"All right," replied Stokes, in an audible whisper. "Let's go."
The men started toward the path. Harry heard Marsh question Stokes, and he caught the reply:
"Let him stay there. We won't bother him unless he makes trouble."
A slight laugh came from Marsh.
Harry wondered about the last remark. He wondered while he still clung to the roof; he wondered while
he was dropping to the ground.
As he started along the path, far behind the others, the import of the words suddenly dawned upon him.
Stokes and Marsh knew that Marquette—or Crawford, as they knew him—was hiding in the motor
boat!
The sacks had been left there purposely. They must have detected Marquette during the afternoon. They
let him listen in during the evening; they were taking Marquette away from the island. That was their only
scheme.
Harry hurried toward the dock. He was unable to prepare a plan. There would be risk in attempting to
warn Marquette. It was too late now. Harry realized that as he neared the shore of the lake.
Marsh and Stokes had pushed the boat away from the wharf, and had paddled it a hundred yards. The
motor was chugging slowly when Harry arrived.
Sitting near the dock, Harry puzzled over the situation. Gradually, he evolved a theory.
Some one was coming to the island to-night. That could be the only solution; for any activities directed
against Professor Whitburn must necessarily take place here.
Stokes and Marsh had evidently intended to be present. Then the difficulty had arisen. They had
attracted the attention of the man they called Crawford.
They knew that he would be alert and watchful. To attack him might injure their plans. So they had
chosen the simple course of luring him away by this expedition in the motor boat.
Harry noted that the boat had headed up the lake, and that it was moving quite slowly. It would require
more than an hour for them to reach the head of the lake; there they might linger a while, as though
attending to some secret business.
One thing was certain: if Marquette tried to surprise them, he would run into trouble; for they knew of his
presence. Harry hoped that Marquette would keep in hiding.
It was up to Harry to handle the situation on Death Island. Stokes and Marsh had ignored him in their
plans. They believed that he was asleep.
They had no suspicion that he had been in communication with the fellow they knew as Crawford.
Everything was set for the arrival of the third party.
Marquette had put himself in a ridiculous position; at the same time, Stokes and Marsh had made a grave
mistake.
Their confederate was coming with the assurance that he had to deal with none but Professor
Whitburn—an old man, absent-mindedly engrossed in his work. Instead, this unknown arrival would
encounter Harry Vincent—aroused and ready for action.
HARRY turned to the path toward the house. He had gone only a few steps when he stopped to
consider.
There was no good landing place on Death Island, except this spot near the dock. The person who was
coming must necessarily choose this place. Here, in the darkness, Harry could wait, and surprise the
intruder.
Choosing a shadowy spot beneath a tree, Harry sat down, and listened. A few minutes went by; he
began to be doubtful. Then he was sure that he had heard a slight sound on the lake.
He listened, and the noise occurred again. Some one was coming in a canoe. Despite the paddler's care,
slight splashes had been made.
The sound was not repeated, and Harry fancied that he had been mistaken. Then came a grating sound,
not more than a few rods distant. The canoe had been beached on the pebbled water front; but it was
invisible in the darkness.
Harry waited expectantly. At last he detected a light footfall; and in another moment, a figure was
silhouetted against the clearing toward the dock.
Before Harry had time to observe it carefully, the person was gone. Then came slight sounds from the
path. Harry rose, and followed softly.
It was a tense experience, in the darkness of the path. Harry knew that he was following some one who
was not more than twenty feet in advance. Yet that person was moving stealthily, and he was forced to
do likewise. At times he sensed that the other had stopped to listen. He did the same.
They were nearing the house now. The slope of the path had ended. Harry had neared a very slight bend,
and he was sure that the other person would have stopped because of the proximity of the house.
Abandoning caution, he leaped forward, and came upon a person in the darkness. His approach had
been heard; his enemy had tried to slip away from the path, but too late. Harry seized the person quickly,
fearing a revolver shot.
To his surprise, there was no resistance. His opponent collapsed, and was instantly overpowered.
He thought for a second that he was being duped; that the other was pretending unconsciousness. He
drew his flashlight from his pocket, and turned the light on the form that lay helpless before him.
The beam of the flashlight showed the face of Arlette DeLand!
CHAPTER XXVII. INTO THE SNARE
IT was two or three minutes before the girl regained consciousness. She opened her eyes, and blinked as
she saw the flashlight.
Her head was resting on Harry's shoulder; she gasped as she realized that she had been captured. Then
her worried expression changed to a smile as she recognized Harry.
"Are you all right?" questioned Harry.
"Yes," replied the girl. Then her expression became solemn. "But are you safe—Harry?"
"What do you mean?" Harry's voice became suddenly severe. "Tell me. What are you doing here?"
"I have come to warn you."
