The clouds cleared suddenly. The moon was directly overhead. The Shadow did not move. The strange light caused his vertical body to cast a long black line straight down the wall of the cliff.
For The Shadow, himself, was the nucleus of that strange shadow, a narrow patch of black, many feet in length. Had Alfredo Morales been watching from across the gorge, he would not have believed that shade to be a living being.
The sky darkened. The Shadow, secure amid the blackness of night, moved upward. He passed the fringe of the cliff. On the very brink, regardless of his proximity to the mighty drop, he paused to remove the suction disks that had served him so well in this amazing journey.
Rising, the being in black stepped over the insulated wire that connected the ends of the electrified fence.
Then his tall form merged with the darkness of the lawn.
The most formidable barrier to Lucien Partridge's domain had been conquered. The one spot from which the old man had believed he was perfectly protected was the very spot that The Shadow had chosen for his entry into this sphere of action.
The moon was shining again, but its cold rays revealed no living form upon the tree-sprinkled lawn. The Shadow was somewhere; but his presence could not be detected.
Out of darkness The Shadow had come; into darkness had he returned!
CHAPTER XVIII. THE HAND OF DOOM
'PUT the car away, Vignetti.'
Lucien Partridge uttered the order in a querulous tone. He had begun to realize that it would be useless to stand here expecting Lamont Cranston to return.
The Corsican entered the car and backed it. The headlights gleamed across the road and suddenly revealed a man who was standing on the other side. The stranger made a motion as though to dodge the illumination; then changed his mind and walked boldly into the light.
It was not Lamont Cranston. The man's stature showed that fact. The stranger was shorter than Cranston, stockier in build, and swarthy of complexion.
'Who is there?' demanded Lucien Partridge.
'Mr. Partridge?' came the gruff reply.
'That's my name,' responded the old man. 'What do you want?'
The man came close. He made no sign of greeting—which was fortunate, for Partridge still wore the fatal gloves. Instead, he merely stated his identity in an apologetic tone.
'My name is Vic Marquette,' he said. 'I came up here to see you, but I lost my way. I wasn't sure whether or not this was the right place.'
'Marquette?' questioned the scientist harshly. 'I don't know the name. What is the purpose of this visit?'
'A friendly call, Mr. Partridge,' asserted Marquette calmly. 'I've been trying to find you, because I've got something to discuss with you. Perhaps this will identify me better.'
He drew back his coat to reveal his secret-service badge. Partridge saw the metal gleam in the light from the car. He bowed courteously, in his characteristic role of friendliness.
'Come right into the house, Mr. Marquette,' he said. 'I shall be glad to talk to you there.'
They went into the mansion, through the hall, to the laboratory. There, Partridge carefully removed his gloves, drawing each one off with the aid of the other, his hands touching nothing but the wrists. He doffed his smock, and laid it beside the gloves.
'I was beginning an experiment,' he remarked. 'It was interrupted by the return of my servant, Vignetti. I sent him down to the station on an errand which he failed to perform. A trustworthy man, Vignetti, but, like all of them, he lacks perfection.'
Vic Marquette was studying the old man carefully. Lucien Partridge smiled and motioned to his visitor to come into the library. Ensconced there, Partridge looked questioningly at the secret-service man.
'I GUESS you wonder why I'm here,' began Marquette. 'Well, I'm going to give you the details, Mr.
Partridge. There's something phony taking place in this vicinity; and as near as I can make out, it may be directed against you. Have you any enemies, Mr. Partridge?'
'Enemies?' The old man's echo denoted surprise. 'I have only friends. This amazes me.'
'Well,' declared Marquette bluntly, 'there are some dangerous people not far from here. I found that out, nearly to my sorrow. In meeting them, I inferred that they were none too friendly toward you. So that's why I'm here to-night.'
Partridge was nodding in a dazed sort of way. This idea that he might have enemies appeared to perturb the old man. It gave new confidence to Vic Marquette.
Since he had made his bold gesture, he felt convinced that no danger could be lurking here. As a secret- service man, looking into the affairs of persons who were inimical to Lucien Partridge, he felt a sense of strong security.
'Let me go back to the beginning,' said Marquette, in an open manner. 'First of all, one of my companions in the secret service died very suddenly, not so long ago. His name was Jerry Fitzroy. Did you ever hear of him?'
'Fitzroy?' Partridge did not appear to recognize the name.
'I worked with Fitzroy,' resumed Marquette. 'I learned that he had been to Westbrook Falls. So I came to this vicinity to investigate. I was watching for suspicious persons. I found one.'
'Ah! Who was he?'
'I do not know his name. He was a bearded man who appeared to be a Frenchman. I saw him at the inn.'
'A bearded man'—Partridge was thoughtful'—a bearded Frenchman. Was the beard very dark?'
'It was black.'
'Ah! It may be the same one!'
'Which one?'
'The man whom Vignetti saw outside the grounds. I am an inventor, Mr. Marquette. I have chosen this remote and isolated spot so that no one will interfere with my work. I keep the place properly guarded.
We are naturally suspicious of strangers. Such a man as you describe was unquestionably in this neighborhood.'
'I am not surprised to learn that,' declared Marquette. 'I followed that man one night. His trail led to a cottage in the woods.'
'Near here?' asked Partridge, in an annoyed tone.
'On the other side of the river,' responded Marquette. 'Near the hotel. When I approached the cottage, I was seized by two men who dragged me into the cottage. There were two men there. One was the bearded Frenchman; the other appeared to be a Spaniard. They demanded to know my business.'
'You told them?'
'No.'
'That may have been wise.'
'Perhaps. Perhaps not. I thought that they intended to keep me a prisoner. Instead, they put me in charge of one of their men—a greasy-faced villain— who was ordered to shove me off a cliff into an old quarry.'
'How did you escape?'
'Well, the fellow changed his mind. Under persuasion. I suppose that he reported that he had killed me.
So it was wisdom on my part to avoid that cottage for a while. But I did not conclude my investigations.
Instead, I followed a new lead that brought me here.'
'That brought you here?'
'Yes. In quizzing me, one of the two men happened to mention the name Partridge. After I had escaped, I made inquiries, and learned that you lived in this vicinity.
'The expression of my captors appeared quite hostile toward you. So I thought that an interview between us might be to our mutual advantage.'
MARQUETTE'S words caused Partridge to conjecture. The old man's thoughts approached alarm. He had not
