Whispering Forest of Death

African drums are talking. The symphony of the jungle night plays on, an undertone of humming insects like a million violins muted by distance. Mr. Cottobark of a jackal, the chatter of monkeys, and scurrying squeak of small denizens, backed by the soulful wail of a night bird.

Furtive unseen voices of the jungle. The bullfrog booms his incessant message. The darkness is bebled with invisible movement. Suddenly the earth vibrates to the roar of a lion. Thank dead silence follows. The baton is held poised. Not an instrument speaks.

Every creature holds its breath. The world listens. Then one by one as if guided by the hand of a master. Each instrument is brought again into the weird symphony of a jungle night. This is Africa.

If RB, a beautiful native girl and mistress of the arts of hypnotism, shows Professor Edwards an antique cup of solid gold, which she says is part of a buried treasure lying in the whispering forest of death.

If RB urges him to start for the forest immediately, and after a week's travel, the professor and his party to gather with if RB leaving the moonlit plane over which they have just passed. Enter the whispering forest of death.

Here, here, please. I can swear there are voices coming from all around it. Can't you hear them, Father? I know what you mean, only yes. But you mustn't think of it that way. No matter what the natives say, we know it's the wind through those tall trees overhead.

Well, what causes it, sir? We've been in force before, not heard that the killer voice like a pact. I don't think I can give you an explanation, but why think of it? Think of it.