PROFESSOR WHITBURN
THE bearded man led Harry Vincent up the path on the island. After a few hundred feet they came to a large house that loomed black in the darkness.
The hill had been short and abrupt. Harry estimated that they were not more than fifteen or twenty feet above the shore of the lake.
The man knocked at the side door of the building. It was opened, and Harry was ushered in. The house was lighted by electricity, but the room into which Harry came was gloomy because of sparse illumination.
The man who had admitted them was as unusual a character as the individual with the beard. He was clean-shaven, but sallow-faced, and his features had a peculiar twist that Harry instinctively disliked.
Without a word the man pointed to a chair on the other side of the room. Harry sat down. The bearded man disappeared; the fellow with the twisted face knocked at a door and entered a moment later.
This room in which Harry sat alone could hardly have been termed a living room; yet that appeared to be its purpose. It had very little furniture; and the single table and few chairs were plain and of cheap construction. The only inviting feature of the place was a large fireplace in one wall. But there was no fire burning.
A clock ticked away on the mantel above the fireplace, but the light was so poor that Harry could not see the time.
His enthusiasm to reach Death Island had cooled somewhat during the journey across the lake. Now, Harry found himself wishing that he had followed the advice of the girl who had phoned him at the Baronet Hotel.
Adventure was a real part of Harry Vincent’s existence; but he preferred bright lights to gloom. Without companionship, he was a moody individual; and so far he had met with no signs of friendship on Death Island.
Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, became annoying. Harry seemed to have been deserted.
He found a magazine lying on the table; when he had drawn his chair near to one of the lights, he discovered that the periodical was three months old.
Evidently the men who lived on Death Island were interested in something other than current literature.
The clock being obscured in the darkness, Harry looked at his watch, and noted that time had slipped by. It was after seven o’clock.
He began to read the magazine; for a while he forgot his surroundings. Then, glancing at his watch again, he saw that it was quarter of eight.
Yet he was still alone. He felt the oppressive gloom of this strange house. He decided to walk about the room.
After a few paces, he was tempted to open one of the doors and look about; but he desisted, and it was well that he did, for at that moment the man with the twisted face suddenly reappeared.
HE approached Harry, and pointed to the nearest door. Harry took this as a signal to enter. He stepped forward alone.
The door opened into a small hallway. There was a door opposite. It was ajar, and rays of light were visible.
Harry pushed the door open, and stepped into a lighted room. Then he stood still in astonishment at his surroundings.
The room was in great disorder. One wall was a huge bookcase, but the shelves were only half filled. The missing volumes were piled about the room; some on chairs and tables; others on the floor, which was also strewn with papers.
Among the books were glass jars, and bits of mechanism. A shelf in the corner was piled with bottles and tubes of varicolored liquids.
A large tiger cat sat upon a window sill, nestled in the midst of papers. The animal seemed to have chosen that place as the only vacant spot.
In the midst of this chaos, behind a desk that was completely covered with books, papers, and odd contrivances, sat the strangest looking man whom Harry Vincent had ever encountered.
He was old, stooped, and thin. His hair was a mass of untrimmed white. He wore a huge white mustache, with long drooping ends.
He was muttering to himself as he wrote upon a sheet of paper which lay upon an opened book. He seemed totally unconscious of Harry’s arrival.
The objects in the room were interesting; and Harry took advantage of the man’s preoccupation to study his surroundings. Everywhere he looked he saw something which seemed to no apparent purpose.
He forgot all about the man at the desk for a few minutes. When his eyes returned to that spot, the white-haired individual was staring at him with a strange, fixed gaze.
Harry uttered a slight exclamation; then bowed to the old man.
“You are Professor Whitburn?” he questioned.
“Yes,” replied the old man, in a raspy voice. “What is your name?”
“Harry Vincent.”
“Ah, yes. I had forgotten it. You are the new man. Sit down. I would like to talk to you.”
Harry carefully removed books and papers from the nearest chair, and deposited them upon a table. He drew the chair to the side of the desk, directly opposite Professor Whitburn.
The desk lamp shone upon the old man’s features. Harry seemed to detect an unusual gleam in the professor’s eyes.
“I chose you after much consideration,” said Professor Whitburn, in a slow voice. His tones were almost accusing. “You studied engineering, did you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you put your learning into practical experience?”
“Not very long, sir. I had an opportunity in another business. I must confess that my technical training is no longer what it used to be.”
“Good!” asserted Professor Whitburn. “Good!”
Harry was surprised at the man’s tone of approval. He had imagined that his inactivity in engineering would have been to his disadvantage.
“Training!” exclaimed Professor Whitburn. “Bah! There is only one real training experience, and that must be of the right sort, mind you. Not the kind of experience that most young men get. I am glad you have had little of it.”
He brought his thin fists up from beneath the desk, and thomped them simultaneously upon the wood in front of him.
