The visitor found himself in a plainly furnished living room that was in a state of total disorder. Half-finished sketches and paintings were stacked here and there; tables were littered with pipes and ash trays; books were scrambled in confusion.
“Not much of a place,” commented Woodruff, “but if you want to stay here, you’re welcome. I’m a careless sort of a housekeeper. The rest of the place isn’t so bad. You can have your choice of three bedrooms, all furnished and in order.
“The kitchen is all right — if you’re willing to get your own meals, or dish them up with mine. I’ve got a radio there in the corner, but there’s no entertainment outside of that.”
“You see, I’m after seclusion,” explained Harry. “I want a rest in a quiet spot, and if it becomes monotonous, I’ll do some writing. How much will it cost me to stay here, Woodruff?”
The artist filled a pipe and sat down in a broken easy-chair. He studied Harry thoughtfully, while he lighted his tobacco; then spoke in a methodical tone.
“I like seclusion, Vincent,” he declared, “but I’m so wrapped up in my painting that I’m usually broke. Fact is, right now I’m flat. Put out nearly all the money I had to rent this place. So I’ve been trying to get friends to come up here. But they all say it’s too far.
“Costs me forty dollars a month for the cottage, on a season basis. My proposition has been that any one who wants to go fifty-fifty is all right.”
“Suppose I pay you five dollars a week,” suggested Harry. “Then I can arrange my stay as I wish.”
“That suits me,” acquiesced Woodruff. “It will give me enough money to eat. We can buy our food individually, or go fifty-fifty on that if you prefer.”
Harry motioned to the taxi driver, who was standing at the door. The man went out and brought in the suitcase. Harry paid him a dollar for the fare. As soon as the driver had pulled away, Harry handed a ten-dollar bill to Woodruff.
“Two weeks in advance,” he explained. “I’ll be here that long, anyway. I’m glad to get settled here at East Point. Don’t worry about me in any way. I’d just as soon rough it as not. All I want is a roof.”
The artist grinned and laid his pipe aside.
“Say, Vincent,” he announced, “I’m pleased already to have you here. Been waiting for a month to have some friends show up. But what if they did come? They probably wouldn’t like it here. I’d rather have a chap like you who seems suited to the environment.”
He arose and stalked across the room toward the door of the kitchen.
“It’s after five,” he said. “Suppose we have an early dinner to celebrate your arrival. It’s on me tonight, and I’ll show you a nice bit of cooking, even though I am an artist. Sling your luggage in one of the upstairs rooms, and make yourself at home.”
UPSTAIRS, Harry chose a bedroom that had a window facing the road along which he had come. From this he could plainly observe the other cottages on the Point.
He studied the house in which Elbert Cordes lived — also the handsome cottage which was the home of Professor Sheldon. The empty buildings beyond also came in for Harry’s cursory inspection.
Somehow, Harry Vincent sensed that his sojourn here at East Point might prove intensely interesting. It appeared that there were but three residents at East Point. He had seen one — Elbert Cordes; was located with the second — Malbray Woodruff; and had only to learn something regarding the third.
As this thought occurred to Harry, a large automobile appeared upon the road from the depot. It turned out to be a limousine, which stopped before the first of the three inhabited cottages. A trim man in uniform descended from the chauffeur’s seat, and opened the door. An elderly gentleman with gray hair stepped forth and walked into the cottage, followed by the chauffeur.
Harry strolled downstairs and entered the kitchen where he found Woodruff preparing dinner at the stove. In a matter-of-fact tone, Harry spoke to the artist.
“Just saw some one drive up to one of the other cottages,” Harry remarked. “An old gentleman in a limousine—”
“That’s Professor Kirby Sheldon,” responded Woodruff. “University lecturer. Noted sociologist. Drives up from New York occasionally. A very affable and keen-minded old man. You’ll be glad to meet him. We’ll drop in there tonight.”
Harry Vincent smiled to himself. Things were going well already. If matters were to be learned at East Point, he was properly situated to learn them. It would be easy to watch Woodruff. Tonight, he would gain a line on the professor.
But most important in Harry’s mind was the third man upon this Point. Harry had not forgotten the scowling face at the window of the middle cottage. Instinctively, he knew that when he sent a full report to The Shadow, it must contain definite information regarding the man known as Elbert Cordes.
CHAPTER V
THE SHADOW’S MOVE
NIGHT had settled over East Point. The three cottages, dimly outlined in the darkness, were ghostly structures that caught the whining breeze from the sea. Glimmering lights from partly drawn shades denoted them as human habitations.
The road that led back toward the depot formed a dull streak that curved away among the sand dunes. Beyond that, the road was invisible. Those who might come to the Point could not be seen until after they had reached the spot where the road turned. From then on, any approach would be quickly noted.
Indeed, a watchful eye could have discerned a car at night even before the vehicle reached the sand dune, for on this dark and isolated Point, the glare of headlights would evidence itself from half a mile away.
But on this evening — Harry Vincent’s first upon the Point — a car was approaching in such a method that no one could have detected its arrival. This automobile, a trim, low-built coupe, acted in singular fashion as soon as it had passed through the little settlement by the railroad station.
Gaining the East Point road, the driver of the car decreased his speed. Within the darkened interior of the coupe, an invisible hand pressed the light control.
From that moment the car rolled on in total gloom. Sharp, piercing eyes that gleamed through the windshield, picked the course by studying the dim ribbon of the road.
The wind was whistling through the opened windows of the coupe. That breeze — the roar of the surf — the wavelets of the bay — all were signs that the Point was narrowing. As the road veered to pass the last dune, the coupe’s smooth motor ceased its throbbing as the ignition key was pressed. The car rolled straight ahead, jolting from the road and coming to a stop by the shelter of the dune.
Silently, the door of the coupe opened and closed. A living being had left the car and was making his way to the road. A soft swish as the breeze whisked the folds of a shrouding cloak was the only token of his presence. That sound came no more as the wearer of the cloak tightened the garment about his weird form.
The Shadow had come to East Point!
An unseen messenger of the night, he was approaching the area where his trusted agent had been established as investigator.
NO footfalls clicked; no moving figure showed as the man of the night moved phantomlike toward the row of cottages. The murmuring breeze rose and whistled in weird protest as the spectral shape passed the first two cottages and gradually approached the third.
When The Shadow was within a few yards of the farthest cottage, the door of the building opened to show two men against a gleam of light. The Shadow, unrevealed, swung quickly to the wall of the cottage. There, unseen, he waited while the two men stepped forth.