"To warn me? I can hardly believe that—after what Bruce Duncan has told me."
"Bruce Duncan!" The girl's exclamation was involuntary.
"Yes," replied Harry. "Bruce Duncan. Do not pretend that you do not know him. You are the girl I met in
the Pink Rat. You are also Arlette DeLand. Do you admit it?"
"Yes."
"Why did you try to mislead me, then?"
"I couldn't help it," said the girl. "Please believe me. We must not waste time here. I can tell you
everything, later.
"But now you are in danger. That is why I came—to warn you. I tried to tell you over the phone one
night -"
Her voice broke. Then her expression changed to one of terror.
"Please," she said, in a pleading voice. "Believe me now. You must act at once. There are dangerous men
here. They may attack at any moment -"
"The men have left," said Harry sternly. "Both of them went away a few -"
"But there is another," interrupted the girl. "He is most dangerous of all. He came here an hour ago—one
man met him, and took him in the motor boat -"
A sudden realization dawned on Harry, as he gazed at the girl's eyes, and listened to her beseeching
words. He knew now that she was speaking the truth.
The enemy was already on Death Island! Stokes had brought back more than empty sacks; he had
transported a man from the mainland!
"I saw him from the woods," explained Arlette. "Believe me, when I say that the man is here. He is
powerful; he is superhuman -"
"Sh," warned Harry. Rising, he helped the girl to her feet.
"I trust you," he whispered. "I believe you, Arlette. I understa
nd everything—now. You must help me.
"I am here to protect an old man—Professor Whitburn. He is alone in the house. Our enemy may be
there now. Come!"
HE guided the girl to the door; and they entered the living room. The house was silent as a tomb. The
ticking of the clock on the mantel was audible.
"Have you a revolver?" questioned Harry.
Arlette shook her head.
"My only thought was to warn you," she whispered. "I found a canoe, after the motor boat had gone.
Harry, I have been here two nights, watching across the lake."
Harry produced a revolver from his pocket, and gave it to the girl. He had slipped two automatics in his
coat when he had left his room.
For an instant he had qualms. Suppose Arlette was deceiving him! Then his doubts vanished. The girl
would not have saved him once, and warned him again unless she intended to be his friend.
Harry conducted Arlette to the kitchen. There she would not be seen by any one entering the house.
There was only one course to follow. He must search the premises, carefully watching for any traps that
might have been laid for him. The enemy might already be in the house.
It was more likely that he was still outside. In that case, Arlette could watch the door while Harry
searched. But first there was an important duty to make sure that Professor Whitburn was safe.
Harry stationed Arlette so that she could see the outer door, looking into the living room from the
kitchen.
"Be ready," he whispered. "If any one enters the house, shoot. Not too quickly; be sure it is an enemy -"
"I shall recognize the man who came here," replied Arlette. "He has never injured me; in fact, he once
saved me from harm. But your life is at stake, Harry, and—and -"
Harry pressed the girl's hand in the darkness. Then he left the room.
Harry crossed the living room, and knocked at the door opposite. Then he entered through the passage.
Professor Whitburn was at his desk, drawing diagrams on a sheet of paper. Harry stood a moment, in
silence; then, realizing that time was precious, he coughed to attract the old man's attention. The
professor looked up.
"Ah, Vincent," he said. "What do you wish?"
"Nothing, sir," said Harry. "That is, nothing for myself. I was about to retire, and I wondered if you might
have some late instructions -"
"None at all," replied the professor brusquely. "I would have called you before this, Vincent."
A tiny alarm clock began to ring. It was on the desk, close by the professor.
"There is my reminder," said the professor. "I always have it set when I intend to work late."
He turned off the alarm.
"Now I know that it is getting late," he said. "Also that it is time for me to take my pills. Where are they
now? Marsh set them out for me -"
He spied a bottle under some papers. He uncorked it, and took three tiny white tablets.
"Medicine is a nuisance," remarked Professor Whitburn. "Good night, Vincent."
Harry had learned all that he desired to know.
The enemy had not yet arrived; at least he had not invaded the professor's study. The next task was to
search the house.
He went back to find Arlette.
To his surprise, the girl was not in the kitchen. Why had she left her post? Had she decided to search the
house? That was not in the arrangement.
Arlette would have remained here as she promised. There was only one possible explanation of her
disappearance. She had been surprised and captured!
The enemy could not have come from the outside, nor from upstairs; Arlette had commanded both the
door, and the steps which led to the second floor.
She must have been seized by some one lurking in the kitchen.
Harry thought of the stairs that led to the basement. He turned on his flashlight, and saw that the cellar
door was open. It was a heavy door, and had usually been shut and locked.
The gleam of his light revealed a small object on the floor. It was Arlette's hat. Her captor had carried her
to the cellar.
