'I understand,' nodded Partridge. 'You wished to see for yourself— to learn if all that Guthrie has said is true. You would like to have me show you.'
Eagerness showed on Forster's face. The man's cupidity, apparent in his every action, was stressed to the utmost.
As Lucien Partridge motioned for him to rise, Clifford Forster sprang to his feet and walked forward as the old man started toward the hall.
Outside the door, they encountered the dark-faced man who had met Forster at the gate. Noting Forster's questioning gaze, Partridge made an impromptu introduction.
'This is Vignetti,' he said. 'I call him my faithful Corsican. I have traveled many places—to many lands'—he smiled wanly—'and in Corsica, many years ago, I offered shelter to a young lad whose parents had been slain in one of those fearful feuds they call a vendetta. Vignetti has served me ever since.'
During this explanation, the Corsican stood silent and immobile. Partridge saw that Forster was noticing this, and the old man supplied the reason.
'Vignetti speaks very little English,' he declared. 'Enough to inquire the business of strangers—to meet people at the gate as he met you. He is like a watchdog; and for that reason he is the very man I required here.'
With a few words of Italian, the old man ordered Vignetti to follow as he led Clifford Forster through the premises.
THEY entered a large room off the hall. This formed a chemical laboratory. They descended a stairs to the basement. Here were vats and crucibles.
In one corner lay a stack of yellowish bars. Forster's glance was avid. Partridge smiled.
'Unsuccessful experiments,' he said. 'That metal is not gold. It represents wasted effort.'
The old man unlocked a door, and they ascended stone steps to a long expanse of lawn around the house. Partridge motioned Forster forward. They passed a small tool house fifty yards from the big building; then Partridge held up his hand warningly as they came to the edge of a cliff.
Forster moved forward cautiously and peered down into the chasm. The river foamed a hundred feet beneath. On each side, as far as Forster could see, were sheer, stonewalled precipices as smooth as though they had been cloven by a mighty ax.
'These premises are immune from intruders,' smiled Lucien Partridge. 'No living being could scale that mass of rock.'
'But the fence -'
'See there?' Partridge pointed first in one direction; then the other. 'Observe how the ends of the fence project over the edge of the cliff. Now note this wire'—he indicated a cord that ran along the edge of the cliff from fence to fence—'which serves as the connecting link. This forms a network within the fence. It is insulated, only here it borders the cliff. At night, the current which passes through the wire would spell death to any who might touch it.'
'The gate?'
'That, too, is wired at night. No one can enter these grounds. You see. Mr. Forster, how well I am protecting my operations.'
They walked back to the house, Forster nodding his approval more and more as he noticed burly-looking men working about the premises. With Vignetti and these others, Lucien Partridge had the necessary protection from intruders.
Greedy though he was for profits, Forster recognized these factors as necessary expenditures. But when they had reached the house, and were again standing in the library, Forster returned to his original theme.
'I must leave shortly,' he said, glancing at his watch. 'But before I go, I would like to talk more regarding the output -'
'Certainly,' interposed the old scientist. 'Wait a moment. I shall have Vignetti summon a cab to take you to the station.' He spoke to the Corsican, then turned again to Forster.
'From now on,' resumed Forster, 'I shall keep in contact with you, Partridge. I am tired of Guthrie's promises. The output now should be one hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold a month. Perhaps more.'
Partridge smiled gleefully as he raised his hand.
'Millions, Mr. Forster,' he crackled, in a whisper. 'You shall have millions. All that you want. So long as my secret is preserved -'
'It is known to none but myself and Guthrie.'
Vignetti was returning. He spoke in Italian, and Partridge responded in the same language. The Corsican departed.
'The cab is on its way,' remarked Partridge. 'You are going to New York. I am returning to my laboratory. Returning to plan a greater flood of pure gold.'
CLIFFORD FORSTER was elated. He listened in rapture as the old man babbled on. Vignetti reappeared, carrying a smock upon which rested a pair of long gloves.
Lucien Partridge paused to don the gloves, taking each at the wrist, and slipping his hands into the depths. Then Vignetti helped him with the smock; and the old man walked to the hall, with Forster at his elbow.
The front door was open. As they waited there, Partridge still listening eagerly, the expected cab appeared beyond the iron gate. Vignetti walked ahead to unbar the way. Partridge and Forster followed.
Halfway to the gate, the old man paused to bid his guest farewell. There was a quiet warning in the old man's voice as he said adieu.
'Your hopes will be realized,' he declaimed. 'Have confidence in my ability. I am working in your interest.'
'Say nothing to Guthrie,' advised Forster, in return. 'Do not tell him that I was here. This matter concerns us only. This has been a secret visit.'
The old man nodded. He extended his gloved right hand. Forster gripped it warmly in a parting shake.
Then the bulky man lumbered hurriedly to the waiting automobile.
At the railroad station, passing away ten minutes before the arrival of his train, Clifford Forster again came under the observation of two watching men—Vic Marquette and the slender individual who looked like a Spaniard.
Clifford Forster did not know that he was being watched. He was thinking of the visit he had just paid to Lucien Partridge. His mind was filled with dreams of wealth. Forster was confident that the near future held much in store for him.
Could he have seen the true future, his dreams would have turned to dread!
CHAPTER V. DEATH CREEPS
LONG shadows lurked in the misty night as Clifford Forster ascended the brownstone steps of the old house which was his New York residence. His key clicked in the lock, but before he could open the door, some one responded from the inside.
'Ah! You are in to-night, Graver,' said Forster approvingly. 'I did not know whether or not you had received my wire.'
'I am always here, Mr. Forster,' responded the tall, solemn-faced man who had answered the door.
'You are a good caretaker, Graver,' rejoined Forster. 'I shall not need you to-night, however. I am going in the library, and when the doorbell rings, I shall answer it myself. I am expecting a visitor.'
'Very well, sir.'
Forster watched Graver go upstairs. Then he went into the library, a room at the side of the house. This room was damp and musty. The windows were closed, and the curtains drawn.
Outside, the street was dark. The temporary glow of light that had revealed Forster entering the door no longer showed. But in that darkness, a man was emerging from an alleyway opposite the house.
This individual, clad in a dark suit, walked briskly along the street, away from the house. He entered a small store, and went into a telephone booth. It was Harry Vincent, calling Burbank to notify him that Clifford Forster had arrived in New York.
While Harry Vincent was thus engaged, footsteps again resounded on the sidewalk in front of Forster's home. A man ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door opened, and Clifford Forster invited the stranger in. The two went into the library.
