"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.
It was Polmore. The secretary was out of breath. He stared as he saw the guns that
Whitburn and Stephen were holding. Whitburn put a querulous question.
"Well?" demanded the professor. "Where is Bragg?"
"Gone, sir," returne
d Polmore. "I looked upstairs for him, after I called Bragg. He was not
there. I went down to the dock. No sign of Bragg. He is gone."
"How do you know that?"
"The little motor boat was missing, sir."
Professor Whitburn bristled. He stared at Stephen, who solemnly shook his head. Then he
turned to Polmore. The secretary was ready with his answer before Whitburn put the
question that was in his mind.
"Bragg said nothing about leaving, sir," declared Polmore. "If he had asked for the night off, I
would have told you."
"That is the rule," declared Whitburn. "No one has the right to leave this island without my
permission."
"I always ask Mr. Polmore," put in Stephen, "and wait until he tells me that I have your
permission, professor. Bragg always did the same -"
"Not to-night," interposed Polmore.
"That is evident," stated Whitburn, testily. "Well, there is one way to call Bragg to task. He
keeps his car at the little garage in Marrinack. I shall call there and find out when he left. Pick
up a revolver, Polmore."
While the secretary was obeying the order, Professor Whitburn thrust his automatic in a
pocket of his smoking jacket. Stepping to the desk, the old man picked up the tilted
telephone. He clicked the hook. The line was dead.
"Out of order," fumed the professor.
"Maybe some one has tampered with the line," suggested Stephen, in an anxious tone.
"It has been out of order before," declared Polmore. "Always temporarily. Perhaps,
professor, it is merely an interrupted service."
"Probably," agreed Whitburn, in a dry tone. "Nevertheless, the coincidence is unfortunate.
Gentlemen"- he paused to hang up the receiver and draw his automatic from his
pocket—"we are confronted by a most dangerous situation!
"Inasmuch as I can trust you both, I shall explain the menace that confronts us. I thought that I
could trust Bragg also. His disobedience of rules, however, may mean that he is a traitor. If
so, the danger is increased.
"Some time ago"- Whitburn stared steadily toward the door as he spoke—"I discussed
plans for a new submarine with Commander Joseph Dadren, a retired officer of the United
States Navy. The commander was working on a tremendous invention: a submarine that
would travel by almost automatic propulsion.
"As you know, I was engaged—a few years ago—in the development of torpedoes that
moved by chemical action. (Note: See Vol. I, No. 4, "The Red Menace.") Commander
Dadren has been seeking to accomplish the same result on a larger scale. He studied the
principles that I had used with my torpedoes. He began where I had left off."
THE professor paused to shake his shaggy head. The gesture was one that indicated
admiration for Commander Dadren's remarkable genius.
"The submarine," declared the old inventor, "has proven a success, despite my predictions
to the contrary. Commander Dadren evolved new principles that aided him in his
constructive effort. Nevertheless, he felt that he owed much to me; for my inventions had
given him the inspiration.
"Not only that; he seemed to desire my opinion on the results he achieved. Therefore, he
sent me a complete set of his plans. I am the only man—except the commander
himself—who has seen those diagrams.
"I have kept the plans here in my study. I took pains to conceal them, knowing their
importance. Should they fall into the hands of schemers, those plans could be sold to some
government other than the United States.
"To-night, I discovered that an intruder had been searching through this room. Fortunately,
the plans were untouched. At the same time, the fact that a search was made is proof that
enemies are close at hand. When stealth fails, attack follows. That is something that I have
learned through experience.
"We may, this very night, find invaders on this island. That is why I expect you to aid me in
repelling any foe. I can sense the imminence of an attack. Therefore, I intend to make an
inspection of this house before it comes.
"Remain here, both of you, until I return. Stay on guard, with revolvers ready. I shall be gone
but a short while. I wish to take advantage of the time that still remains to us."
With this admonition, the professor clutched his automatic and stalked from the room,
closing the door behind him.
Stephen stood stolid. Polmore was nervous. The cat on the window sill, however, was no
longer perturbed. It curled among the papers and sleepily closed its eyes.
