The belated guest was an old man who hobbled with the aid of a cane. He was a sour-faced person, and his deafness was apparent by the way he shouted his order at the waitress, much to the amusement of the other guests.
Dinner went by. Morales did not leave the dining room until after Marquette and the bearded man had departed. When he at last arose, the only person remaining in the room was the old man.
OUT in the lobby, Alfredo Morales lighted a cigarette and sat in a comfortable chair. He began to take a shrewd interest in everything that was going on about him. He became nervous in his demeanor. He threw away his cigarette, although it was only half finished; then lighted another one immediately.
From the corner of his eye, Morales spotted both Marquette and the bearded man. Neither one seemed conscious of the other's presence, but it was obvious to Morales that they were both interested in his actions. The only lull in this game of watchdog was when the old man with the cane hobbled through the lobby and obtained his key at the desk.
'Eccentric old chap,' Morales heard some one say. 'Phineas Twambley is his name. Supposed to be worth a lot of money, but I've never seen him give even a nickel tip.'
Morales settled back in his chair and lighted another cigarette. He seemed half asleep as the minutes ticked by. He was thinking of the two men whom he had watched. He had completely forgotten old Twambley, who had gone upstairs.
Had Alfredo Morales caught a mental flash of Twambley's room, he would have been amazed. For the old man, at that particular moment, was old no longer.
His cane was out of sight in the bureau drawer. From the back of an upright trunk, Phineas Twambley was drawing forth two garments—a black cloak and a slouch hat.
One minute later, Phineas Twambley was The Shadow. Tall, silent, and swift, he swept across the room and entered a dimly lighted hall. Half a minute later, his sinister figure disappeared through a large window that led to the fire escape.
DOWN in the lobby, the lethargy of Alfredo Morales came to a sudden end. With a suspicious glance about him, the Argentinian suddenly arose and hurriedly left the hotel lobby. Once outside, his manner became stealthy as he moved toward the road by which he had approached the Westbrook Inn.
Morales was wearing a panama hat. In the darkness, it shone almost like a luminous object. Had any one chosen to follow him now, the trail would have afforded no difficulty.
There was a strange change in the actions of Alfredo Morales. He had been in a hurry to leave the inn; now he was calm and deliberate as he began the stroll back to the cottage. All along the way, he left a trail of half- consumed cigarettes.
When he entered the woods, the Argentinian was humming to himself. When he reached the clearing, he continued the noise. The lights of the cottage shone through the gloom, and cast a reflection upon the open space in front. There Morales sauntered onward.
He crossed a patch of black that seemed like an extension of the darkness. He did not notice it. Alfredo Morales was not like Jose, his servant. He did not pay attention to shadows—even though they might be long, like this one, and shaped like a silhouette.
The door of the cottage was open. Morales entered it with the air of a man returning to his home. He went into the main room, which was located at the side. Here he drew the blinds. But he had left the front door open behind him.
The silhouette upon the clearing was motionless. But now a moving object made its appearance. A man came into the sphere of light. It was the bearded stranger whom Morales had observed at the Westbrook Inn.
Stealthily, the stranger ascended the steps and entered the open door of the cottage. He made his way quietly to the door of the main room. He peered in to see Alfredo Morales seated at a desk in the corner.
The Argentinian was writing. Now he laid the papers aside. With a sign of weariness, he leaned his head forward upon his arms.
The bearded stranger moved into the room. His objective was the table where the papers lay. It was a job that required stealth; but the odds were in his favor. Alfredo Morales seemed totally oblivious of all that was happening about him.
The intruder reached the center of the room. He was smiling, his lips forming a ruddy curve amid the black beard. One hand was in his pocket, in readiness to draw a weapon should Morales be suddenly aroused.
He paused, as motionless as Morales. His eyes were watching the man in the chair. So intent was the intruder that he did not see a thin splotch of black that came creeping inward from a farther window of the room—a shadowy shape of inkiness that edged forward with uncanny ease.
Nor did Morales see that weird shade. Seemingly half asleep, he was unaware of the black-bearded man. Not cognizant of the presence of a human intruder, how could he have noticed a creeping shape that neither lived or possessed physical form?
The bearded man was carefully advancing; then he paused again, his lips pursed within the black beard.
He sensed danger. Not from Morales, who was unwatching; not from the shape that now formed an unmoving blotch upon the floor; but from a new direction.
Instinct suddenly dominated caution. The intruder swung quickly toward the door of the room, drawing his hand from his pocket. That hand did not bring forth a weapon. Instead, it came from the pocket with fingers spread out wide.
The bearded man's hands went above his head.
STANDING at the door, armed with rifles, were the two henchmen of Alfredo Morales. While the bearded stranger had advanced, Jose and Manuel had entered behind him to cut off his retreat.
Sullenly, the intruder faced his captors. Then, as a chuckle reached his ears, he turned his head toward the chair where Alfredo Morales was seated.
The tall, shrewd-faced man from the Argentine was wide awake, laughing at the success of the trap that he had prepared.
The stranger no longer considered Jose and Manuel. He recognized that they were mere underlings, who had obeyed the orders of Alfredo Morales.
Whatever his fate might be, it rested in the hands of the suave Argentinian. For long, cold seconds, the bearded man faced his smooth-shaven captor. It was Morales who broke the silence.
Rising from his chair, the man from the Argentine made a low, courteous bow. There was nothing of mockery in his action. That role was ended. With an imperious wave, he signaled Jose and Manuel. The rifles were lowered. Another wave, and the henchmen departed.
This action came as a surprise to the bearded stranger. In fact, he had encountered a series of surprises, each as sudden as his unexpected capture. Morales appeared to be a friend—not an enemy. He had ordered his men away— leaving his uninvited guest still armed.
The bearded man lowered his hands. Morales offered no objection. But the stranger made no motion toward his pocket. Instead, he quietly waited for Morales to speak, wondering what new surprise might be forthcoming.
Again Alfredo Morales bowed. Then, in his suave, modulated English, he spoke.
'Good evening, Monsieur Armagnac,' he said. 'I have been awaiting you. This visit is a pleasure.'
Complete bewilderment showed on the bearded face. The stranger's expression clearly showed that Morales had guessed his identity. In view of this new astonishment, Armagnac was incapable of a reply.
Alfredo Morales smiled.
'I have business with you, Monsieur Armagnac,' he said. 'It is business that will interest you. Be seated'—he indicated a chair— 'and let us converse.'
Still bewildered, the bearded man obeyed the request. He sat in the chair indicated by Morales. The Argentinian resumed the seat where he had been resting when Armagnac had entered.
With a suave smile, Morales opened his silver case and offered a cigarette to Armagnac, who accepted it. Morales took one for himself, and proffered a light.
Then, resting back in his chair, Alfredo Morales began to speak in a quiet, methodical tone. His visitor listened intently—still wondering at these new words.
They formed an odd contrast: Morales calm and unperturbed; Armagnac, puzzled and uncertain.
