The train pulled up before a dilapidated station and Bob and the sheriff stepped down on a rough plank platform. The only others visible were the train crew and the station agent. “Town looks quiet,” said the sheriff as they started down the one street which was flanked on one side by the clear waters of the bayou and on the other by a long line of buildings, some of them stores and the others places of residence. The first building, a story and a half structure, was a barber shop and the sheriff turned in here. “Morning, sheriff,” said the barber. “Morning, Emil,” replied the sheriff. “Want you to meet a friend of mine, Bob Houston. Northerner. He’s down for a few days loafing and maybe a little fishing. Know anything new?” The barber, inclined to stoutness and baldness, shook his head. “Not even any good fishing left,” he sighed. “Everybody behavin’?” asked the sheriff. “Just what are you driving at?” the barber asked. “Nothing special; just thought you might have heard of something,” grinned the sheriff. “Matter of fact, I have,” retorted the barber. “Somebody’s been flying around here the last couple of nights with a plane of some kind.” “That ain’t so unusual, is it?” asked the sheriff. “We’ve been used to all kinds of things along this coast.” “Well, that wasn’t so strange, but this morning when I was fishing down in Harpey’s bayou a boat came through there so fast it was nothing but a black streak and a flash of spray. Blamed thing must have been doing forty an hour.” Bob’s eyes glinted. “Where did it go?” “Now I was only in a rowboat and I wouldn’t know where a speed boat went,” replied the barber. Then, seeing the chagrin on Bob’s face, he added, “I’d almost be willing to bet that it was heading for Lost Island.” Bob saw a queer expression flit across the sheriff’s face. “I might have known that’s where such a boat would be going,” he groaned. “Why couldn’t it be toward some other island?” “I wouldn’t know,” grinned the barber, who sensed that the sheriff was in Atalissa on some important mission. Bob saw the barber scanning his coat and he wondered if the gun in the shoulder holster was visible. If it was, it would reveal instantly that he was an officer, and not the vacationer that the sheriff had pictured him to be. “Guess we’ll be getting a boat and heading south,” said the sheriff. “Just don’t say anything to anyone else on what you saw this morning.” “Not a word, sheriff,” said the barber, and they left the small shop. “Queer fellow,” nodded the sheriff as they proceeded down the street toward a wharf. “He knows everything that’s going on and he protects a lot of people, but when some outsiders come in and start breaking the law, I can always figure he’ll tell me the truth.” “What do you make of it?” asked Bob.