One sight of the poised figure told Stuart that whatever the man's errand might be, it would not be one of mercy. Who was this ghoulish being who had so quickly arrived at the scene of the disaster?
Stuart's startled cry was unheard in the roar of the thunder that followed the revealing flash. Helpless, Stuart stood there and waited; then another flash came, and he saw that the door of the car was closed. The evil-visaged man was gone!
Forgetting his injured leg, Stuart fought his way to the car, pushing through underbrush and saplings. He clambered upon the running board and opened the door.
He waited there, tense, his eyes staring downward, unable to view the form of the injured man whom he had left there.
Then came a broad sheet of lightning. Instantly Stuart saw the face of Jefferson, no longer turned downward, as it had been when Stuart left, but staring straight upward with ghastly, unseeing eyes. The gashes and bruises suffered in the crash still adorned the side of the man's face. But above them was a horrible wound. Jefferson's head had been crushed by a blow from some heavy object!
Helpless and alone, there in the car, Stuart's companion had been slain by the hideous man who had come from the storm!
Chapter III — The House on the Island
A sense of overpowering danger gripped Stuart Bruxton as he rested on the running board of the tipped coupe. He had closed the door upon the hideous sight within.
He was groping for an explanation. A helpless man had been done to death while he looked on. What was the meaning of the crime?
It was fear for his own safety that made Stuart act. The monster, lurking in the abating fury of the storm, might return at any moment. The storm itself would be a safer place than this.
Responding to the mental suggestion, Stuart arose and moved wearily toward the road. He kept to the side of the thoroughfare and began a plodding course across the island. Beyond was another bridge. He could cross it and get away from this locality. Then he might find help -
somewhere and come back to investigate. What puzzled Stuart was the motive that might lay behind the appearance of the murderer. Perhaps the man was a maniac. No other explanation seemed likely.
Stuart's leg was troubling him again. He stumbled against a stone, and nearly fell; so he stopped and sat upon the stone.
It was then that he remembered something. When he had slid from the car, Jefferson's body had slipped into the driver's seat. His own escape could not have been witnessed, Stuart reasoned. The murderer, arriving after the accident, had mistaken Jefferson for the driver of the wrecked car. Unless the murderer had stayed in the immediate vicinity, he could not possibly know of Stuart's presence here.
Stuart realized that if he had been alone in that car, he, instead of the hitchhiker, would have been the victim. The thought was amazing!
Half an hour ago, Stuart had been driving for Massachusetts, intending to stop in Philadelphia for the night. He had no enemies; he anticipated no danger.
Now, his car wrecked beyond repair, he was wandering, alone and unarmed, upon a lonely island in a Maryland river, alive only because a chance stranger whom he had picked up had been mistaken for himself!
In the midst of vague theorizing, Stuart remembered what Jefferson had said about the bridges — that they were not unsafe. The peculiar circumstances of the accident impressed him.
Had that bridge been deliberately weakened? It seemed likely. Ordinarily, a car would have crossed it slowly. Only the speed of the coupe had saved it.
A definite thought now ruled Stuart's mind. The murderer had simply completed work which had been intended, but which had failed.
It must be — it could only be — that some other car had been expected to cross that bridge.
Purely through an oddity of circumstances had Stuart been thrust here. Jefferson's advice to follow the short road had led to the disaster, but the hitch-hiker had been the one to suffer.
Still, the thought that the slayer was crazed persisted in Stuart Bruxton's brain as he began his labored limping once more. The inhumanness of the deed made it seem incredible that anything else was possible.
Stuart felt sure that he would obtain immediate aid from the first place he encountered -
but that might be far away.
His left leg could scarcely support him now, and Stuart felt a greater weariness than before. The ground at the side of the road changed suddenly to soft dirt.
This must be a byroad, leading to some spot on the island. If someone lived near here, this would be the place to call for assistance. Peering in the direction from which the road seemed to come, Stuart fancied that he saw a light through the trees.
The storm was over — only a drizzle now remained — and there were no lightning flashes to indicate the way. But as Stuart moved his head back and forth, he occasionally caught sight of a distant sparkle. There must be a house somewhere amid the trees!
Stuart started along the side road. The twinkle of the light became more evident. After a while, Stuart reached a clearing and stood before the looming bulk of an old country house, some mansion of a forgotten period.
A single light showed through a glass panel in the heavy front door. Stuart approached it and peered within.
The room inside the door was a sparsely furnished hallway, lighted by a bright oil lamp.
An elderly man was seated beside the table which bore the lamp. The man was quietly reading, and his white hair and benign appearance were reassuring.
Stuart knocked at the door. He saw the old man look up; then rise to answer the knock.
The door opened. Stuart limped into the light. He was looking at the old man, and he saw a puzzled appearance flit over the quiet face. Then the old man smiled and extended a hand in greeting.
"Ah!" he said. "You are here. I have been waiting for you. Where is your car? I did not hear you drive up."
Stuart realized that the old man had mistaken him for someone else. But there was no time to waste in giving his identity.
"I have had an accident," he said quickly. "My car was wrecked, coming over the bridge.
The whole bridge collapsed."
"You should have been careful," responded the old man, shaking his head in a solemn manner. "I told you to come over that bridge very slowly. You said you would remember. Very slowly." The old man's words brought a sudden understanding. Stuart's belief that the bridge had been weakened came back, now, with startling force. With it came the thought that someone else had been expected to cross it.
The old man had been expecting someone. He had warned that person to cross the bridge slowly. Suppose that advice had been followed! The person heeding it would be in the river, now, buried in a submerged automobile!
There was only one answer. The old man was a party to the crime!
Stuart was in a quandary. The old man must suppose him to he intended victim — one who had an appointment at this place.
Stuart was on the point of blurting out that a mistake was evident; then he checked himself. He could reveal his right name at any time. It might be better wait. He sat down wearily upon an old chair. Then he realized another danger. Jefferson had been murdered, perhaps by the old man's design. Stuart knew that he must feign ignorance of the hitchhiker's death. The old man gave him the opportunity unwittingly.
"You have been hurt," he said, in a kindly tone. "You must rest. My man will be here shortly" — Stuart shuddered at these words, as he thought of the monster in the storm — "and he can look to your car. You have the papers?"
"There's another man in the car," responded Stuart, anxious to avoid answering the question. "I think he is hurt, badly. I am worrying about him. We ought to help him."