“Sure, I saw you when you were touring with the Wallaces. What the— that is, I mean, what are you doing up here?” His hand went to his collar as if to adjust his tie, but there was none there, and a look of dismay spread over his bewhiskered features. “My name’s Arnold, but I’m no relation to the guy who tried to betray his country.”
“I am a prisoner, Mr. Arnold,” she told him.
“You look it. Tell me another,” he answered.
“Just the same, that’s the truth,” she replied, and then, as there was a stump handy, she sat down. “Please don’t let me keep you standing. Are we in the Bering Sea?” Arnold sat down with a chuckle.
“The island is,” he told her.
“What islands are they, I mean, what are their names?”
“Don’t believe these have any because they are not very large, but they belong to the Pribilof group. I believe this is the farthest north and it’s a bit over three hundred miles to Alaska.”
“Thanks,” she said with a sigh. “It’s mighty nice to know where one is at. I was piloting for a woman called Pollzoff; and she fed me some kind of dope that knocked me out, then tied me up like a chicken ready to roast, and brought me to an island below here.”
“Pollzoff?”
“Yes.”