Only The Shadow knew. His laugh told that he, too, would enter into this strange conflict!
CHAPTER XVI. THE NEXT NIGHT
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since the death of Pierre Armagnac. Two men were standing in Lucien Partridge's laboratory. One was the old man; the other was the faithful Vignetti. The Corsican was watching the completion of an experiment.
Lucien Partridge turned to Vignetti with an evil grin. He pointed to a test tube which contained a small quantity of a fine, grayish powder.
'There lies death, Vignetti,' declared the old man.
The Corsican grinned in fiendish fashion.
'This is what I have wanted, more than gold,' chuckled Partridge. 'He who has gold must be able to deal death. My false gold brought me real gold. The death that I have given has been real death.
'But only with those gloves have I dealt death. Those gloves, deeply covered with the powder that gives the creeping death to those who would spoil my plans. Now, with this new powder, I can send death.
Send it, Vignetti! Send it, anywhere—throughout all the world! Ah! What a vendetta this will be!
'Kings—presidents—men of wealth and fortune! They shall be my victims. You will help me, Vignetti.
This powder, worked into harmless letters, will kill those who touch it. Not instantly—no, Vignetti, that would not be wise—but after a time, when no one can know the cause!
'Death will rule, Vignetti! Death as I deliver it! Soon we shall begin. With gold, I shall be the master of life! With my powder, I shall be the master of death! Such men as Armagnac—I shall not have to wait for them to visit me. I can send death to them!'
The old man's face was a rhapsody of evil. A curious elation dominated him. His eyes were staring far away; his tone was reminiscent.
'Li Tan Chang!' he remarked. 'His own invention brought him death. That night in Peking, when you were prompt with the knife, Vignetti. You suspected the approach of Li Tan Chang's creeping death.
After all, it is an Oriental malady; but that wise Chinaman was the first to use a means to deliver it.
'What would he think if he were alive to-day! You prevented my death, Vignetti. I learned the secret.
Now I have developed a more potent poison. Where it required much of Li Tan Chang's formula to work through the flesh, a small amount of mine will serve the purpose!'
The old man emptied the contents of the test tube upon a sheet of paper. Partridge was wearing laboratory gloves. Yet he used the utmost care as he slid the powder into a small, square box.
'I shall put it safely away,' he said. 'We will not need it for a while, Vignetti. To-morrow. I shall prepare my list of those whom I would like to die. Men who have never seen me; men who have never heard of me; but all men who some day might try to obstruct my plan to rule the world!'
Vignetti nodded. He knew what was in his master's mind. Partridge, speaking his medley of English and Italian dialect, continued as he walked toward the library.
'You shall help me, Vignetti,' he declared, 'with this new method of death. Chance letters, mailed from here and there; all will carry the death that up to now I gave by hand.
'When people visit me, the old method will be best. It is much better that such people die far away. But for those who do not come— for those I want to die whom I do not meet—we will send this new powder!'
The old man put the box away in a table drawer. He brought out an envelope and opened it. The envelope contained a list which bore the names of many persons. Lucien Partridge chuckled gleefully as he studied this line of intended victims.
'Vignetti thinks it a vendetta,' he said softly, after noting that the Corsican had gone. 'Ah! It is a vendetta; but such a one as the world has never known!
'The Romans had their lists of prescribed victims; those who were to die. But my list! Ah, all will surely die, unbeknown! Chaos will rule! Dynasties will perish; republics become ungoverned masses; great enterprises will fail!
'Men will be afraid to command. They will look for a leader. Then, as dictator for all the world, I shall rise as the master of all autocrats. Who else could do the same? I shall have the wealth of Croesus; the power of Napoleon; vast territory beyond the dreams of Alexander. The ruler of all the world!'
The old man sat in silence. His lips moved happily. Across his face flickered changing emotions that showed the turn of his eccentric mind. One moment benign, another moment fiendish, his expressions were the extreme in contrast.
VIGNETTI entered the room and interrupted the old man's thoughts with a short announcement.
'Mr. Cranston is here,' he said.
A new expression came over Partridge's face. This was one of perplexity.
'Cranston,' he said thoughtfully. 'Yes, we received his telegram to-day. It referred to the New Era Mines. Urgent business, so he said. I must see him, Vignetti; but I doubt that he can know much.
However— I expect you to be ready -'
Vignetti nodded and left to usher in this guest who waited at the gate.
A few minutes later, a tall man attired in evening clothes entered the library. Lucien Partridge arose to greet his visitor.
'Mr. Cranston?' he questioned.
'Yes,' came the reply. 'My name is Lamont Cranston.'
Lucien Partridge was oddly impressed with the appearance of his visitor. Never, throughout his long life, had the old man met such an unusual personage.
Lamont Cranston possessed a face that was enigmatical. One could not have divined his age from his features. He seemed young, yet old; quiet, yet purposeful.
His face was chiseled like that of a sculptured statue; at the same time, it possessed a masklike quality that betrayed no emotions. Two sharp, piercing eyes glowed on either side of Cranston's hawkish nose; yet there was neither suspicion nor unfriendliness in that steady gaze.
Even in his voice, Cranston exhibited a remarkable contrast. His tones were deliberate and easy; still they carried an even note that made each syllable stand out distinctly by itself. Lucien Partridge felt himself dominated by the personality of this amazing individual.
So keenly was the old man studying his visitor that he did not observe a peculiar phenomenon that accompanied Lamont Cranston. Across the floor, spreading like the spectral shape of a gigantic bat, lay a huge shadow. As Cranston turned toward the chair which Partridge indicated, that shade took on the aspect of a long, thin form, topped by a broad-brimmed hat.
Perhaps the changing shadows were due to the peculiar lighting of the room. Whatever the case might have been, the final shade still remained after Cranston had seated himself. It was then that Partridge turned an inquiring gaze toward his visitor.
'I HAVE been wondering why you wished to see me, Mr. Cranston,' Partridge remarked. 'It is not often that I receive visitors.'
'So I have understood, Mr. Partridge,' returned Cranston, in an even, smooth tone. 'Clifford Forster— Lawrence Guthrie—both were friends of mine. I know that they have visited you.'
A faint trace of suppressed worry appeared upon Partridge's countenance. The old man quickly recovered from his betrayed emotion.
'Yes,' he responded. 'Both have been here. Poor Forster—I understand that he is dead.'
'Yes,' returned Cranston, 'Forster is dead. But I am surprised that you have not mentioned Guthrie also.
He died since Forster.'
'Guthrie—dead!'
'Yes, he died—like Forster—on a train in Canada.'
An expression of feigned regret appeared upon Partridge's face. He hastened to make a cunning statement.
'Both were acquaintances of mine, Mr. Cranston. Merely acquaintances, you understand.'
'So the world believes,' responded Cranston, with the faintest trace of a smile. 'But I happen to have
