Watching Death Island. Another search is to be made in Professor Whitburn's study.'
'Another search?' quizzed Hildrow, angrily. 'I thought that had been accomplished.'
'Apparently it had, chief. But there still seems to be a chance that Professor Whitburn has a
duplicate set of Commander Dadren's plans. A letter came in from Cedar Cove -'
'Enough, Marling!' snarled Hildrow. 'This may ruin everything!'
'How, chief? If we grab Dadren's plans -'
'They will be worthless if Professor Whitburn has copies. This search must not fail. What is
more, it must be accomplished to-night. At any cost!'
'Nuland says it will be -'
'But Nuland is not infallible.' Hildrow yanked a watch from his pocket and studied the dial.
'Four o'clock. How long will it take me to reach Lake Marrinack?'
'By car?'
'Yes.'
'From three to four hours.'
'That is sufficient. Come, Marling. I want to talk to you while I am preparing.'
Hildrow paced across the living room. He entered a small dressing room and seated
himself at a table before a mirror. Bringing out a box of make-up equipment, he began a
transformation of his features.
MARLING watched in admiration, as his chief applied a brownish ointment that took away
the pallor of his face. Then came action on the eyebrows. Tugging at them, Hildrow made
them double in size. He dipped his fingers in a glossy cream and repeated the process. His
eyebrows became almost black.
Flattening his sleek hair, Hildrow produced a tight-fitting wig, with heavy black hair. He
donned it and surveyed his face. Then, with a final leer, he produced a chunky black
mustache. Dabbing his upper lip with spirit gum, he put on the last article of disguise.
As an afterthought, the plotter dug in a small box and found a small gold tooth. He slipped
this over the upper bicuspid; then grinned at his reflection in the mirror. The fake gold tooth
glimmered as Hildrow smiled.
Arising, Hildrow faced Marling. The tool stared. He would never have recognized his chief.
The disguise, though exaggerated, was perfect, so far as a concealment of the plotter's
normal features.
'Call the Western Garage, Marling,' ordered Hildrow. 'Tell them to have Mr. Collender's
coupe ready. I have the licenses'- he tapped his pocket—'and they have never seen Mr.
Collender in person. They will see him now for the first time.'
'All right, chief. Only one thing. When Nuland sees you -'
'He will recognize me. This is the disguise that I have always used with him. Moreover, he
will recognize his countersign when I give it.'
Marling nodded as he went to call the garage. Hildrow remained in front of the mirror. He
adjusted his disguise; then reached in a table drawer and produced a pack of cork-tipped
cigarettes. They went with the character that the plotter had assumed. Hildrow smoked
panatela cigars only when he was himself.
TEN minutes later, a black-haired, mustached man strolled unnoticed from the lobby of the
big apartment hotel. He hailed a passing cab and ordered the driver to take him to the
Western Garage. Arrived there, he found a gray coupe standing just within the door.
The mustached man produced his license cards and handed them to the attendant. While
the garage man was reading the name of Logan Collender, Hildrow was lighting a
cork-tipped cigarette. The attendant returned the cards.
'All right, Mr. Collender,' he said. 'Here's your car. The tank's full. We changed the oil.'
A nod. A glimmer of a gold tooth. Then Eric Hildrow, alias Logan Collender, entered the
coupe and drove from the garage. The master plotter was on his way to Lake Marrinack.
CHAPTER II. ON DEATH ISLAND
EARLY evening had arrived. Gloomy darkness had settled upon the waters of Lake
Marrinack. A silent surface, undisturbed by ripples, had replaced the sparkling blue that
distinguished this sheet of water.
Secluded from traveled highway, Lake Marrinack was a seldom-visited spot. Even the
residents of the near-by town of Marrinack shunned the lake, for the place was one of evil
superstitions. Weird rumors persisted regarding Lake Marrinack; and they centered chiefly
on the solitary isle that rested in the midst of the lake.
Death Island it was called. The name had double significance. Not only had doom befallen
upon certain persons who had lived there; the island also gave a foreboding appearance of
death itself. Looming a mile out in the lake, the front cliff of Death Island bore a remarkable
resemblance to a mammoth skull, grinning above the level of the waters.
Viewed in the paling twilight, Death Island was a fearful spot. Approach was impossible by
the front, for the huge cliff offered no landing place. At one side of the island was a secluded
cove. There, a small dock formed a landing spot. Beyond that, there was no visible sign of
human habitation on the island.
Thick woods obscured the lone house that stood behind the cliff. Yet the house itself was
large. It was located in almost the exact center of the small island; and those visitors who
had actually approached it agreed that the house was as spooky-looking as Death Island
itself.
With walls of blackened stone, the house loomed forbidding among the trees. Long and
high, it was flat-roofed, save for a square tower near the rear of the building. That tower, a
white-walled addition to the house itself, looked like a ghostly form that had sprouted from
the level roof.
Dim lights shone from the windows of the house on Death Island. Bars showed on those
same windows. The strange abode was one in which uninvited visitors could expect no
welcome. Curious people stayed away from the house on Death Island.
WITHIN the house was a room that contrasted oddly with the dull exterior. This was the front
room on the ground floor. It was the private study of Professor Arthur Whitburn, the old
inventor who owned the house on Death Island. Professor Whitburn's study was a cheery,
well-lighted room.
This room was in great disorder. A large bookcase ranged along one wall, and fully half of
its volumes had been removed. These missing books had not gone far. They were strewn
about the study. Stacks on the tables, stacks on the chairs, stacks on the floor; besides
these were other books, dropped at random, here and there.
In addition to the books, the floor and the furniture held mussed heaps of papers. Glass jars,
pieces of metal tubing, odd-looking mechanical contrivances added to the chaos. There
was a shelf in the corner where these articles belonged; it was a disorderly as the room.
Professor Whitburn had piled bottles and tubes haphazardly upon that shelf.
There was a desk near the center of the room. It was also a hodge-podge of books, papers,
and apparatus. The only object that appeared to be in its proper place was the telephone. It
stood at an angle, however, for it had been propped upon a crazy stack of handwritten
manuscripts.
A wide window sill was also well littered with papers; but this spot showed some semblance
of order. A large tiger-cat had chosen the sill for a resting place. Nestled there, the creature
looked over the room with an expression of part ownership. The cat seemed quite at home
in its select spot.
