Up in the study, Winstead Delthern still fumed at his desk. Mutterings came from his pasty lips. His rage at Warren Barringer had not subsided.
“The young upstart!” he mumbled. “I wonder if he had the affrontery to speak to Wellington after he left this room! I shall learn! I shall learn!”
Rising suddenly from his desk, Winstead Delthern paused to listen. He imagined he had heard a noise close at hand. He stared about him suspiciously; then opened the door and went into the dark upstairs hall. He stopped when he came to the landing at the head of the stairs.
The landing was a peculiar alcove that jutted from the second floor. It ended abruptly in the steep steps that went downward.
Winstead Delthern, standing in almost total darkness, rested his hand upon the rail, and peered into the gloomy depths to see if Wellington were about.
Winstead’s pale face loomed ghostly in the darkness. The side of the stairway, like the walls of both upper and lower hallway, was formed of dark panelling that added to the dullness of the surroundings.
Not sure that Warren Barringer had actually departed, Winstead Delthern listened in silence. If the upstart should still be below, talking with Wellington, there would be action to follow!
Warren might be a relative, and therefore immune from Winstead’s anger; Wellington, however, was only a servant. Mean in disposition, Winstead was actually hoping that he could catch Wellington speaking secretly with Warren Barringer.
SEVERAL minutes went by while Winstead Delthern listened. Suddenly his ears caught the same sound that he had imagined in the study. Winstead could not place it. The sound was very slight; no more than a dull scraping noise.
Then, acting upon sudden instinct, Winstead Delthern turned. A gasp came from his lips as two strong hands gripped his throat in the darkness. Struggling to break this terrible grasp, Winstead staggered toward the wall; the hands slipped from his throat to his arms.
A cry came from Winstead Delthern as he triumphed in his momentary freedom; then the shout turned into one of recognition. An instant later, Winstead Delthern’s staggering form was thrust back to the edge of the stairway. His powerful assailant released him with a terrific fling.
Plunging backward, Winstead Delthern shot head-foremost down the steep stairway. His cry trailed to a long scream of terror; then his head smashed against the steps.
The scream ended as the man’s body continued downward, whirling in a succession of long bounces that terminated only when Winstead Delthern’s form struck against the floor of the lower hallway.
Rolling over half a dozen times, Winstead Delthern lay crazily sprawled at the foot of the stairs. He never moved again. Death had overtaken his whirlwind plunge. The twisted position of his head indicated that his neck was broken.
All was dark at the head of the stairs. No sign of Winstead’s assailant remained. Only the echoes of that terrific crash remained, dying away through the spaces of Delthern Manor.
Seconds rolled by. Then Wellington appeared, coming hastily from the living room. The servant rushed forward as he spied the body.
His cry of horror was echoed from above. Marcia Delthern, attired in a dressing gown, had arrived at the head of the stairs. Seizing the rail, she hurried down to join Wellington.
While the two bent over the dead body of Winstead Delthern, another person arrived from the living room.
Humphrey Delthern, who had gone out early in the evening, was returning home. This man, the living counterpart of his now dead brother Winstead, rushed forward to join the pair at the foot of the stairs.
“I was in the living room, Mr. Humphrey,” explained Wellington. “I heard someone tumbling down the stairs. I arrived just after the fall.”
“Yes,” agreed Marcia. “I heard the crash while I was in my room. I reached the stairs just as Wellington arrived.”
“A terrible accident!” exclaimed Humphrey. “Terrible. Terrible. We must send for a physician at once.”
The doctor arrived to pronounce Winstead Delthern dead. The body was carried to an upstairs room. The physician attended Marcia, who was on the verge of collapse. Wellington went up to get instructions from the doctor.
Humphrey Delthern remained alone in the lower hallway. He paced the floor where this tragedy had reached its climax. He recalled the very words that he had uttered. This had, indeed, been a terrible accident.
Suddenly a thin smile manifested itself on Humphrey Delthern’s thin face. A terrible accident - yet one not entirely to be regretted. Winstead Delthern was dead. Humphrey was now the eldest survivor - the head of the Delthern family!
Humphrey Delthern uttered a muffled chuckle; then his evil face clouded. He began to ponder upon the strange fortune that had brought this accidental death. Then a look of worriment became his sole expression.
“Murder!” muttered Humphrey Delthern. “Murder! Someone has murdered my brother Winstead!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE SHADOW KNOWS
A CHUBBY-FACED man was seated at a desk in a New York office. From his window he could see a jutting vista of Manhattan skyscrapers. The city scene, however, held no interest for this methodical individual. His entire attention was centered upon a pile of newspapers that lay on the desk.
One of these was a local daily from the city of Newbury. The chubby-faced man looked down the columns. He came to an item that announced the burial of Winstead Delthern. Just as the man picked up a pair of scissors to clip the paragraph, the telephone rang upon his desk. He answered it.
“Yes,” he said, in a quiet, even tone, “this is Rutledge Mann. Yes, Mr. Barker. Certainly. I shall be pleased to investigate Leviathan Copper. It may prove to be a sound investment. I have my doubts, however.”
His call concluded, Rutledge Mann again took the scissors and sliced out the clipping that pertained to Winstead Delthern’s funeral. He read the item carefully. He particularly noted two words that were conspicuous: they formed the phrase “accidental death.”
Rutledge Mann added the clipping to others that were upon his desk. He picked up another newspaper - a Cincinnati daily - and cut out a front-page story that told of the amazing capture of a trio of bank robbers. The police had arrived to answer an alarm; they had found the crooks locked in the bank vault, all three in a dazed condition. Not one of the arrested men had been able to explain how he had landed there.
Rutledge Mann smiled as he added this clipping to the others. He doubted that it would be necessary. For Rutledge Mann, agent of The Shadow, performed the function of gleaning information concerning current crime which would be of interest to his mysterious chief.
It required no great sagacity on Mann’s part to decide that The Shadow must know all that was needed concerning the affair in Cincinnati! Such a coup as the locking of three bank robbers in the vault that they had come to rifle could only have been accomplished by The Shadow himself.
As Rutledge Mann was placing the clipping in an envelope, he stopped and again examined the one that told of Winstead Delthern’s burial. A trace of worriment appeared upon Mann’s chubby countenance.
A FEW days before, the investment broker had cut out a clipping which told of Winstead Delthern’s accidental death. Acting upon special instructions, Mann had been keeping close tabs upon affairs in Newbury. Calculating now, Mann realized that if The Shadow had gone on an emergency mission to Cincinnati, he could not possibly have received that first clipping.
With a perplexed smile, Mann replaced the Newbury clipping with the others, and sealed the lot in the envelope. It was not his part to wonder about the doings of his mysterious chief. Obedience to instructions was Mann’s sole duty.
Ending his idle speculation, Mann decided that The Shadow had, in all probability, arranged some other method of contact with matters in Newbury. These clippings might be merely a form of routine as a check-up.
To Rutledge Mann, The Shadow was a being of mystery.
Once - it seemed long ago - Mann had been on the brink of despair. A failure in business, he had seen only a
