“This is a sweet place to pick for a winter home,” gasped Bill, mopping his streaming forehead. “The thug who runs things here must be a darned cold-blooded guy.”
“Very probably,” returned Mr. Bolton, “but the place, though hot, has its advantages, if he is what we surmise. It is quite out of the world, and except from the air, no one would guess that the island is inhabited.”
“Home at last,” remarked Bill after a few minutes, as they turned up the incline toward the white house on the knoll. “Thank heaven there’s a bit of a breeze up here. Whew! This bird certainly lives in style!”
The road swept up through beautifully kept flower gardens to the front of the house, which appeared to be a really huge mansion. Wide verandas surrounded the rambling building on three sides, and the cream stucco walls contrasted pleasingly with the dark green of its tile roof. Money had been spent here with a lavish hand. The place looked cool and inviting. The Boltons wondered what it would hold for them.
They were led into a spacious hall, panelled in mahogany. Here again, the Persian rugs scattered over the polished floor, the fine wood and carving of the furniture, and a number of excellent paintings on the walls, all bespoke the hand of wealth.
Bidding his prisoners remain where they were, Diego crossed the hall and knocked at a closed door.
“Come in,” called a man’s voice, and Diego disappeared into the room, closing the door behind him.
Bill started to make some comment on their surroundings to his father, but their other guard growled at him to keep quiet. Then Diego reappeared and beckoned them into the room.
This large apartment was handsomely furnished in the manner of a business office. Behind a huge, flat-topped desk sat a fat young man dressed in immaculate white linens. Blue-black hair and an olive complexion bespoke his Latin origin. Two other young men, clad also in white, and bearing a strong resemblance to the man at the desk, lounged in wicker arm chairs. All were smoking long black cigars.
“And what, may I ask, is the reason for this outrage?” began Mr. Bolton, walking up to the desk. “Is it your custom to have visitors to this island treated like criminals and thrown into jail?”