“Polmore!”
The professor paused after calling the name. He waited a few seconds; then heard a response from somewhere in the house. Footsteps followed. A frail, peak-faced man appeared from the corridor.
Whitburn beckoned the fellow into the study.
“Polmore,” he cackled, “you are my secretary. Your services, however, are limited to handling my correspondence. You would find it difficult to locate objects in this room, would you not?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Polmore.
“Do you think that I could discover anything if I looked for it?” demanded Whitburn.
“Perhaps, sir,” assented the secretary. “But I should class a search as difficult.”
“You are wrong, Polmore,” chuckled the professor. “I could locate any book — any paper — almost instantly! That surprises you? I thought it would.”
“Is anything missing, sir?”
“No. But articles have been moved. Polmore, I tell you some one has been prying in this study!”
“Impossible, sir! I was in here only a short while ago—”
“And you saw nothing amiss? That is no argument, Polmore. Not unless you disturbed my arrangements.”
“No indeed, sir. I came in here only to learn if you had instructions for this evening.”
“And you saw no one?”
“No one, sir.”
The professor eyed his secretary sharply. Then, in a raspy tone, he demanded:
“Where is Stephen?”
“In the laboratory, sir.”
“And Bragg?”
“Upstairs, I believe.”
“Summon them, Polmore. At once.”
The secretary departed, closing the door behind him. Old Whitburn advanced to the window sill and began to stroke the cat. All the while, the old man’s roving glance kept moving about the room. Then, with a crafty smile upon his face, Whitburn went to the desk.
From a drawer, he produced an automatic. Placing it on the desk, Whitburn drew a large watch from his pocket. He detached the timepiece from its chain. He opened the back and removed a tiny key that lay within.
Turning to the bookcase, the professor ran his hand along an ornamental molding at the top. His fingers stopped and pressed; then moved to the left. A portion of the molding went inward and slid beneath the next section. An opening showed; within it was a strip of metal, with a tiny keyhole.
WHILE Whitburn was going through this procedure, the door of the room was slowly opening. Some one was peering into the study. A watcher was observing the old man’s actions.
Whitburn turned to the desk and picked up the key with his left hand; the automatic with his right. Intent, the old man did not know that a spy was watching everything he did.
Swinging to the bookcase, Whitburn unlocked the metal strip that had been hidden by the woodwork. The metal slid away. With his free left hand, the old man drew forth a small stack of papers. Chuckling, he brought his prize into the light. All the time, the man outside was watching.
Quex was looking toward the door. From his perch on the window sill, the cat noticed the moving barrier. Slowly, the animal had begun to arch its back. Suddenly, Quex emitted a fierce spit. Instantly, the door closed.
Professor Whitburn swung about. Holding the papers in his left hand, he leveled his automatic toward the door. His sharp eyes caught a tremble of the knob. Grimly, the professor waited. Silence followed; then a slight creak, from far beyond the door. It meant the departure of an intruder.
Across the study was a fireplace. The glow of a dying flame showed from burned logs. Stepping across the room, the old man stretched out his left hand and let the papers fall into the fireplace. The flames caught the dry sheets. Fire crackled as the papers burned.
Satisfied that he had destroyed his documents, Professor Whitburn went back to the bookcase. He locked the metal slide and closed the molding. He replaced the little key in the watch and put the timepiece in his pocket.
Footsteps from the corridor. This time, the professor caught the sound of approach. Quex arched his back. Whitburn chuckled in challenge. Then some one knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” rasped the professor.
“Stephen, sir,” came the response from beyond the door.
“Come in,” ordered Whitburn.
THE door opened. A stocky, honest-faced man stepped into the room and stared puzzled as he saw the gun in Whitburn’s hand. The professor lowered the weapon. He moved over by the window sill and began to soothe the tiger-cat.
“Where is Polmore?” inquired the professor, mildly.
“Looking for Bragg, sir,” replied Stephen. “He called me from the lab a few minutes ago. He said you wanted to see me.”
“I do. Have you a gun?”
“No, sir.”
“Open the lower drawer of the desk. You will find three revolvers. For yourself, Bragg and Polmore. Have them ready.”
“Very well, sir.”
Stephen complied. Whitburn motioned for him to retain one gun after he had laid the three weapons on the desk. Stephen started to pocket a revolver. Whitburn shook his head.
“Have it ready, Stephen,” he ordered, in a warning tone. “Danger threatens.”
“Here?” questioned Stephen, anxiously. “On Death Island?”
“Yes,” returned the professor, solemnly. “But we shall be prepared for it. Four of us, Stephen.”
With this admonition, old Whitburn again turned toward the closed door.
Automatic clutched firmly in his clawlike fist, the aged inventor awaited the arrival of Polmore and Bragg.
With three henchmen at his bidding, Professor was ready to cope with the prowling enemies who had entered his abode.
CHAPTER III
TO THE SHADOW
BLINK — blink — blink—
A light was flashing from the cliff at the head of Death Island. The intermittent rays of a powerful electric torch were sending a coded message to the mainland.
Men were watching it from the darkness of the shore. Crouched near a small dock, they were picking out the import of the message. An evil laugh sounded in the thickened night.
“Did you read it, Nuland?” came a question.
“Yes, chief,” was the growled reply. “I got it.”
“Act, then,” came the order. “Put the telephone line out of commission. Temporarily — as you did before. Then summon the men from the cottage. Where is the boat?”
“Fifty yards down the shore, chief. Behind the big rock.”
“I shall meet you there. No hurry. We have ample time. Stealth is more important than haste.”
“You’re right, chief.”
Nuland went away through the darkness. After the man’s stumbling footsteps had receded, another laugh sounded by the shore. Its tone had changed. Eric Hildrow was sneering in his own fashion; not in the manner that he used in the character of Logan Collender.
The master plotter had arrived at the right time. Nuland, head of a crew stationed on the mainland, had been awaiting this signal from Death Island. Word had come. The crew was ready.
But Nuland, the lieutenant, was no longer in command. Hildrow, himself, was here to rule the game.
WHILE Eric Hildrow kept his evil watch on Death Island, Professor Whitburn and Stephen were still waiting in the study. Polmore had not yet returned; nor had Bragg put in an appearance.
Whitburn, grim, was gazing steadily toward the door. Stephen’s frank face showed anxiety.
Even Quex shared the tenseness. The big cat was restless. The animal had risen on the window sill and was roaming tigerlike among the papers. When the cat paused and arched its back, both Whitburn and Stephen noted the fact.
Then came hurried footsteps in the corridor. Some one rapped at the door. Whitburn ordered the arrival to enter.