OUTSIDE the study, Professor Whitburn walked hastily through the corridor until he reached
a large central room where a clock was ticking loudly on a mantelpiece. The professor
turned and went to the side door that opened to the path toward the dock. He made sure
that the door was latched.
Moving to a flight of stairs, the professor ascended. He reached the second floor, then
approached a locked door. Drawing a key from his pocket, the professor opened the barrier
and went up a curving flight of stairs. He reached the old secluded tower.
This portion of the house formed a single room. It was almost pitch-dark; only a vague touch
of clouded moonlight came from a skylight at the top.
In the corners of the room were large machines, covered with white cloths. These were
devices for the projection of aerial torpedoes. The professor had experimented with them a
few years before. Partly dismantled, the machines were no longer used.
There was a table in the center of the room. Groping through the darkness, the professor
turned on a tiny light. He used this to find a pair of earphones and a mouthpiece. He made
attachments that put a short-wave radio into operation.
Clicks sounded by the little light. A few minutes passed. Then came a response.
The professor began to dispatch in a code of his own. He paused to hear the answer. Then
he resumed his sending. Although telephonic communication had been severed between
Death Island and the mainland, Professor Whitburn had made contact with some one in the
outside world.
The coded conversation continued. Sending and reception were terse. The professor
signed off abruptly. He replaced the earphones and turned out the light. His chuckle
sounded in the darkness. With surprising agility, the old man scrambled up on the table.
Stretching his bent form, Professor Whitburn managed to reach the skylight. He loosened a
clamp and pressed upward. Rusty hinges groaned; then came a puff of night air through the
opening. The professor tightened the clamp; bent downward and reached the floor. Softly,
he went down the tower stairs and closed the door behind him.
The professor had noted the time of the clock in the lower room. He glanced at his watch in
the dim light of the second-story hall. His trip to the tower had taken less than fifteen minutes.
Again, the professor chuckled.
Prowlers—the disturbed study—the dead telephone line: these troubled him no longer. By
means of the short-wave set, he had countered the thrust of impending danger. Time was
the only factor that remained to be met.
Professor Whitburn had established radio communication with a man named Burbank, a
person whom he had never seen. Yet he had followed Burbank's instructions to the letter.
&n
bsp; The opened skylight; the unlocked door to the tower —both suited Burbank's request.
New confidence gripped Professor Whitburn. Through the old man's mind crept memories
of the past—when other danger had confronted him. He had been saved in that past by the
intervention of a powerful friend known as The Shadow. It was on The Shadow that the
professor depended in this present crisis.
For Burbank was the contact agent of The Shadow. By communicating with that distant
listener; by following Burbank's prompt instructions, Professor Whitburn had paved the way
for new aid.
Once again, the white-haired inventor was staking all upon The Shadow's prowess.
CHAPTER IV. THE TRAITOR
WHEN Professor Whitburn arrived back in his study, he found two anxious men awaiting
him. Stephen had become uneasy. Polmore's nervousness had increased. Both men
seemed relieved by their employer's return.
Quex, coiled in a corner of the window sill, stretched lazily when he saw his master. The cat
was used to the professor's sudden ways of leaving and returning. The old man smiled and
stroked the cat. Quex began to purr.
"Is everything all right, sir?" questioned Polmore. "I was careful to latch the door after I came
back from the dock -"
"Everything is well," interposed the professor.
"No sign of Bragg?" questioned Stephen.
"None," returned Whitburn, abruptly.
Minutes passed. All of Whitburn's previous worriment had gone. Stephen began to share his
master's ease of mind. Polmore, however, showed new signs of nervousness. Whitburn
noticed it and studied the secretary with a quizzical look.
"I'm thinking about Bragg, sir," declared Polmore. "I wonder if he really went to the
mainland."
"You told us the boat was gone," reminded Whitburn.
"Yes," assured Polmore, "but Bragg may have had some other idea than an over-night visit
with friends in New Haven."
"What makes you think he had that idea?"
"That's where he usually goes, sir. To New Haven."
"Ah, yes. I had forgotten it. Go on, Polmore. Tell me what else Bragg may have had in mind."
"Well"- Polmore was speculating—"you said that someone had been here in the study."
"I did. Do you think it could have been Bragg?"