A sense of overpowering danger gripped Stuart Bruxton as he rested on the running board of the tipped coupe. He had closed the door upon the hideous sight within.
He was groping for an explanation. A helpless man had been done to death while he looked on. What was the meaning of the crime?
It was fear for his own safety that made Stuart act. The monster, lurking in the abating fury of the storm, might return at any moment. The storm itself would be a safer place than this.
Responding to the mental suggestion, Stuart arose and moved wearily toward the road. He kept to the side of the thoroughfare and began a plodding course across the island. Beyond was another bridge. He could cross it and get away from this locality. Then he might find help -
somewhere and come back to investigate. What puzzled Stuart was the motive that might lay behind the appearance of the murderer. Perhaps the man was a maniac. No other explanation seemed likely.
Stuart's leg was troubling him again. He stumbled against a stone, and nearly fell; so he stopped and sat upon the stone.
It was then that he remembered something. When he had slid from the car, Jefferson's body had slipped into the driver's seat. His own escape could not have been witnessed, Stuart reasoned. The murderer, arriving after the accident, had mistaken Jefferson for the driver of the wrecked car. Unless the murderer had stayed in the immediate vicinity, he could not possibly know of Stuart's presence here.
Stuart realized that if he had been alone in that car, he, instead of the hitchhiker, would have been the victim. The thought was amazing!
Half an hour ago, Stuart had been driving for Massachusetts, intending to stop in Philadelphia for the night. He had no enemies; he anticipated no danger.
Now, his car wrecked beyond repair, he was wandering, alone and unarmed, upon a lonely island in a Maryland river, alive only because a chance stranger whom he had picked up had been mistaken for himself!
In the midst of vague theorizing, Stuart remembered what Jefferson had said about the bridges — that they were not unsafe. The peculiar circumstances of the accident impressed him.
Had that bridge been deliberately weakened? It seemed likely. Ordinarily, a car would have crossed it slowly. Only the speed of the coupe had saved it.
A definite thought now ruled Stuart's mind. The murderer had simply completed work which had been intended, but which had failed.
It must be — it could only be — that some other car had been expected to cross that bridge.
Purely through an oddity of circumstances had Stuart been thrust here. Jefferson's advice to follow the short road had led to the disaster, but the hitch-hiker had been the one to suffer.
Still, the thought that the slayer was crazed persisted in Stuart Bruxton's brain as he began his labored limping once more. The inhumanness of the deed made it seem incredible that anything else was possible.
Stuart felt sure that he would obtain immediate aid from the first place he encountered -
but that might be far away.
His left leg could scarcely support him now, and Stuart felt a greater weariness than before. The ground at the side of the road changed suddenly to soft dirt.
This must be a byroad, leading to some spot on the island. If someone lived near here, this would be the place to call for assistance. Peering in the direction from which the road seemed to come, Stuart fancied that he saw a light through the trees.
The storm was over — only a drizzle now remained — and there were no lightning flashes to indicate the way. But as Stuart moved his head back and forth, he occasionally caught sight of a distant sparkle. There must be a house somewhere amid the trees!
Stuart started along the side road. The twinkle of the light became more evident. After a while, Stuart reached a clearing and stood before the looming bulk of an old country house, some mansion of a forgotten period.
A single light showed through a glass panel in the heavy front door. Stuart approached it and peered within.
The room inside the door was a sparsely furnished hallway, lighted by a bright oil lamp.
An elderly man was seated beside the table which bore the lamp. The man was quietly reading, and his white hair and benign appearance were reassuring.
Stuart knocked at the door. He saw the old man look up; then rise to answer the knock.
The door opened. Stuart limped into the light. He was looking at the old man, and he saw a puzzled appearance flit over the quiet face. Then the old man smiled and extended a hand in greeting.
"Ah!" he said. "You are here. I have been waiting for you. Where is your car? I did not hear you drive up."
Stuart realized that the old man had mistaken him for someone else. But there was no time to waste in giving his identity.
