But in the center of the room was an object which immediately attracted Harry's attention, especially as it
accounted for the dim light which he had just noticed.
Standing on a pedestal was a huge globe of bright metal, that reflected the moonbeams. The massive
sphere had a highly polished surface, and it fascinated Harry's eyes.
He stood looking at it in wonderment.
What could its purpose be?
The big machines in the corner indicated material inventions; but the shining globe brought thoughts of the
supernatural. Harry had heard that bright objects, particularly spheres, of crystal or polished metal, could
be used to induce hypnosis.
Was this huge ball the object that had attracted those spectral forms to the tower of the house on Death
Island?
HARRY'S tense mind was too strained to reject the theory. Fantastic though it seemed, he was ready to
believe it. For as he looked at the bright metal, he felt a strange influence creep over him.
He seemed to forget where he was; to have no further thought of his surroundings. He was in a dream
world, and his imagination wandered.
There was no repetition of the tapping. Harry had forgotten it. His brain was centered on the shining
sphere. He stepped a few paces closer. He wondered what would happen if he stayed here looking at
the mystic globe.
For an instant, he was tempted to go away. Yet the lure held him. Again he moved closer. The great ball,
flashing its sparkling light, was almost within his reach.
Harry hesitated as he slowly extended his arms. He wanted to touch that brilliant surface—to learn if it
were really simple metal.
But before his fingers had reached the silver globe, Harry was jerked suddenly backward. His arms were
pinned behind him. He was twisted to the floor by a powerful man who had caught him unawares. A
hand was clapped to his mouth.
The young man had no chance against his captor. He had been taken totally unawares; and his mind had
been so occupied with other thoughts that he did not realize what had happened.
It seemed like the fraction of a second to Harry Vincent. One instant he was reaching for the shining
sphere; the next, he was lying on his back, staring upward into a bearded face.
Crawford was the man who had trapped him. Harry had no opportunity to fight or to make an outcry.
He sensed that he was in great danger; yet he was helpless. His captor had been too swift and thorough
in his work.
Crawford, his mind had told him, was the one man to avoid. Yet Harry had failed to rely upon his better
judgment.
Harry made one last effort to struggle. The bearded man tightened his grip, and Harry winced with pain.
Then Crawford leaned forward, and spoke in a low, whispering voice.
CHAPTER XXII. THE SECRET OF THE TOWER
'LIE still,' hissed the bearded man. 'Make no effort to move, or -'
The threat was implied. Harry lay motionless.
'Listen,' continued Crawford. 'Listen carefully, and obey. Do as I tell you, or it will mean your death. Do
you understand?'
Harry tried to nod, notwithstanding the fact that one of the bearded man's hands was pressed over his
face.
'Go back to your room,' came the whispered command. 'Go so quietly that none can hear. Leave the
door ajar. Wait there until I come.'
The instructions were amazing. Was his captor going to release him? This thought came as an unexpected
hope to Harry Vincent.
'Do you understand?'
The huge hand was lifted from Harry's mouth.
'Yes,' whispered Harry, in response.
'Will you obey my orders if I release you?'
'Yes,' was Harry's reply.
'Then go.'
Crawford arose, but stood hovering above, ready for immediate action if Harry should change his mind.
But the mere fact of his release impressed Harry.
If Crawford was a real enemy, he would not be granting this favor. Harry was free to go to his room. He
had pledged his word to his captor.
He moved unsteadily down the stairs that led to safety. Reaching the hall, he gained his usual composure,
and moved by the closed doors, until he reached his own room. There he left the door ajar.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Harry awaited the arrival of Crawford.
THE bearded man appeared some minutes later. He came through the door with the stealthiness of a cat,
and closed the entrance behind him.
'Do not raise your voice,' he whispered. 'Keep absolute silence. Do you know who I am?'
Harry shook his head.
'I didn't think you recognized me,' said the man with the beard. 'So I did not reveal my identity upstairs.
I was afraid that you might not believe me.'
He leaned forward, and his voice sank to an almost imperceptible whisper, as he announced:
'I am Vic Marquette.'
'Of the secret service!' gasped Harry.
'Hush! You remember the time we worked together -'
'Yes,' replied Harry, 'but I would never have recognized you.'
'I know it. This beard is a perfect disguise; for it is a real growth. I knew you the minute I saw you, when
you came to Harvey's Wharf.'
'Why didn't you tell me who you were then?'
'That's not my policy, Vincent. Those who have been friends once may be enemies later. I wanted to
know your purpose here.'
'I do not know it, myself,' admitted Harry. 'I have been told to report what goes on -'
'To The Shadow, I suppose,' interrupted Marquette.
'Yes,' replied Harry. 'To The Shadow. I know that there is danger here— that Professor Whitburn is
involved—but that is all.'
'What have you seen to date?'
'Nothing that I can explain. Last night—strange shapes appeared above the house. Something arose
from the lake—like a phantom. To-night, I heard a tapping in the tower—I went up to see what was
happening there.'
Vic Marquette laughed silently.
