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.