Isle of the Undead

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 countenance 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.