“You own this island, Mr. Nevens?” asked Stan, as the man took them along a pretty flagstone path up to the front door of the rustic cabin.
“Yes, I do own it, boys. How do you like my little realm—what you have seen of it?”
“Swell, Mr. Nevens. But you must be lonely here, cut off from the rest of the world!”
The man continued to smile as he replied, “Not so very lonely, nor so very cut off from the world! I have my few close friends, my hobbies, and money enough to satisfy my modest whims.”
Was the wreck one of his “whims”? Stan wondered, and would have asked a tactful question about the nocturnal activities of the cove, but thought it better to hold his peace. If Mr. Nevens wished to talk about it some hint would be dropped, no doubt. In the meantime, if nothing was said by the wealthy host, the boys would wait patiently. If he were a criminal and the salvage, if such it be, criminal, time would prove it.
As the trio came up the path and approached the door Mr. Nevens’ spirits seemed to rise even higher than usual as do those of some one about to show you exciting things. The door opened at a slight touch of the fingers, a fact which startled both the lads. There was no knob or visible lock! If it had swung open without that deft touch it could have surprised them no more!
“Just an invention of mine,” Mr. Nevens said, noting the look of wonder upon their faces as they went into the cabin. “Touched in the right spot, this door opens without effort on the part of the person. It requires no lock of the usual kind, however, for I can, by throwing a switch seal it so that nothing except an explosive can budge it. I may some day give that secret door system to the world. By then, boys, I may, in fact, have perfected an ‘electric eye’ type of a practical kind which will open as you walk up to it.”
They found themselves in a large, open sort of room, luxuriously fitted with everything conducive to manly comfort. Lounges and big roomy armchairs were scattered about tastefully. There were ash trays in handy spots, a beautiful radio of the latest design, stacks of richly bound volumes—the whole giving one a startling realization of what money, in the hands of an eccentric or comfort-loving man, can do.
“My living room, boys,” said Mr. Nevens, obviously proud of the spot. “Now, here is the dining room—the kitchenette and Wan Ho Din, my cook!”
He had touched another door as he stepped forward and, as he spoke, they were led into a cozy room where a long table and many chairs told of company at the dinner table, and then into the white kitchenette with its refrigerator, special cooking range, and—Wan Ho Din, the cook! Wan Ho Din was yellow, slant-eyed, as was to be expected, and gave one an impression of bland, innocent kindliness. But a keen observer, as was Stan when suspicious, would have noted the same peculiar hint of watchful questioning and evil about the eyes. Wan Ho Din would bear watching, Stan decided.