"You had someone with you?" The old man's voice was incredulous
"Only a hitch-hiker," replied Stuart quickly. "I picked him up out of the storm."
"Yes — but to bring him here?" The man's alarm was evident.
"I–I figured I was a bit early," said Stuart. Groping for an excuse. "I planned to go into Herkimer and return. He was going there, so I took him along. I couldn't leave him out in such a storm."
"I see," acquiesced the old man. "It was not wise, however. Well, we can do nothing until my man appears, which should be any moment now."
AS if in fulfillment of the old man's prediction, the door opened, and Stuart Bruxton looked up to see the monster whom he had observed beside the wrecked car.
The man was a powerful brute, with tremendous shoulders for one of middle stature. His face, although ugly, did not wear that fiendish expression that Stuart had seen by the lightning flash. Instead, it wore a look of puzzlement as its owner viewed the newcomer.
"Grady," said the old man. "this is the man we have been expecting — Mr. Powell. He tells me that he has had an accident.
"He also had a man riding with him — a hitch-hiker — who was hurt and is still in the car.
Will you go down to the bridge and see what you can do?"
"Yes, sir," growled Grady.
Stuart, watching closely, fancied that he saw a sign pass from the brute to the old man.
Stuart gave no sign that he had noticed it. Instead, he adopted new tactics the moment that Grady had gone. In order to avoid further questioning and to sustain temporarily his identity as that of the unknown Powell, he let his head fall upon his hand and feigned a sudden stupor.
"You must be hurt," said the old man, in an apprehensive voice. "Let me see what I can do for you while we are waiting for Grady to return."
He disappeared, and came back with a bottle, from which he poured a small glass of liquid. He tendered it to Stuart, who pretended great effort in drinking it. It tasted like a brandy.
Stuart showed a slight revival; then sank back into his faked weariness. The old man watched him for a time; then went out of the room into darkness beyond.
To Stuart, only one course seemed logical, even though it might mean increasing danger.
Although his mind was working clearly, he was handicapped physically, not only because of his injured leg, but because of other pains that were now racking him.
He might be able to cope with the old man and overpower him, but it would be virtually impossible to escape, for Grady would surely follow him.
Far better, Stuart thought, to rely on ingenuity. The old man had certainly designed death for Powell, whose part Stuart was playing. But now that Stuart was safely in the house, the old man seemed a bit dumfounded, and was evidently figuring a new plan.
Stuart felt sure that Grady's attack on Jefferson had been made without the old man's knowledge. The servant, seeing that the automobile had not fallen into the river, had taken it upon himself to supply the required death.
Whatever the old man's plan might be, it would not culminate until Grady's return.
Perhaps some break might come in Stuart's favor.
The old man was back, now, and his insistent voice was returning to his previous questioning.
"You have the papers with you?"
The words gave Stuart an inspiration. There was something that the old man wanted as well as Powell's life — namely, papers that Powell was bringing here!
How the old man had intended to get them with Powell's car in the river was beyond Stuart's knowledge. But he did realize, most emphatically, that Powell without the papers would be in a better situation than Powell with them.
The question came again; and Stuart replied, groggily, but truthfully:
"I didn't bring — any papers!"
"You don't have the papers?" The question showed the old man's consternation. "What good is the visit without them? How do you expect me to believe what you may have to say?"
"I thought — thought we could get them — later," was Stuart's evasive answer. "After we had talked together."
Stuart nodded.
"Where are they, then?" questioned the old man.
Stuart pretended a recurrence of his stupor.
"Did you leave them in Baltimore?" came the question. "At the Burnham House?" Again Stuart nodded.
"You still have your room there — going back tonight. Is that the idea?"
"Yes," answered Stuart.
"Very well," said the old man quietly. "We can get them tomorrow, after we have discussed this matter. You must stay here tonight. You are in no condition to leave."
That ended the conversation for the time, and Stuart, nodding drowsily in his chair, congratulated himself upon the way in which he had turned the conversation.
He felt that he was better off as Powell, under the present circumstances. As Stuart Bruxton, he would be an intruder here; and he had a strong suspicion that intruders as well as expected visitors could find sudden death upon this sinister isle.
The door opened to admit Grady. The man spoke to his master, but loud enough for Stuart to hear.
"I found the car," he said. "It's a bad wreck. But there's nobody in it. I guess that hitch-hiker of yours climbed out and started on to Herkimer. It isn't raining anymore, so he'll be all right."
"We can forget about him, then," declared the old man. "Of course, you looked around, didn't you, Grady?"
"All along the road, declared the man. "I saw some footprints going on past our driveway, here, so I reckoned they were his."
"Very well," said the old man
"Mr. Powell is staying here tonight, Grady. He is badly jarred from the accident. He will probably feel better in the morning. Come, we must help him to his room."
Stuart repressed a shudder as Grady lifted him upward. Supported by the murderous menial and the old man, Stuart was conducted up pitch-black stairs. He let his body sag limp, but he was ready to spring at any instant.
There proved to be no occasion for alarm, however. Grady turned on his flashlight to blaze the path, and the three entered a room furnished with two old chairs and a small bed. Here, Grady left, and the old man spoke from the darkness.
"You are tired," he said soothingly, "and I advise you to rest. Sleep well, and we can talk together in the morning."
With these words, the host departed, and Stuart, lying as though oblivious, heard the door close behind him.
Instantly, the young man was alert. He rose from the bed and moved stealthily toward the window. He raised the sash and thrust his hand out toward what appeared to be black night.
Instead of space, his fist encountered a solid barrier.
The window was barricaded with an iron shutter!
Stuart waited. At last, sure that no one could be listening in the hall, he went to the door and tried it, There was no yielding. The door had been solidly locked from the outside. Stuart sat upon the bed and thought, amidst impenetrable darkness. He was a prisoner, here in this strange house. The two men who watched him were murderers. Their next crime might be his death, tomorrow!
Tomorrow?
Stuart wondered if he would ever see the dawn of another morning. His life was hanging in the balance. He was alone and helpless, without friends. There was nothing to do but wait.
Would his pretense of false identity prove his salvation? Perhaps, for the time. But the respite could be no more than temporary.
The one vital thought that governed Stuart Bruxton's mind was the recollection of that upturned face — the face of the murdered man in the car.
Stuart was to have been the victim of that crime! His life had been spared, but only for the moment. Death was the lot intended for him now.
With hope struggling against these fearful thoughts, the prisoner stretched himself on the bed and fell into a restless slumber.