"I have had an accident," he said quickly. "My car was wrecked, coming over the bridge.
The whole bridge collapsed."
"You should have been careful," responded the old man, shaking his head in a solemn manner. "I told you to come over that bridge very slowly. You said you would remember. Very slowly." The old man's words brought a sudden understanding. Stuart's belief that the bridge had been weakened came back, now, with startling force. With it came the thought that someone else had been expected to cross it.
The old man had been expecting someone. He had warned that person to cross the bridge slowly. Suppose that advice had been followed! The person heeding it would be in the river, now, buried in a submerged automobile!
There was only one answer. The old man was a party to the crime!
Stuart was in a quandary. The old man must suppose him to he intended victim — one who had an appointment at this place.
Stuart was on the point of blurting out that a mistake was evident; then he checked himself. He could reveal his right name at any time. It might be better wait. He sat down wearily upon an old chair. Then he realized another danger. Jefferson had been murdered, perhaps by the old man's design. Stuart knew that he must feign ignorance of the hitchhiker's death. The old man gave him the opportunity unwittingly.
"You have been hurt," he said, in a kindly tone. "You must rest. My man will be here shortly" — Stuart shuddered at these words, as he thought of the monster in the storm — "and he can look to your car. You have the papers?"
"There's another man in the car," responded Stuart, anxious to avoid answering the question. "I think he is hurt, badly. I am worrying about him. We ought to help him."
"You had someone with you?" The old man's voice was incredulous
"Only a hitch-hiker," replied Stuart quickly. "I picked him up out of the storm."
"Yes — but to bring him here?" The man's alarm was evident.
"I–I figured I was a bit early," said Stuart. Groping for an excuse. "I planned to go into Herkimer and return. He was going there, so I took him along. I couldn't leave him out in such a storm."
"I see," acquiesced the old man. "It was not wise, however. Well, we can do nothing until my man appears, which should be any moment now."
AS if in fulfillment of the old man's prediction, the door opened, and Stuart Bruxton looked up to see the monster whom he had observed beside the wrecked car.
The man was a powerful brute, with tremendous shoulders for one of middle stature. His face, although ugly, did not wear that fiendish expression that Stuart had seen by the lightning flash. Instead, it wore a look of puzzlement as its owner viewed the newcomer.
"Grady," said the old man. "this is the man we have been expecting — Mr. Powell. He tells me that he has had an accident.
"He also had a man riding with him — a hitch-hiker — who was hurt and is still in the car.
Will you go down to the bridge and see what you can do?"
"Yes, sir," growled Grady.
Stuart, watching closely, fancied that he saw a sign pass from the brute to the old man.
Stuart gave no sign that he had noticed it. Instead, he adopted new tactics the moment that Grady had gone. In order to avoid further questioning and to sustain temporarily his identity as that of the unknown Powell, he let his head fall upon his hand and feigned a sudden stupor.
"You must be hurt," said the old man, in an apprehensive voice. "Let me see what I can do for you while we are waiting for Grady to return."
He disappeared, and came back with a bottle, from which he poured a small glass of liquid. He tendered it to Stuart, who pretended great effort in drinking it. It tasted like a brandy.
Stuart showed a slight revival; then sank back into his faked weariness. The old man watched him for a time; then went out of the room into darkness beyond.
To Stuart, only one course seemed logical, even though it might mean increasing danger.
Although his mind was working clearly, he was handicapped physically, not only because of his injured leg, but because of other pains that were now racking him.
He might be able to cope with the old man and overpower him, but it would be virtually impossible to escape, for Grady would surely follow him.
Far better, Stuart thought, to rely on ingenuity. The old man had certainly designed death for Powell, whose part Stuart was playing. But now that Stuart was safely in the house, the old man seemed a bit dumfounded, and was evidently figuring a new plan.
Stuart felt sure that Grady's attack on Jefferson had been made without the old man's knowledge. The servant, seeing that the automobile had not fallen into the river, had taken it upon himself to supply the required death.