It required only a few minutes for Harry to investigate the cellar. There were several rooms; but all the
doors were open. His flashlight showed him the chemical laboratory, a workroom, and a storeroom; then
he came upon an archway.
Winding stone steps led downward.
The submarine chamber!
Harry remembered what Marquette had told him about that experimental room, below the level of the
lake. It was the only outlet from the cellar. Arlette must be down there.
Without a moment's hesitation, Harry descended the steps.
He came upon a huge metal door, located on a landing; the door was opened toward him. Beyond it
were more steps, that led into a small, stonewalled room.
Harry's flashlight showed a mechanical device opposite the steps— presumably the torpedo tube. Then
he saw the torpedoes themselves, standing against the wall—heavy, metal shells, more than six feet in
length.
Now his light revealed something on the floor. There lay Arlette, pitifully helpless—bound and gagged.
Harry drew his revolver, and rushed down the stone steps. He flashed the light in every direction.
There was no one else in the room. The man who had captured Arlette had gone.
Harry quickly cut the cords that bound the girl. He released the gag. Arlette had fainted; now she revived
and tried to speak. Harry watched her lips; then saw that they framed a warning.
"Look out!" was her feeble exclamation. "He is here!"
A SOUND came from above, up by the stone stairs. Harry swung his flashlight in that direction, and
leveled his revolver. The gleam of the light revealed the form of a man—a man who wore a brilliant red
mask across his face.
The roar of Harry's revolver was cannonlike in the little room; but his shots were too late.
Just as his finger sought the trigger, Harry saw a crimson-clad hand against the edge of the metal door.
The huge barrier swung shut; the bullets from Harry's gun were deflected by the sheet of steel.
"He was behind the door," gasped Arlette. "I saw him there, Harry."
The door was not entirely shut. Harry noted a width of a few inches. He dashed for the steps; but as he
approached, the muzzle of a revolver was pressed through the opening.
The red hand that clutched it pressed the trigger. Harry collapsed as the bullet struck his shoulder. He
tripped from the steps, rolled over, and lay motionless upon the stone floor.
A few seconds passed; then the door was pressed shut from the other side. A loud click followed, as an
automatic lock was fastened.
Arlette turned to Harry. The man groaned, as she pressed a handkerchief against his wound. His head
had struck the floor, and he had been momentarily stunned. He recovered his senses, and looked about
him.
"We are trapped," said Arlette. "But perhaps we may escape. Some one may -"
She stopped, her attention attracted by a sound in the room. She looked toward the wall, away from the
stairs.
Two sluice gates had opened, one on each side of the torpedo tube. Water was pouring into the room.
The girl knew that she and her companion were doomed. From the cellar above, the Red Envoy had
released the switch that controlled the sluices. Harry and Arlette were helpless, in the midst of an
increasing flood that was sweeping in from the lake.
CHAPTER XXVIII. MASTER MINDS MEET
his medicine.
Harry Vincent had scarcely left the room, when the white-haired old man began to gasp. Then he leaned
forward upon the desk. His eyes closed, and he was still.
The door opened, and a figure entered. It came with amazing silence, and Professor Whitburn would not
have observed it, had his eyes been open.
The Shadow leaned over Professor Whitburn. He pressed the old man's forehead; then felt his pulse.
The old inventor was not dead; he was simply the victim of a powerful opiate. The wrong pills had been
left on his desk by Marsh; and the action had been performed with the definite purpose of rendering
Professor Whitburn unconscious.
The Shadow moved away from the desk, and stood motionless. He was a strange figure, this mysterious
man, as he stood there.
His broad-brimmed hat was pulled low, and his cloak obscured the lower part of his face. Only his eyes
showed from the dark depths that hid his features.
Those eyes were searching. They looked keenly in every direction, as though trying to discover some
secret of the professor's study. They were looking for a hiding place; and they sought it in some unusual
location.
They stopped upon a bookcase. There were several shelves in the bookcase, and above them was a
thick molding that ran the entire length. It was ornamented with carved sections.
The Shadow stepped to the bookcase, and ran his hand along the molding. His hands appeared for the
first time; they were thin, well-formed hands, with sensitive fingers that moved as though filled with a life
of their own.
The fingers stopped on one spot; they pressed; then moved to the left. A portion of the molding went
inward, and slid beneath the next section. The opening showed a strip of metal, with a tiny keyhole.
The Shadow went back to the desk. He carefully raised the old professor, and leaned him back in his
chair.
The hands of The Shadow found the professor's watch chain. There were keys on one end; but none of
the keys were suited to the little lock. The Shadow removed the professor's watch.
Now the black-cloaked man became suddenly intent. He was holding the watch in his right hand. His left
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