Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD
London Edition – vol.102
Self-doubt was a foreign feeling to George Challenger, but he was feeling it now. How could he have been so arrogant – so certain that he would return the triumphant hero? And now Jessie was alone and without proper means. The group had assembled around the dining table with the newspaper at its center. The professor was uncharacteristically silent and Marguerite could see the strain on the older man's face.
"George," she reached out to his folded hands, "for all we know this paper is a complete forgery."
"Yes," he replied, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, "but then, we shouldn't be here at all – should we?" His blunt words caused Veronica's shoulders to tense. Her confident exterior was genuine, but lingering fears of abandonment were forever needles at her heart.
The young woman's subtle reaction was not lost on Roxton. "Well, we are here, George," he said, looking straight into Veronica's eyes. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, Marguerite is right; this whole thing is likely just a hoax."
Challenger took a deep breath to collect himself and then, feigning his usual confidence he said, "I suggest, then, we uncover the origin of this troublesome newspaper posthaste."
"Where there's a paper box, there's a deliveryman," the hunter said, as he pushed himself away from the table. "I'll start by looking for tracks near the front gate." Veronica had always favored actions over words and she immediately offered her assistance. And then the two experienced trackers headed for the elevator, effectively ending the discussion.
"The only footprints I see travel straight through the gateway," John said. He had taken a knee and was lightly moving aside loose leaves with a twig.
The other tracker nodded in agreement, "Yes, our prints from yesterday." On delicate feet, she moved to the far side of the gate. "Nothing new out here either," she added.
From the balcony, Marguerite watched the two of them fuss over scuffed dirt and trampled weeds. She could see from their bearing that they hadn't found any new evidence. She had her own suspicions regarding this unexpected delivery and she would put her theory to the test during the night. But first, she needed to talk with John.
She knew the man too well. The thought of losing his family home and his inheritance weighed heavy on his mind. Even if they should never return to England, being The Earl of Avebury was part of who he was. He had hidden his concerns from the others well enough, but she had seen through his countenance – and more importantly, she knew why he feared the loss.
During supper that evening the newspaper dominated the conversation. They made a game of it, reading the ads aloud and poking fun at the absurdity of civilized life. But underneath the laughter was an unspoken fear that they would never again be a part of that world – that all of their family and friends thought them deceased.
As the night wore down Marguerite lingered near Roxton. She wanted to be sure that he felt welcome to slip into her room later. As obvious as it may have been to their housemates, the two remained discreet about their sleeping arrangements. But the hunter's thoughts were an ocean away, and to her surprise he excused himself early. He retired to his room offering only a slight nod of goodnight.
Later, as she lay in her own bed, she considered tiptoeing across the hall to join him, but her pride and decorum – well, her pride anyway – kept her alone and worried. Her mind turned back to the newspaper; she would deal with John's insecurities tomorrow. She stood and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, pulling the excess covering and her pillow snug to her chest. The rest of the tree house had gone quiet. She crossed the common room with a stealthy step and slipped out onto the balcony.
She settled back into the large weathered chair and pulled her feet up under her blanket. She had only seen one newspaper on the Plateau before today and if her suspicions were correct, she would see a third by morning. Sleep came in short stints, but she kept her ears on the jungle floor. Light had just begun to touch the morning sky when she heard the hoof beats. The balcony railing held her back as she leapt from her slumber and leaned out over the clearing.
Down at the front gate a dark horse slid deftly to a stop. The rider executed a quick spin and then bolted back into the thick foliage – but not before retrieving a newspaper from a saddlebag and quickly stowing it into the paper box.
Marguerite said only two words, "Olmec..."
END – vol.102
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