'Give me back about seven dollars.'
Steve Cronin put the money in Vincent's wallet. There was a slight jingle from the man's vest.
'What's that?' asked Cronin.
'Just change,' answered Wally. 'I forgot to take that.'
'Leave it there. That makes it still better.'
Steve Cronin climbed into the touring car and threw the automobile into reverse.
'Stand on the running board,' he said to Wally.
He backed the car along the rough road and up the incline to the center of the railroad crossing. He stopped it there. He turned off the ignition and put the car into high gear. Then he turned the ignition key on again.
Alighting from the automobile, Cronin walked to the opposite side. He opened the door and pushed Harry's body toward the left. Together he and Wally completed the arrangements. Harry Vincent lay slumped over the wheel.
Cronin surveyed his work.
'Just one thing I forgot,' he remarked.
He took the bottle from Harry's pocket. He tilted back the head of the unconscious man and poured about half of the remaining contents down his throat. Some of the liquor spilled on Harry's coat. Steve Cronin chuckled.
'Details, Wally,' he said. 'Details always count. This makes it perfect. Drunk at the wheel. Stalled on the crossing. Empty bottles that smell of liquor.'
He walked down the road, followed by Wally, in the glare of the headlights of the stranded car. Cronin had flashed the lights on when he had backed the car. He turned and looked along the road as he consulted his watch.
'In about seven minutes,' he said, 'this will be finished. That crossing was just made to suit me. Notice how it curves? The engineer won't know a thing about it until he is right on top of the car.'
The whole idea now dawned on Wally.
'So that's why you looked up the time-tables!' he exclaimed. 'Is it a fast train, Steve?'
'Fast enough to suit me. There's a station about a mile down the line, as near as I can figure it from the map. But it isn't even a flag stop for this train. It will come through here mighty fast.'
As if in answer to Cronin's prediction, the men heard the distant whistle of a locomotive - a long, plaintive whistle that indicated a train moving at rapid speed.
'Climb aboard, Wally,' exclaimed Steve Cronin as he jumped to the wheel of the sedan. 'We're going straight ahead in a hurry. The rest will take care of itself.'
The tail light of the sedan disappeared around a bend. All was silent at the crossing. There was another whistle of the locomotive through the night, but the unconscious man at the wheel of the touring car could not hear it.
Steve Cronin had planned well. The fulfillment of his scheme had become a matter of minutes only. A mighty juggernaut of iron was hurtling along the steel rails, and in its certain path stood the waiting automobile.
CHAPTER VIII. DUNCAN'S VISITOR
The very time when Harry Vincent lay helpless behind the wheel of the abandoned touring car, Bruce Duncan was comfortably seated in the upstairs room of his dead uncle's home. Once more he was pondering over the odd adventure that he had experienced within these walls.
Patience was not one of Bruce Duncan's virtues. He realized this as he sat in the armchair, staring at the fireplace.
Three weeks had elapsed since the mysterious visitor of the night had entered his home. During that time he had failed utterly in his attempts to discover who the visitor might be.
Nothing had disturbed him since; but he did not expect that. The thief had obtained what he had sought.
Why should he be molested further?
Three weeks - to be exact, three weeks and one night. Twenty-two days without action. It was Wednesday now; the hiding place in the hearth had been opened on a Tuesday night.
Duncan was sure of but two facts - first, that the actual thief had been an ape-faced creature that had seemed inhuman; second, that some one had been outside the window, directing the actions of the strange being.
The door opened, and Abdul, his Hindu servant, entered.
'Eleven o'clock, sahib,' said the servant. 'Do you need me longer?'
'Better wait up until midnight, Abdul,' suggested Duncan. 'By the way, what day was it that you mailed that last letter I gave you?'
'Sunday, sahib.'
Duncan went to the desk and brought out some papers. He studied them thoughtfully while the Hindu moved quietly about the room.
The letters had been Duncan's only hope for a clue to the mystery which perplexed him. Among his uncle's documents he had found a list of four names which Tremaine had identified as persons with whom Harvey Duncan had conducted considerable correspondence.
Artful questioning had satisfied Bruce Duncan that the lawyer knew nothing about his uncle's connection with a prominent Russian. But it was possible that one of these four men might be able to supply some information.
So he had written them and had received three replies to his carefully worded notes. The letters that had come in indicated that the men knew nothing - unless they had deliberately sought to conceal facts. Bruce intended to investigate that later.
In the meantime he had sent a second letter to the man who had not replied. It was an urgent letter, asking for an immediate response and suggesting a visit. This was the letter that Abdul had mailed on Sunday night.
Bruce put the memoranda back in the desk and returned to his chair. At that moment the doorbell rang.
Abdul went to answer it.
The Hindu returned a few minutes later.
'Man to see you, sahib.'
'What's his name, Abdul?'
'Mr. Isaac Coffran.'
Duncan fairly leaped from his chair.
'Bring him in, Abdul,' he exclaimed.
The visitor was the man to whom the last letter had been addressed!
The Hindu ushered an elderly gentleman into the room. The newcomer was of slight build and stoop- shouldered. He used a cane as he walked, and he turned his head upward to stare at Duncan with sharp, blue eyes that were both friendly and inquisitive.
He accepted Bruce Duncan's handshake and sat in the armchair facing the fireplace, while the young man took a position close beside him.
A strange old fellow, thought Duncan. Older than his uncle, yet alert despite his age. It was impossible to determine the exact age of Isaac Coffran. The man's face was clean-shaven, and his cheeks were smooth and tight.
'I received your letter,' announced the old man in a wheezy yet amiable voice. 'It seemed important, so I came to see you. It is not often that I leave my house.'
He laughed; then he added: 'This is the first time I have been outside for several months.'
'I'm sorry,' observed Duncan apologetically. 'I could have come to see you.'
'No, no,' replied the old man. 'It was only a few hours from New York. The night is mild, and the trip has done me good. A friend brought me. He is outside in his automobile.'
'Would you like to stay all night?' offered Duncan.
'No, no. I am used to late hours. A habit that I have had ever since I was young like you. I can stay only a little while. Why was it that you wished to see me?'
Duncan stared speculatively across the room. He felt that he must be tactful; at the same time, old Isaac
