From there he had taken a train to Berlin. He had gone to a hotel, and had slept intermittently for three days and nights.
Then he had realized that his disappearance might have caused consternation. In this he was entirely correct. It had.
WHILE Raymond Branson was being idolized in Berlin, two men were traveling to America on an ocean liner. They were inconspicuous passengers on the boat, and they saw each other only occasionally during the voyage.
One of these men was a wealthy New Yorker named Lamont Cranston. The other was registered on the passenger list as Victor Marquette.
Although these men appeared to be merely acquaintances, they had held a very short though important conference in Marquette’s stateroom, the night the boat had left Cherbourg.
During the course of that brief meeting, Lamont Cranston had delivered two envelopes into the hands of Vic Marquette.
The same day that the liner reached New York, Harry Vincent came downstairs from his room on the second floor of Professor Whitburn’s house. He walked outdoors rather unsteadily, and reached a steamer chair that had been prepared for him. There he sat looking at the lake.
Death Island was a beautiful place to-day. The aspect of gloom had left It.
Some one approached. Harry turned and saw Arlette. The girl seated herself beside him.
“Arlette,” said Harry, “you promised to tell me your story — “