Harry endeavored to have the connection restored; but without success.
LONG after he had put aside the telephone, Harry Vincent lay awake, wondering. He was positive that Arlette DeLand had called him; that she was the girl whom he had seen at the Pink Rat.
But he could not understand how she had learned that he was at the Baronet Hotel. Nor could he explain her connection with these strange events that were developing.
Who was she? What was her part in the mystery?
If a friend, why did she try to conceal her identity?
If an enemy, why had she saved him four nights ago, and warned him to-night?
It was all beyond Harry Vincent’s comprehension. Yet he was now sure of one important fact.
Lake Marrinack was a place where danger lay in store!
Mystery, excitement, and adventure. These three factors were intriguing to Harry’s mind. The warning that had come in the night had assured him that they were ahead.
Harry phoned the room clerk to call him at six in the morning.
He was anxious to start for Lake Marrinack.
CHAPTER XV
DEATH ISLAND
IT was late in the afternoon when Harry Vincent approached the vicinity of Lake Marrinack. Certain events had caused him to delay.
In the lobby of the Baronet Hotel, he had been sure that some one was watching him, even though he could not discover the invisible observer.
On that account he had taken a taxicab to the Grand Central Station; and on the way, he had noticed that another cab was following.
Losing himself in the labyrinth of passages leading to the subway, Harry eventually had taken the shuttle to the West Side subway, and had thus reached the Pennsylvania Station, where he had boarded a train for Long Island.
All this had meant delay; he had missed the Bridgeport Ferry, and had been forced to wait idly in his car. Detours in Connecticut had further retarded his trip. But now the road map showed Lake Marrinack was near by.
Harry pulled the car to the side of the road, and took another glance at the map. He had studied it on the ferry; but he had forgotten certain details.
There was a town called Marrinack, a short distance from the lake. The road continued past the town, and skirted the shore of the lake. Harry decided that the town was the proper place to make inquiries.
His instructions were simply to report to Professor Arthur Whitburn. Harry had made no phone call to Claude Fellows, to-day; yet he felt that he already had certain information.
The message from the mysterious woman was a sure indication that he was going to meet the right Whitburn.
This expedition promised danger. Harry pondered over the circumstances as he drove easily along the narrow, winding highway.
He remembered the last journey of this sort that he had made in behalf of The Shadow. That had been an eventful trip.
It was then that he had met Vic Marquette, the secret-service agent. He and Marquette had been captured by counterfeiters, and rescued by The Shadow. Harry wondered what had become of Vic Marquette, for the secret-service agent was a man of mystery himself. Even his associates could not keep track of him. Marquette was a man who played a lone hand. Harry had met him on that one occasion only; since then he had never heard of Vic Marquette.
The houses of the town of Marrinack appeared in the distance as Harry reached the top of a small hill. Unconsciously, Harry increased the speed of the car.
He was nearing his destination. He suddenly felt the urge of adventure.
THE town proved to be a tiny hamlet. Harry stopped before the general store, and alighted from his car. He entered, and spoke to the proprietor, a middle-aged man, who replied with a broad New England accent.
“I am looking for the home of Professor Whitburn,” explained Harry. “I understand that he lives on an island in the lake near here. Is that correct?”
The storekeeper nodded.
“Yeah,” he answered. “You mean the old professor. He lives on Death Island.”
“Death Island?” Harry’s question showed surprise.
“That’s the name of the place,” said the storekeeper tersely. “You can’t drive out to the island, though. The professor has a telephone. Call him up, if you want. He has a motor boat on the island.”
Harry went to the telephone. It was an obsolete contrivance, with a handle on the side, to ring for the operator. It took him several minutes to obtain the connection with Professor Whitburn’s house.
A gruff voice answered.
“I’d like to speak to Professor Whitburn,” said Harry.
“Professor is busy,” came the reply. “Who is calling him?”
“My name is Harry Vincent — “
“Oh, you’re the man he’s expecting. Where are you now?”
“Down in the village.”
“Come up to Harvey’s Wharf. They’ll tell you where it is. The motor boat will be there to meet you — “
“What shall I do with my car?” questioned Harry.
“You’ll have to leave it in the village garage,” was the reply. “Get a man to drive up with you. Let him take the car back. There’s no place to keep it up here.”
Concluding the conversation, Harry turned to question the storekeeper. He noted that the proprietor was talking with two old men, both of whom appeared to be natives of the district. Their conversation ceased when Harry approached.
“Where’s the village garage?” asked Harry.
“Across the street,” said the proprietor.
“Guess I’ll have to leave my car there,” Harry remarked. “I’m going out to visit Professor Whitburn.”
One of the old men removed his clay pipe from his mouth, and advanced a question.
“You know the old professor, eh?” he asked. “Been out there before?”
“If I had been out there before,” smiled Harry, “I wouldn’t be asking the way to the place.”
The old man laughed; but he shot a significant glance at the storekeeper, who made a quick motion indicating silence. Harry detected this, and was too curious to let the matter pass.
“What’s the island like?” he questioned.
The proprietor did not reply; but the old man took advantage of the opening wedge in the conversation.
“They call it ‘Death Island,’” he replied.
“Why?”
“I don’t just know. It’s always been called Death Island. But lately it’s been kinda livin’ up to the name they give it.”
“How’s that?”
“They say two men have died there in the past six months. Ain’t nobody seems absolutely sure about it; the coroner knows, I s’pose. He’s been out to see the professor. But it’s been kept kinda hushed.”
“So Professor Whitburn does not live alone?”
“No, sir. He’s got three or four men out there with him. Don’t know none of ‘em. All strangers round here. That’s what we can’t just figger.
“S’pose he needs work done. Why don’t he hire some of the folks here in town? ‘Stead of that, he brings in strangers.
“Well, they’re welcome. There ain’t none of the boys round here wants to work for Whitburn, now, though lots of ‘em would ha’ taken a job when first he come here.”
The old man ended his excited sentences by replacing his clay pipe in his mouth. He puffed furiously; then gazed questioningly past Harry and blinked his eyes.
Harry sensed that the storekeeper was signaling to the old fellow, prompting him to be quiet. Evidently the conjecture was correct; for the native became suddenly thoughtful.
“How long has Professor Whitburn lived on Death Island?” asked Harry.
The old man shook his head.