“Watch where you’re going.”
Stokes did not speak unpleasantly; yet there was something in his tone that made Harry suspect that the man had caught the reason for the stumble.
THEY entered the motor boat. Across the lake they chugged, swinging in front of the formidable cliff that loomed like a grisly skull.
The resemblance was hard to observe at night. Harry looked back at the cliff as they shot along through the water. Death Island was merely a shapeless mass that became indistinguishable as they neared Harvey’s Wharf.
Stokes handed Harry his flashlight, when they had docked. Then he gave definite instructions for reaching the village.
“Go right,” he said gruffly. “Walk along the little path. When it meets the side road, turn left. That will take you to the crossroads at the village. Much shorter than going by the road through the woods.”
“How long will it take me?” asked Harry.
“Five or six minutes.”
“It’s pretty near nine thirty now. Suppose I get back at ten thirty.”
“All right then,” agreed Stokes. “Make it ten thirty, or a little after. I may go back to the island. If I’m not here, wait for me.”