“Young men tell me what to do!” he said, in apparent fury. “I have had them tell me what to do! They think that their parrot learning is knowledge! They find out differently, when they have worked with me! I demand more than a few simple facts tucked away up here!”
He tapped his forehead as he spoke. Then he became quiet, and looked intently at Harry. The old man’s hands went beneath the desk.
His eyes became wild and staring; then suddenly he whipped out an automatic revolver and leveled it at Harry. His lips broke forth with an insane laugh.
HARRY instinctively raised himself from his chair. But he caught himself as he was about to leap forward. His better judgment dominated his mind.
While the professor still flourished the automatic, Harry settled back in his chair, and smiled indulgently.
Professor Whitburn thrust the gun in a desk drawer, without removing his eyes from Harry’s countenance. Then the old man’s lips formed a sour smile.
“I have demonstrated my point,” said the professor, in his rasping voice. “That is a test which I frequently use. Some men jump at me, and I toss the gun aside. Others plead, or throw up their hands. A very few behave as you have done.
“Young man, I observed every emotion that passed through your mind. First you were startled. Then came the desire for action, coupled with fear — natural fear. Then reason withheld you. You thought you were dealing with a lunatic; you sought to outwit me.”
He wagged a long, thin forefinger toward Harry.
“Study cannot teach a man to behave as you did,” he said. “Your actions were the result of a mind that is both quick and experienced.
“You knew how to encounter danger. Therefore you would be willing to face danger. You are the type of man I need.”
The old man became silent. He was speculating upon something. Harry did not disturb his thoughts, although he wondered what new surprise might be in store.
“This island is a strange place,” remarked Professor Whitburn. “A strange place, with a bad reputation. That is why I chose the place.
“I like to be alone — assisted only by those whom I have chosen to help me in my labors. In a place like this, I am left alone.
“I am a man with great vision” — the professor’s voice became less raspy, and his eyes seemed to glow in reminiscence — “but few have been able to appreciate it. One man became interested in my plans; but I would not work for him, until he made me financially independent.
“Even then, the desire for material gain dominated him. He constantly annoyed me, demanding action and results. Now he is dead, for which I am truly sorry; but it has left me free to develop my work without troublesome interruption.
“I have chosen rather unusual men to be here with me. They know how to keep silence. They do not talk — even among themselves. They realize that reward lies in the future; but they devote their efforts to the present. Are you willing to do the same?”
“The present always interests me more than the future,” replied Harry.
“Good! Then you shall work for me,” said the professor. “But wait — there is one more point. Your work will involve danger. Will you assume it at your own risk?”
“Certainly.”
“The reason that I ask,” said Professor Whitburn, in warning tones, “is because two men have died in my service. They suffered because of their own carelessness. I was able to prove that fact.
“I regret that they died. They were valuable men. But my work must go on — it is more important than human life, although I have never demanded a sacrifice.”
“I am willing,” answered Harry.
The professor rummaged in the drawer of the desk. He brought out a typewritten sheet of paper, and passed it across to Harry.
The document proved to be an agreement, stating that the undersigned contracted to work for Professor Whitburn, and assumed all responsibility for any accidents that might befall in the course of his labors.
While Harry was reading the paper, the professor pressed a buzzer once; then twice. Just as Harry had completed his perusal of the agreement, two men entered the room. They were the same men whom Harry had seen before.
Professor Whitburn pointed to Harry, and then to the man with the beard.
“Vincent,” he said, “this is Crawford.”
The bearded man nodded.
“Vincent, this is Stokes.”
Without further ado, he handed a pen across the desk. Harry took it and signed the document. Stokes and Crawford applied their names as witnesses.
“Have you eaten dinner?” questioned the professor.
“No, sir,” replied Harry.
“Crawford will cook you something. Go with him. He will introduce you to Marsh — my other man.
“We have no formalities here, Vincent. If you wish to see me, knock at the outer door; then enter. If I do not hear you, that is my mistake.
“The buzzer on my desk can be heard in all parts of the house even a short distance outside. Four is your signal.”
He turned to the side of the desk, and made a note on a pad.
“Crawford, one; Stokes, two; Marsh, three; Vincent, four,” he muttered.
The professor again faced Harry.
“Do not leave the island without my permission,” he stated. “That is important. Answer every summons promptly. Is there anything else?”
“What are the salary arrangements?” questioned Harry.
“Ah! I had forgotten,” answered the old man. “Your first term of service will be three months. After that, you may expect an advance. Will two hundred dollars a month be satisfactory? Remember, you have no living expenses here.”
“Two hundred a month will be quite satisfactory,” replied Harry.
“Very good,” said the professor, with his peculiar smile. “I want you to be satisfied. So your salary will be two hundred and fifty, instead of two hundred.”
Professor Whitburn was busy with his papers. He had become totally oblivious to Harry’s presence; Crawford tapped Harry on the shoulder, and pointed significantly toward the door, showing that the interview was ended.
Rising, he followed the other two men from the room. As he left, Harry glanced back. The old professor was still engrossed in his work.