Neither he nor his companion spoke. Death Island seemed to hold a fascinating spell that cast its influence over them.
The chugging of a motor brought Harry from his reverie. A boat had appeared in front of the island. It was speeding across the water toward the wharf.
“Comin’ for you,” observed his companion.
Harry repressed a shudder. The man’s words, spoken suddenly in the semidarkness, seemed to carry a hidden significance.
The boat grew larger; then it neared the wharf. Harry clambered from the coupe, and took out his traveling bag.
The garage man backed the car, and turned toward the road. In a few seconds he was gone.
The boat docked at the wharf. Harry approached and eyed its single occupant.
The man grunted in greeting. His appearance was well-suited to the environment. He was stockily built, and roughly dressed. His face was covered with a heavy beard, of pronounced blackness.
Harry entered the boat; the man turned it from the wharf, and they chugged across the lake.
Death Island loomed more formidably than before. The skull-like features of the rock seemed to increase in size, until they were almost beneath the overhanging bluff.