'But, senor, I have seen the same thing more than once. It is not just shadows that I have seen. One time I looked quickly—there I saw - him! He was like a shadow himself, senor!'
'I was there Jose,' responded Morales, in an annoyed tone. 'I looked where you pointed. I saw nothing—not even a shadow.'
'But he was gone, senor. Gone before you saw -'
'Gone? From the middle of the clearing? You are crazy, Jose. You are crazy! No man could have disappeared into the ground or into the air.'
'No man, senor! I am afraid of no man. But if he is more than a man - some one that certain eyes can see and other eyes cannot -'
'Forget those superstitions, Jose,' cried Morales. 'We are dealing with people, not with ghosts. Enough of such foolishness!'
With that Morales took the binoculars and left the house, turning again toward the path that led from the cottage to the lookout spot upon the cliff.
When his chief had gone, Jose stood at the door of the cottage. Apprehension showed on the man's greasy countenance.
Jose, a creature of ignorance, was fearful as he gazed about him. His eyes wandered upward to the flat- topped roof of the cottage. Moving backward, the man stood still; then, looking about him, suddenly discovered that he was standing in the center of the clearing. Fearful of this haunted spot, Jose sprang to the door of the cottage, looking behind him as he ran.
After gaining the house, the man's trepidation faded. He went into the main room and sat in a chair. There his worry began to fade as he dropped into a doze. This one place seemed to give Jose a sense of security. Here his laziness overcame his apprehension.
IT was afternoon when Alfredo Morales returned to the cottage. Again, Jose sprang up in alarm when his master entered. The servant prepared a lunch, and Morales ate in silence. It was obvious that his spying had not brought new results.
Morales went back to his observation spot after his meal. He returned a few hours later. Jose was awake, this time, standing on the porch. The sky had clouded; here in the woods, premature darkness was settling.
Almost immediately after Morales had arrived, Manuel appeared from the woods, and hastened to make his report. Morales listened with intense interest.
'They are there,' declared Manuel. 'Both of them are at the inn. The man with the hard face; the man with the beard. You can tell them easily. They are both very wise; but they have not seen me. I have been too careful.'
'You will stay here, Manuel,' ordered Morales. 'You will do as I have instructed. Jose will prepare your dinner. I am going down to the inn. Remember —I shall walk back alone. Be ready then, with Jose to help you.'
Long shadows had settled on the clearing when Alfredo Morales set forth into the woods. Manuel and Jose were watching him from the porch. Manuel was indifferently rolling a cigarette; but Jose was watching intently. The presence of those sinister shadows seemed to worry him.
'What is the matter, Jose?' questioned Manuel, as he happened to glance toward his companion. 'One would think that you were looking at a ghost or something.'
'I have not been well,' growled Jose. 'It is that sea-sickness that began ever since we left Buenos Aires.'
'Bah! You have been here more than a week. That is a poor excuse, Jose.'
The greasy-faced man did not reply. Jose was watching the figure of Alfredo Morales, the man from the Argentine, as it disappeared amid the thickening blackness of the wood. When he could no longer glimpse his departing master, Jose, after a last troubled look at the shadows in the clearing, shrugged his shoulders and went back into the cottage. Manuel laughed and followed him.
PERHAPS it was fear that had governed Jose; possibly the man was possessed of an overkeen vision.
At least, Jose had sought to study every suspicious shadow that he had seen from the porch of the cottage. Yet despite his sharp gaze, Jose had failed in his self-appointed task.
For something had moved at the edge of the clearing the moment that Alfredo Morales had passed. That something had cast its shadow across the path; yet even Jose had failed to see the ominous patch of black.
Moving after Morales as though it were the man's own shadow, that changing splotch of blackness had followed—lengthening and shortening amid the flickering light that trickled through the waving branches of the leaf-clad trees.
On went Morales, striding directly along a path that broadened and became more firm. Always, close behind him, slid a shape that was nothing more than an inky silhouette. It was not until Morales emerged from the woods and struck a dirt road that the moving shadow assumed a new appearance.
Then, momentarily, it appeared in more sinister form. Instead of a gliding shadow, it became the outline of a being clad in black—a tall figure garbed in a cloak. Two sparkling eyes shone from beneath the covering brim of a shapeless hat.
The vision persisted only for a moment. It merged with the trees at the side of the road. On through the dusk strode Alfredo Morales, totally oblivious of the weird apparition that had appeared behind him.
This evening—Alfredo Morales was bound upon a special mission—a work that concerned Lucien Partridge as well as others. Confident that no one knew of his presence in this vicinity, Morales was convinced of his security. He had no thought for the vague fears that had been expressed by Jose.
Yet those fears had now become reality. A phantom shape had become a living being. Alfredo Morales had come beneath a mysterious surveillance.
The Shadow was trailing the man from the Argentine!
What was the connection between Alfredo Morales and Lucien Partridge? What cross-purposes and counter- plots were reaching their culmination here in the peaceful vicinity of Westbrook Falls?
Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER IX. MORALES RECEIVES A VISITOR
IT was scarcely more than a mile from the cottage where Alfredo Morales lived to the Westbrook Inn.
But from Lucien Partridge's abode, it was necessary to travel several miles around the outer course of the semicircular stream to reach the bridge, which, in turn, was more than a mile above the hotel.
Hence Morales, living but a short way from Partridge, had a tremendous advantage so far as traveling distance was concerned when it came to visiting the summer hotel. Partridge's situation across the chasm was one of isolation— which was exactly what he desired.
When Morales arrived at the Westbrook Inn, he was still unconscious of the fact that he was being followed. As the man from the Argentine came into the lighted area of the hotel veranda, the trailing blackness disappeared behind him. No trace of The Shadow's presence was visible.
Dinner was being served at the hotel. Morales went into the dining room and seated himself at a table.
There, he began a cold survey of the people about him. It was not long before he had selected two objectives.
One was a stocky, firm-faced man who apparently paid no attention to the presence of Morales. This was Vic Marquette, the secret-service agent who had come to Westbrook Falls in an effort to solve the riddle that surrounded the strange death of Jerry Fitzroy.
The other was a man of medium height—an eccentric-looking individual— whose principal note of physiognomy was a thick, short-cropped beard of blackish hue.
This man appeared to take a keen interest in his surroundings. As soon as he was observed by Morales, the bearded man returned the other's stare. That settled, the two men shifted their gaze elsewhere.
Morales sensed that he was being watched by both Vic Marquette and the bearded man. One had not appeared to notice him; the other had apparently forgotten him. Nevertheless, Morales smiled to himself.
He had come here to observe these men; there was no objection whatever to them observing him.
Only one guest entered the dining room after Morales had arrived. The Argentinian threw a quizzical glance toward the newcomer; then smiled again when he saw that the arrival was a nonentity.
