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.
'I can't just recollect,' he said.
'Did he come here alone?'
'Don't believe I recollect that, either.'
HARRY left the store, and went across the road to the garage. The building was a converted stable. It
had space for several cars. Harry arranged to leave his coupe there.
The garage owner was away; but the man on duty, who did mechanical work and attended to the small
filling station, volunteered to drive him to Harvey's Wharf.
The fellow expressed mild surprise, when Harry stated where he was going. Then he climbed into the
coupe, and Harry drove along the road.
'You goin' over to see Professor Whitburn?' asked the man.
'Yes,' replied Harry.
'Ain't many goes over to see him.'
'Why not?'
'The old man don't seem to like visitors.'
'They call his place Death Island. Why?'
'It's always been called that,' said the man. 'Folks say that there was an Indian massacre there—back
before the Revolution. Lot of white people killed. The place has been kinda jinxed ever since.'
Harry looked at the man, encouraging him to say more.
'There's only one house on the island,' the garage man stated. 'Built more than a hundred years ago.
They say highwaymen used to hide their stuff there. When I was a kid, we used to go over and dig
around. We never found nothing, though.
'Then some fellow from the city bought the place—fifteen years ago, I reckon. Lived there in the
summer. Only a couple of years, though. He was murdered there.
'After that, nobody went around the place, until this here professor took it, last year. Queer old duck, he
is. Well, he's welcome to the place. I wouldn't take it if it was given to me.'
