'Right. He's looking at the front of the house, just above the sidewalk. He must have found cellar windows on the side. There are none here in front. Now he's going to the left side of the house.'
'Can you see him there?'
'Just barely. He's in an alley - a narrow alley - and it's dark. I can just make out his outline. He's stooping now. Trying the windows. He won't have any luck; this house is certainly heavily barred. Ah!'
'What is it?'
'He must have found a loose fastening. He's working on a window. About halfway back. I can just see him.'
'Don't lose sight of him.'
'I won't. He seems to be working harder. Now he's stopped. He's trying to push himself into something.
He's flat on the ground. There he goes! Feet-first! He's in - completely in!'
'Wait one minute. Tell me if he reappears.'
HARRY remained silent, his eyes glued on the spot where the Hindu had disappeared into the side of the building. He could detect no motion.
'Has he returned?' questioned the voice.
'No,' answered Harry. 'I'm sure he has gained an entrance.'
'It is time for you to act,' said the quiet tones. 'Until to-night it has seemed impossible to effect an entrance into that building. Now it has been done by some one else.'
'Shall I enter the way the Hindu went?'
'Yes. But be cautious. Listen to my instructions.'
Harry was intent.
'In the table drawer,' said the person at the other end of the wire, 'you will find three articles. A piece of chalk. A small flashlight. An automatic pistol, fully loaded.
'When you leave the store, make a chalk mark on the door. Put a tiny arrow on the sidewalk pointing across the street. Mark your path to the spot where you enter.
'Once in the house, your chief duty will be to find Bruce Duncan, the young man who entered at eight o'clock. Mark your path as you go through the house.
'Use the flashlight as little as possible. Use the automatic only in case of necessity. I can give you no more advice. The rest is up to you.'
Harry waited, but the monotonous voice did not continue. He was about to speak when he heard the click of the receiver at the other end of the line. He opened the table drawer. Groping in the dark, he found the articles mentioned. He made his way cautiously to the street; there he placed the first chalk mark on the door.
The fresh air added new vigor to Harry Vincent. The time for action had arrived! He was on the verge of a mysterious adventure. His mind dwelt on the thoughts of what lay ahead as he went stealthily toward the house, making his chalk marks as he moved along.
The Hindu had pried open a hinged iron shutter. Harry discovered this after a quick examination which did not require the flashlight. Inside the shutter was an iron grating. This must also have been loose, for it was swung inward.
The flashlight made a circle on the floor of the cellar as Harry pressed the button of the tiny instrument. It was a dark, gloomy cellar, that seemed to fade away in endless depths. The Hindu had entered in the darkness. Harry did likewise.
His feet clicked as they struck the stone floor. Blindly, Harry Vincent moved forward; as he did, he sensed that something was taking place beyond him. He fancied that he heard a sound some distance away.
CHAPTER XIII. THE ENEMY REVEALED
THE stack of letters had dwindled by half during Bruce Duncan's reading. Bruce stopped for a moment's rest, and rubbed his eyes. Then he moved the last letter that he had perused, noting the sizes of the two heaps. Those that he had read were on the right; the unread letters were at the left edge of the desk.
Bruce had not neglected to read a single word. It had been an interesting task, this exploration into the adventurous life of his uncle. The letters had been mailed from many parts of the world, and they went into great detail over many matters.
Never before had Bruce Duncan realized the amazing features of his uncle's career. Remarkable facts and strange experiences were recounted in a simple, matter-of-fact manner. It seemed surprising that Isaac Coffran had been unable to recollect the contents of these letters.
Duncan resumed his reading. He had not yet reached the portion of his uncle's life that dealt with Russia.
Still, he had felt it wise to follow Isaac Coffran's advice and read all of the letters. There might be some slight clue in the early ones that would help later on.
Furthermore, he was gaining a valuable insight into his uncle's methods and purposes. This, he felt, was preparing him for discoveries that might come later on. The mere mention of a prominent Russian name might be the very thread of circumstance he sought!
He completed another letter. He felt a bit tired. How long had he been reading? It seemed scarcely more than an hour - more probably it was two or three. He was about to glance at his watch when he thought of Isaac Coffran's suggestion to forget time.
Rising from his chair, Duncan felt a sudden return of exhilaration. It surprised him. He realized that the air had become a bit stuffy, yet it seemed like a complete change now. He walked around the room. He stopped by the door, but did not try to open it. He looked at the button beside the desk. Well, he could summon Pedro if he wished. That might be a good idea, but he would read a few more letters first.
He sat at the desk. He seemed suddenly weary and out of breath. As he reached to the pile of letters at the left, he accidentally knocked them to the floor - all but one letter, the last of the group. Duncan picked it up and reached for the others.
As he stooped to the floor, a sudden feeling of nausea came over him. He seized the letters and as he held them, he began to choke. His throat seemed to form a solid lump.
It required a moment for him to recover after he regained his sitting position. He had picked up the loose letters hurriedly. In so doing he had added the final letter to the top of the pile. He was not aware of the fact, for he was fighting against an attack of temporary dizziness.
DUNCAN closed his eyes, and his senses returned. Mechanically he opened the letter that lay on top of the heap at the left. He began to read it, wearily, without actually noting the words. Then a sudden difference in the appearance of the note attracted his attention.
All of the previous letters had borne the introduction, 'My dear Isaac.' This one began with the simple statement, 'Sir.' Concentrating, Duncan followed each word. The task seemed laborious, his senses had become dulled. But even in his lethargic mental state, the full meaning of his uncle's writing burned itself into his mind with startling revelation. The letter read:
This is the end. For many years I have been a trusting fool. I believed in your friendship. I told you much.
Now I know you for what you are - a fiend - a fiend that has assumed a human form!
You have used the information that I have given you to prey upon helpless people. You have sought to injure me, but without avail. I know now why I was attacked in Singapore. I have found out the source of the plot upon my life in Russia. I thought the Reds were back of it. But you were the man who caused it!
You have covered your tracks well. Only the man who tried to murder me in France could testify against you. He died beside me during an attack on the German trenches. He told me all, with his last breath. So you are safe.
But your schemes can no longer reach me. I am on my guard. The secret that you seek will never be yours. I shall reveal it on my deathbed, and the one who hears it will be warned against you. No inkling of you and your evilness will ever appear in anything I write. I am too wise to trust such statements to paper. But my own words will tell -
The letter fell from Bruce Duncan's hand. He had reached the end of the first page. He had learned all he needed.
