invented.
When he went to mail the report, together with the letters of Mr. Banks, Harry walked two blocks from the millionaire's uptown mansion and entered a drugstore before he put the letters in the box outside.
There, Harry secretly passed the envelope which contained his report to a sober-faced clerk behind the counter.
Harry suspected that the man who received the envelope was Burbank, an agent of The Shadow.
Aside from short excursions of this type, Harry did not leave the millionaire's mansion.
Three days ago, he had received a brief, coded message from The Shadow. It had surprised Harry when he opened it, for the color of the ink was a darker blue than usual. But the message had faded in its usual fashion after Harry had read it.
The letter contained very brief instructions, advising Harry to cautiously engage Banks in conversation that would lead to a discussion of the millionaire's past life.
One clever peculiarity marked The Shadow's messages. Each sheet of paper had roughened edges.
The first note of a series would always have a slight tear on the top edge; the next would have a similar mark on the right edge; and so on, around the sheet, with each succeeding note. Then would come two tears on top, right, bottom, and left, respectively.
These marks were scarcely noticeable. They formed a simple system of enumeration that went up to eight; then a new series would begin, on a paper of different texture.
Thus, Harry could always check the notes in rotation, to see if he had failed to receive one. The note that he had received a few days ago had been number five in the present series.
Acting upon The Shadow's instructions, Harry had talked with Hubert Banks, artfully turning the man's thoughts to old recollections. But he had succeeded only in obtaining scattered reminiscences.
The millionaire had led an idler's life. Those events which he considered worth remembering were invariably of an unimportant nature.
Tonight, Banks had gone to sleep while talking, and Harry was spending a very quiet evening, engrossed in his own affairs. The atmosphere of the room was quieting yet Harry could readily appreciate how the gloomy aspect could prey upon the thoughts of a morbid mind.
He did not wonder that people had decided Hubert Banks was going crazy. These walls, with their somber tapestries, seemed made expressly for an insane mind. Harry had asked about the furnishings. He learned that they had been selected many months before by a friend of the millionaire, a man named George Houston.
Banks had mentioned that Houston was now dead, and that he did not care to talk about him. The topic had ended with that remark.
Harry Vincent's chain of thought was suddenly interrupted. Hubert Banks had awakened. The millionaire sat up on the couch, stretched his arms and grunted.
'Been asleep, eh?' he said. 'I feel dopey. What about another drink? Ring that buzzer for Herbert.'
Banks adjusted his coat.
'I don't know why I wear this swallowtail,' he said. 'Force of habit, I guess. I'm going up and get my smoking jacket.'
'Wait a minute,' suggested Harry. 'I'll call Graham.'
'Forget it,' returned Banks. 'You wait here for Herbert and tell him we want a couple of drinks. I'll go up and get the jacket myself.'
The glasses were resting on the table when Hubert Banks returned. The millionaire came down the steps staring straight ahead. Without a word, he advanced and picked up a glass.
He gulped down the drink; then opened his hand and let the tumbler fall upon the table. He did not seem to hear the breaking of the glass.
'What's the matter?' inquired Harry.
Banks stared at him with wide-opened eyes. The man's face was livid. He seemed to be gazing without seeing. Then he spoke harshly, in a hoarse, rasping voice.
'When is June the first?' he demanded. 'What day is it?'
'Day after tomorrow,' Harry answered.
Hubert Banks thrust his hands in the pockets of his smoking jacket and sat down in an armchair. He stared steadily at the tapestries on the opposite wall.
'Are you expecting anything then?' questioned Harry.
Banks stared at him with glaring, suspicious eyes. Harry met the man's gaze. The men looked steadily at each other.
Then the millionaire began to yield. His wild fury passed. He drew his left hand slowly from the pocket of his jacket and placed a crumpled sheet of paper in Harry's hand.
Scrawled over the surface of the paper were the words, 'June the first.' The writing was in pencil.
'Your handwriting,' observed Harry.
'Yes,' said Banks, in a strange voice.
'When did you write it?'
'I don't remember!' Banks spoke slowly and painfully. 'I don't remember! I talked on the telephone today - twice. Sometimes I write - when I talk. I do not remember doing that - today.'
'June the first,' said Harry speculatively.
'June the first!' exclaimed Banks in a hoarse whisper. 'I never wrote those words! Am I going insane?
That is the one day I have learned to forget! Now it is coming back - coming back to -'
A sudden realization dawned upon Harry. Hubert Banks had always ignored all dates in connection with his correspondence. He had said that he could not be bothered with dates. And he had another peculiar habit. When he read the front page of a newspaper, Hubert Banks invariably turned back the top portion of the page.
Generally he asked Harry, or Herbert the butler, to look through the newspaper for him and to pick out any items of interest. All this was now explained. For some unknown reason, Hubert Banks had chosen to remain in ignorance of the approach of the first of June!
'Ten - twenty - thirty years!' the millionaire was saying. 'Thirty years ago!' His eyes were closed as he spoke. He opened them and looked at Harry. The sight of his companion seemed to reassure him. He became suddenly confidential.
'Thirty years ago,' said Hubert Banks, in a low, hushed voice, 'my first wife died - in Paris. I had met her a few years before - when I was a student at Heidelberg. She and I eloped together and were married.
'Her family was angry. They had not planned for her to marry an American. The fact that I was wealthy meant nothing to them.
'As for my father - he wrote me and told me I could have no more money. We lived in poverty, Rachel and I.
'I borrowed from friends. I wrote pleading letters home. I received no replies. I dug up a little money. I came back, one evening, to the place where we were living.
'I had been gone two days, trying to get the money. I found Rachel -' His voice broke. With an effort, the millionaire recovered himself. 'She was dying!
'I can see her eyes now' - the man's gaze was glassy - 'her eyes, accusing me! She died. I could not even raise enough to bury her. My father brought me back to New York. Since then, I have learned to forget.'
Hubert Banks buried his head in his hands. He sat in silence, seemingly unable to speak. At last he raised his head.
'A year ago,' he said hoarsely, 'I came across letters that Rachel had written me. Then I found a clipping that told of her death.
'At intervals, new reminders would appear. Each one presaged some misfortune. Only a few weeks ago'
- he clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms - 'I found the death certificate!
'She killed herself! Poison!
'That terrible night has been haunting me. I was blamed for her death. I was accused by her relatives and by
