ISLE OF THE UNDEAD 1. A Horror from the Past A DRAB gray sheet of cloud slipped stealthily from the moon’s round face, like a shroud slipping from the face of one long dead, a coldly phosphorescent face from which the eyes had been plucked. Yellow radiance fell toward a calm, oily sea, seeking a narrow bank of fog lying low on the water, penetrating its somber mass like frozen yellow fingers.
Vilma Bradley shuddered and shrank against Clifford Darrell’s brawny form. “It’s—it’s ghastly, Cliff!” she said.
“Ghastly?” Darrell leaned against the rail, laughing softly. “One cocktail too many—that’s the answer. It’s given you the jitters. Listen!” Faintly from the salon came strains of dance music and the rhythmic shuffle of feet. “A nifty yacht, a South Sea moon, a radio dance orchestra, dancers—and little Clifford! And you call it ghastly!” Almost savagely his arms tightened about her, and the bantering note left his voice. “I’m crazy about you, Vilma.”
. . .
