was open. The air seemed clear but damp.
'Crawl forward - carefully.'
His hands were in dirt beyond the coffin. On hands and knees, Bruce emerged into solid earth. He was in a damp, moldy tunnel - a small passage that was barely large enough for his body. It twisted to the right.
He made the turn with difficulty.
The hole became larger as he moved upward. The angle became greater as he continued. His hands slipped as he clutched at the sides of the cramped tunnel.
Then his wrists were seized, and he was drawn bodily upward. He was clear of the hole; his knees had reached the surface. The hands released his wrists. He fell forward on solid ground!
Bruce uttered a long sigh. His limbs were aching; his ankles and wrists were sore from the ropes that had bound them. But his mind was freed of torment. He managed to roll on his back. He looked above him, and through the Stygian gloom he fancied he saw a white ceiling above.
He was in the mausoleum!
Some one was working close beside him, working so silently that Bruce could hardly hear the labor.
Some one was shoveling dirt back into the hole from which he had emerged.
All trace of time passed from Bruce Duncan's mind. His brain responded only to the soft sound of dirt, dropping downward. Then came a patting noise - the smoothing of the surface where the hole had been.
From that moment on, all seemed a dream. Bruce knew that he was outside the mausoleum; that he was moving forward through the rain and wind, sometimes being carried, sometimes walking. Some one was beside him, directing the way. But Bruce Duncan's eyelids were heavy; he could not open them. At last all seemed blank. A great faintness came over him.
Then came a sensation of warmth and dryness. He opened his eyes and stared with surprise at his surroundings. He was seated in a chair, in the downstairs room of the cottage. He was wrapped in a blanket. His outer garments were hanging over the wire screen before a blazing fire.
Bruce felt weak and tired. He rose wearily and went to the window. Raising the shade, he saw that the first touches of dawn were appearing in the sky.
Bruce picked up his shirt from the screen. It was nearly dry now - dry, but covered with caked dirt.
Gathering his garments, he went upstairs. He was in his stocking feet, and he made no noise as he passed the closed doors and reached the bed in his own room.
As sleep came upon him, Bruce Duncan's mind was filled with confused thoughts of his adventure. But one dominating impression filled his mind. The identity of his rescuer came with startling suddenness.
He had been drawn from his tomb by The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXXIII. LAMONT CRANSTON RETURNS
AT nine o'clock, Wednesday morning, Richards was awakened by the ringing of a bell in the kitchen.
The valet had spent a sleepless night, wondering what had become of his master. He was dozing when the bell rang, and he leaped from his chair when he heard it.
'Mr. Cranston is ringing!' he exclaimed. Then, realizing that the millionaire was missing, he added: 'Some one must be in his room.'
He hurried upstairs and stood in amazement at the door of Cranston's room. The millionaire was lying in bed, with his head propped wearily against the pillows.
'Mr. Cranston, sir!' exclaimed the astonished valet.
'Yes,' was the reproving reply. 'What kind of care have you been giving me, Richards?'
'What - what, sir?' stammered the valet. 'Where have you been, sir?'
'A short while ago I found myself in the wireless room upstairs. I was dressed, and I felt very tired. So I came down and went to bed.'
'So you were up there!' exclaimed Richards. 'We wondered where you had gone, sir. Did you go up there yesterday afternoon?'
'Yesterday afternoon, Richards? I don't recall it. I imagined that I had been there only a short while.'
'You were missing from your room, sir, and we could not find you.'
'Did you look upstairs?' The millionaire asked the question wearily.
'We tried the door, sir, but it was locked. Your key was downstairs, so we didn't suppose you could be there, sir.'
'Burbank must have left his key in the lock. I recall going in the room - I'm not exactly sure of the time I entered - and it seems to me the key was in the door.'
The valet hurried to the phone and called Doctor Wells. Richards reported the return of Lamont Cranston, and the doctor hurried over immediately. He listened to Richards's story and decided that Cranston must have become delirious during the previous afternoon.
'That wireless room was preying on your mind,' the physician said to the millionaire. 'You must have gone upstairs and fallen asleep. I can't understand how you managed to get that far. Oddly, your condition seems to be improved despite the exertion.'
'Perhaps I am capable of greater exertion than climbing stairs,' said Cranston with a slight smile.
'Possibly,' replied the physician. 'I believe now that your condition was somewhat better than I supposed.'
'Mr. Fellows has arrived,' announced Richards.
'Hello, Fellows,' said Lamont Cranston as the chubby-faced insurance man appeared. 'What brings you here?'
'Richards called me at the office. I was there before eight o'clock to-day. He said you were missing.'
'I appear to have been in the wireless room upstairs.'
'I thought Burbank was attending to that.'
'He went away yesterday.'
'Mr. Cranston's interest in Burbank's work appeared to be taxing his strength,' explained Doctor Wells.
'When I mentioned that fact, we agreed that Burbank should go.'
'I can't keep my mind off the sending station,' said Cranston. 'Perhaps you had better let me go up there today.'
'No, no,' exclaimed the physician.
'Then we'll have to send for Burbank.'
'Very well. I suppose that would be best under the existing circumstances.'
FELLOWS undertook to call the wireless operator by telephone. When he had completed his mission, he had received Burbank's promise to come immediately.
'I am glad you are here, Fellows,' said Cranston. 'There is something I wish you would do for me. I am anxious to learn what has become of a friend of mine - an Englishman whom I met last year at Palm Beach. His name is Hubert Weston. He was an officer in the British army during the war - a major, I believe. I have intended to write Weston, but have lost his address. You have many unusual connections in New York. Perhaps you could find out something about him.'
'I might be able to do that,' said Fellows thoughtfully. 'Do you merely want his address?'
'It would be better if I could obtain additional information - other facts - a picture of him would be excellent. I want to be quite sure that I am writing to the right man - not to some one of the same name.'
'I'll do what I can,' promised the insurance broker. 'Perhaps I can learn something about Weston through the British consulate. You will hear from me as soon as possible.'
The matter had been discussed in an indifferent manner; there seemed no further topic of conversation.
Fellows went back to New York. Doctor Wells also left after deciding that his patient could sit up in a chair by the window.
'Wonderful improvement,' he had said. 'Your visit to your wireless room seems to have done you good.
Don't overdo yourself. I may have you completely well within a week.'
When Burbank arrived, he was sent to Cranston's room. The millionaire gave the wireless operator a code message which he had written.
'Send this quickly,' he said. 'I answered a call this morning. Told them to wait for two hours. This will
