chapter 1
Summer passed like a knife, and the dry days of fall, leached the color from the leaves of the Great Oaks. The noontime air was still and hot; sweat dribbled down my face, collecting in a tiny pool around my lips.
"I will make a hat from its leaves, "I thought, "and I will wear it all winter long!"
As I stripped the twigs and leaves from one tall hickory, I heard a rustling in the leaves behind me. I turned in time to see a leg vanish behind the trunk of an ancient oak.
I looked questioningly at Cudny, my dog, (for I thought it might be he,) but Cudny sat looking at me, and wagging his tail.
"Then I thought it must be one of the squirrels. But the squirrels were all asleep in their nests between the huge roots of the oak. Besides, they would not run from me; I had fed and comforted them many times. One of them bit at my fingers one day, when I gave him a chestnut.
"I searched the ground beneath the trees with my eyes, and picked up a stone for a weapon. But I saw no tracks.
"A log truck rolled along the country road, and I listened for a long time for the noise of the engine as it rolled by. I saw the long shadow of the truck cross our clearing, but heard no sound.
"I jumped up and down. Cudny started up and laid back his ears.
"Nothing, nothing. I stood still looking about me. There was no one. I turned to go, and turned again to look behind me, and jumped to my feet, my heart beating with fear. For there, between the trees, was a girl with a long black cloak floating about her ankles, covering her feet. Her hair was black and long. She walked slowly as children walk, one step at a time, pausing a long time between each step.
"Her eyes were large, and her face thin. No, not very thin. Small and fine-featured. Not pretty. A boy's face.
"I looked around the trees again. She followed me, her feet blending into the shadows. Her eyes burned with a strange light. Her black hair was smooth and straight, hanging close about her head and shoulders. Her lips were thin and bloodless, but they were not chapped as lips are sometimes, and they were beautiful because they were not red, like lips that have just been chewed.
"She reached out a thin hand upon which lay a heavy silver ring. "It is a signet ring," I thought. "I will put it upon my finger."
"It is the ring of the murderer!" I exclaimed.
"It is the ring of our secret school," she replied in a soft voice.
"I am not a murderer," I replied. "I am sorry for your loss. We all are. But the ring is a great weapon. . . ."
"You must not come any closer," she said.
"I cannot remember your face," I admitted. "I do not know your name."
"I am Helen. Helen Grant."
"Then you have seen me before?"
"I have seen you hiding in the trees over your mother. I saw you come once and stand in the door. I saw you run in the other direction."
"It was when I saw you that I ran to the door," I replied. "The first time when I saw you, you were standing in the door, and I ran one way; I came back to get my father.