Whatever the old man's plan might be, it would not culminate until Grady's return.
Perhaps some break might come in Stuart's favor.
The old man was back, now, and his insistent voice was returning to his previous questioning.
"You have the papers with you?"
The words gave Stuart an inspiration. There was something that the old man wanted as well as Powell's life — namely, papers that Powell was bringing here!
How the old man had intended to get them with Powell's car in the river was beyond Stuart's knowledge. But he did realize, most emphatically, that Powell without the papers would be in a better situation than Powell with them.
The question came again; and Stuart replied, groggily, but truthfully:
"I didn't bring — any papers!"
"You don't have the papers?" The question showed the old man's consternation. "What good is the visit without them? How do you expect me to believe what you may have to say?"
"I thought — thought we could get them — later," was Stuart's evasive answer. "After we had talked together."
Stuart nodded.
"Where are they, then?" questioned the old man.
Stuart pretended a recurrence of his stupor.
"Did you leave them in Baltimore?" came the question. "At the Burnham House?" Again Stuart nodded.
"You still have your room there — going back tonight. Is that the idea?"
"Yes," answered Stuart.
"Very well," said the old man quietly. "We can get them tomorrow, after we have discussed this matter. You must stay here tonight. You are in no condition to leave."
That ended the conversation for the time, and Stuart, nodding drowsily in his chair, congratulated himself upon the way in which he had turned the conversation.
He felt that he was better off as Powell, under the present circumstances. As Stuart Bruxton, he would be an intruder here; and he had a strong suspicion that intruders as well as expected visitors could find sudden death upon this sinister isle.
The door opened to admit Grady. The man spoke to his master, but loud enough for Stuart to hear.
"I found the car," he said. "It's a bad wreck. But there's nobody in it. I guess that hitch-hiker of yours climbed out and started on to Herkimer. It isn't raining anymore, so he'll be all right."
"We can forget about him, then," declared the old man. "Of course, you looked around, didn't you, Grady?"
"All along the road, declared the man. "I saw some footprints going on past our driveway, here, so I reckoned they were his."
"Very well," said the old man
"Mr. Powell is staying here tonight, Grady. He is badly jarred from the accident. He will probably feel better in the morning. Come, we must help him to his room."
Stuart repressed a shudder as Grady lifted him upward. Supported by the murderous menial and the old man, Stuart was conducted up pitch-black stairs. He let his body sag limp, but he was ready to spring at any instant.
There proved to be no occasion for alarm, however. Grady turned on his flashlight to blaze the path, and the three entered a room furnished with two old chairs and a small bed. Here, Grady left, and the old man spoke from the darkness.
"You are tired," he said soothingly, "and I advise you to rest. Sleep well, and we can talk together in the morning."
With these words, the host departed, and Stuart, lying as though oblivious, heard the door close behind him.
Instantly, the young man was alert. He rose from the bed and moved stealthily toward the window. He raised the sash and thrust his hand out toward what appeared to be black night.
Instead of space, his fist encountered a solid barrier.
The window was barricaded with an iron shutter!
Stuart waited. At last, sure that no one could be listening in the hall, he went to the door and tried it, There was no yielding. The door had been solidly locked from the outside. Stuart sat upon the bed and thought, amidst impenetrable darkness. He was a prisoner, here in this strange house. The two men who watched him were murderers. Their next crime might be his death, tomorrow!
Tomorrow?
Stuart wondered if he would ever see the dawn of another morning. His life was hanging in the balance. He was alone and helpless, without friends. There was nothing to do but wait.
Would his pretense of false identity prove his salvation? Perhaps, for the time. But the respite could be no more than temporary.
The one vital thought that governed Stuart Bruxton's mind was the recollection of that upturned face — the face of the murdered man in the car.
Stuart was to have been the victim of that crime! His life had been spared, but only for the moment. Death was the lot intended for him now.
With hope struggling against these fearful thoughts, the prisoner stretched himself on the bed and fell into a restless slumber.