The man who had admitted them was as unusual a character as the individual with the beard. He was clean-shaven, but sallow-faced, and his features had a peculiar twist that Harry instinctively disliked.
Without a word the man pointed to a chair on the other side of the room. Harry sat down. The bearded man disappeared; the fellow with the twisted face knocked at a door and entered a moment later.
This room in which Harry sat alone could hardly have been termed a living room; yet that appeared to be its purpose. It had very little furniture; and the single table and few chairs were plain and of cheap construction. The only inviting feature of the place was a large fireplace in one wall. But there was no fire burning.
A clock ticked away on the mantel above the fireplace, but the light was so poor that Harry could not see the time.
His enthusiasm to reach Death Island had cooled somewhat during the journey across the lake. Now, Harry found himself wishing that he had followed the advice of the girl who had phoned him at the Baronet Hotel.
Adventure was a real part of Harry Vincent’s existence; but he preferred bright lights to gloom. Without companionship, he was a moody individual; and so far he had met with no signs of friendship on Death Island.
Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, became annoying. Harry seemed to have been deserted.
He found a magazine lying on the table; when he had drawn his chair near to one of the lights, he discovered that the periodical was three months old.
Evidently the men who lived on Death Island were interested in something other than current literature.
The clock being obscured in the darkness, Harry looked at his watch, and noted that time had slipped by. It was after seven o’clock.