Brosset strolled toward the door as he spoke. His manner was leisurely, but effective, designed to draw Cranston with him. The visitor followed, and together the two descended the stairs. Brosset glanced at his watch; there was still ample time for the New Yorker to make his train, but Brosset professed a worried air.
“Sometimes traffic is bad, Mr. Cranston,” he remarked. “A slight chance of a delay. The train is usually on time.”
Stepping through the door, Brosset hailed a cab; he beckoned to Cranston, and ushered the visitor into the vehicle. He also gave prompt instructions to the driver, while the doorman was handing Cranston a light briefcase which he had left at the door.
“To the station,” ordered Brosset. “Avoid the traffic. This gentleman wants to catch the New York Limited.”
The president of the City Club extended his hand in parting, and gave Lamont Cranston a courteous smile. The cab shot away, and Brosset returned through the portals of the club. He did not go back to his office; instead, he remained in the lounge, to await Warren Barringer’s return.
CLARK BROSSET was congratulating himself upon this quick disposal of a stranger who, while undoubtedly a friend of Warren’s, might cause complications through his presence in Newbury. He knew that Lamont Cranston’s cab would certainly reach the station in time for the train.
Had Clark Brosset been able to visualize the events that were happening on the way to the station, he would have lost his smile of surety. In the back seat of the cab which he had taken, Lamont Cranston was drawing a dark object from the briefcase which he carried.
The folds of a long cloak slipped over the passenger’s shoulders. A flattened slouch hat developed into a broad-brimmed headpiece. The figure in the cab became obscured in darkness. Only a white hand showed; it protruded through the front window, and dropped a bill upon the driver’s arm.
“Have the change ready when we reach the station,” came the voice of Lamont Cranston.
“Right, sir,” responded the driver. “We’re at the last traffic light now.”
The cab was standing beside another which was waiting to make a left turn. The driver did not hear the door open softly. The light turned green; the cab shot ahead. It whirled along the last stretch, and swung up before the railroad terminal. The driver, leaping to the curb, pulled open the door and held out a handful of change. His face went blank in amazement.
The interior of the cab, showing plainly in the light from the station, was entirely empty! The passenger who had boarded the vehicle at the City Club was gone!
This cabby was not the only taximan in Newbury who was experiencing a succession of creepy chills at that moment. The driver of the cab that had been set for a left turn at the traffic light was receiving a much more startling surprise.
Driving up a broad avenue, he gripped the wheel in terror as a white hand appeared before his eyes and let a bank note flutter from its finger tips. Managing to regain control of the car, the driver nodded instinctively as he heard a quiet voice give him an address on another street.
It was the sight of the money, the feel of the paper bill, that made the taximan regain his confidence; yet he wondered as he turned from the avenue. When and where had this mysterious passenger entered the cab?
The driver shrugged his shoulders. He would look at the man when he got out. That might give the explanation.
The cab sped on and slowed at a stop street. The door opened softly; the driver did not hear it.
The cab shot on and rolled along the silent avenue past Delthern Manor. A block farther on, the cabman stopped. This was the address that his fare had given him. He, too, alighted to the curb to open the door and make change.
There was no response from the interior of the cab. The driver pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and flooded the back seat with illumination. The cab was empty!
The strange personage who had performed these silent mysteries was completely gone. Like a shadow, he had flitted from cab to cab; a phantom of darkness, he had dropped from the second vehicle.
Lamont Cranston no longer, he was moving through the darkness beneath a row of trees, a creature invisible. The only token of his presence was a whispered laugh that blended with the creaking of the tree branches above the sidewalk.
Undeceived by Clark Brosset’s pretense that Warren Barringer had left Newbury, the visitor from New York had garbed himself in black. Still in the city, he had hastened to the spot where his keen brain had divined that trouble might be in the making.
Silently invisibly, The Shadow was approaching the gray walls of mysterious Delthern Manor!
CHAPTER XII
DEATH IN THE DARK
WHILE Clark Brosset had been pacing the floor of his office at the City Club, Warren Barringer had made all haste to Delthern Manor. Excited by the mission which took him there, the young man had found it difficult to feign composure when Wellington admitted him in response to a knock at the front door.
In the gloomy, quiet hall of Delthern Manor, Warren managed to display a lack of concern. Wellington went upstairs to announce his arrival, and a few minutes later, Warren found himself facing Humphrey Delthern in the upstairs study.
Although Warren did not notice it, Wellington was cautious when he closed the door from the outside. There were no footsteps telling of the servant’s departure. But Warren was too intense to fancy that Wellington might be eavesdropping.
The sight of Humphrey Delthern, seated in that oversized chair, brought back to Warren an exact recollection of Winstead. The second of the Deltherns looked very much like his brother; his air was an aping manner that made Warren ill at ease.
Humphrey Delthern, in his attitude, seemed to express Winstead’s dislike of an intrusion. Only the importance of his errand prevented Warren Barringer from meeting Humphrey’s challenging gaze with a smile of contempt.
“What brings you here?” rasped Humphrey, as he eyed the visitor. “This, I understand, is the second time that you have come to Delthern Manor.”
“I want to see you, Humphrey,” interposed Warren, with a serious air. “I admit that my visit is a rather abrupt one; but the circumstances surrounding it are vitally important - to you.”
The added phrase “to you” caught Humphrey’s interest. The man behind the desk shifted his position uneasily as Warren took a chair.
“I am your cousin,” declared Warren, “and I want you to believe me when I state that I bear a real friendliness toward you. My visit tonight is in your interest; and if the facts I mention astound you, I can bring you proof of them from another person, whose word will prove reliable.”
“Come to the point!” demanded Humphrey, in a challenging tone. “I don’t understand your purpose here!”
“It concerns your brother Jasper,” said Warren, swallowing his anger. “I met him several days ago. I have seen him since. He has been acting strangely.”
“As usual,” grumbled Humphrey. “How does that concern me?”
“Tonight,” continued Warren, reassured by Humphrey’s expressed disapproval of Jasper, “I noticed him - at the City Club - behaving in a most unusual manner. He went into a telephone booth. I chanced to overhear his conversation.”
“Eavesdropping, eh?” sneered Humphrey. “I cannot commend you for the practice.”
“You will before I have finished,” retorted Warren. “I heard what Jasper said. It sounded very much like a threat upon your life!”
HUMPHREY DELTHERN eyed Warren coldly. There was a doubtful, inimical expression in his countenance that made the visitor feel ill at ease. Nevertheless, Warren continued.
“The gist of his conversation,” said the young man, “was that he had managed to take care of one person; and that he intended to do the same with another tonight. He named you as the party in question.”
Humphrey Delthern half arose from his chair. His fists were on the desk. His eyes were flashing.
