motorboats at all.
With Cranston, the sheriff was floating in a very curious craft, that bobbed like a coracle upon the black waves. The thing was big and round, like an enormous automobile tire, and its bottom was nothing but a thin layer of rubber.
The Shadow had inflated this rubber boat with a pump attached to a motor. He and the sheriff had left the few remaining boats in the anchored flotilla and were floating in toward Claremont's wharf. The sheriff noted that Cranston was guiding the craft with a short paddle.
He noted, too, that the sides of the rubbery nest were quilted, but did not realize that they consisted of compartments. In those secret pockets were the guise that The Shadow favored-black cloak, hat, and gloves, that could render him invisible when he reached the shore.
They reached the dock. The rubber coracle made no sounds as it grazed. The only noise was the soft whispering of the tree boughs, high above. Then the sheriff undertoned:
'Say! This is Claremont's dock. The old boy showed up today. He's kind of fussy about people using it.'
'In that case,' came Cranston's calm suggestion, 'we can go ashore.'
The sheriff went ashore, and was scratching his head when Cranston joined him.
'Claremont wouldn't like this, either.'
'Is he likely to be strolling around, sheriff?'
'Not him,' returned Kirk. 'Fresh air poisons that old fossil. He'll be in his bungalow, maybe with a fire lighted.'
'If the bungalow is up the slope,' decided The Shadow, in Cranston's deliberate fashion, 'it would be just the place from which we could properly watch the boats.'
'But if Claremont hears us-'
'You can tell him why we're here. As sheriff, you have the necessary authority. But if we ascend carefully, without lights, Claremont will neither see nor hear us.'
The sheriff hadn't been informed of Claremont's threat against visitors this night. He merely considered Claremont to be an old crab, who would listen to reason after having his say. With Cranston, who was carefully muffling a flashlight in something that hung across his arm, the sheriff moved toward the bungalow.
Halfway there, the sheriff stopped short and gripped Cranston's arm, but not the one that held the cloak.
'Hear that?' he whispered.
The Shadow heard it-a distant clang, that ended with a slight rattle. He pretended not to know the cause; so the sheriff explained it.
'There's a picket fence along the property line. Somebody's climbing over it, Cranston!'
Ready to throw aside caution, the sheriff pulled gun and flashlight. The Shadow stayed him, undertoning a warning in the sheriff's ear.
'It would be better to approach the bungalow,' advised The Shadow. 'I have heard that Percy Claremont is expecting a visitor this evening.'
'A visitor?' came the sheriff's echoed whisper. 'Who could it be?'
The time for subterfuge was past. In the midst of that strange, whispery darkness The Shadow spoke two words, that told the sheriff all he needed. Enough to spur the sheriff to any action that Cranston might suggest.
The Shadow's calm words were:
'Professor Scorpio!'
CHAPTER XIX. DEATH'S TRAIL.
THE three men at the cabin had heard the slight clang from the fence. Rundon, always ingenious, was the first to suggest a plan that would suit the situation.
'We've got to cover all doors,' he told the others. 'Whichever of us sees Scorpio enter must inform the others. He'll probably come out the way he's going in.'
Creeping upon the porch, Rundon tried the front door and whispered down to the others:
'It's locked, but maybe Scorpio has a key. I'll stick here, while you pick other places.'
At the side, Harry and Carradon found another door. It was locked, but Carradon covered it, while Harry went on to the rear. Finding a back door, The Shadow's agent tried it, discovered that it was locked, too.
Dropping back, Harry waited. Judging the distance to the side fence, he decided that Scorpio would reach the bungalow very soon.
Then, from within the house, Harry heard slight creaks. He decided that they must mean Claremont, for he was sure that the wealthy recluse was at home, even though the venturers had seen no lights.
The creaks traveled eerily, almost like one of Scorpio's spooks. Harry thought he heard them from two separate quarters.
Maybe it was his imagination. It had been proven that persons who saw two lake monsters had seen the same one twice, but had been fooled by its speed. There was argument, too, about the time of Barcla's capture; deputies claimed that they had spotted the bobbing ghost near one side of Grendale's house, while the rest had been spying Barcla at the other side.
But there was no mistake about the creaks. Momentarily, Harry heard both sets at once; knew that two men must be in the house. There was a fourth door, probably, or a convenient window through which Scorpio had crept. The professor was meeting Percy Claremont.
Edging off, Harry decided to find the entrance place and report back to Rundon and Carradon. Before he had gone a dozen steps, the indoor creaks were ended. Other tokens replaced them. Things that came with fearful suddenness.
A light gleamed through a shaded window. There was a sudden cackle, in Claremont's high-pitched voice. Scuffling sounds, followed by the hard thwack of a club, that must be Claremont's walking stick.
Then, a triumphant shout in a voice that Harry knew too well: the tone of Professor Scorpio!
Hard upon that shout came two reports from a revolver, splitting sounds, that seemed to quiver the atmosphere. Before he could get to a door, Harry heard the smash of another barrier; then a terrific clatter, as an entire window was ripped from its frame.
A figure bounded quickly from beside the house wall. Harry took after it, yelling for the others. Carradon deserted the door that he was watching and joined in the chase. They heard Rundon's voice, gasping but loud, from the window:
'It Scorpio! Get him!'
Two others-the sheriff and Cranston-were coming through the front door. Hearing them, Rundon staggered about, stumbled toward them, and sagged into a huddled shape. He stabbed his finger toward the lighted room. His words were panted.
'Scorpio... came in by the front!' Rundon gave a gulp, pressed his hand to his collar, which was ripped.
'I... I followed him. He had a key. Wouldn't have jumped at him... was going to get the others... only, he got Claremont. In there!'
Outside, shouts told that Harry and Carradon were still in pursuit of their quarry. Suddenly, Harry yelled; a gun barked twice. With the echoes, they could hear Carradon's angry snarl.
'Scorpio went that way,' panted Rundon, pointing to the window. 'Maybe... maybe they couldn't catch him.'
The sheriff hesitated, looked at Cranston.
'You see to Claremont,' The Shadow told him, pointing to a groaning form by a desk in the lighted room.
'I'll go along the trail.'
IT was a trail, indeed. Along the hallway to the window lay half a dozen bills, all of thousand-dollar denomination. Vaulting the window sill, The Shadow bored his flashlight as he struck the ground, and saw more money scattered irregularly ahead.
One fluttering bank note had stopped against a tree twenty yards away, but beyond that point, the direction changed.
Harry and Carradon were down by the water front, with flashlights. Boats were racing in from the lake, spreading to control the shore. Deputies had heard the gunfire; they took it as a signal from the sheriff.
Stopped outside the window, The Shadow extinguished his flashlight. His laugh, low-toned and under-
