the chimes of the huge clock. The mammoth timepiece began to dong the hour of twelve.
A strange, whispered murmur shuddered through the room. It rose in tone and became a quivering, eerie laugh. There was no mirth in that uncanny cry. Its strident notes held a spectral solemnity.
The laugh died. Echoes followed from the walls. Whispered reverberations sent their mystic message from the gallery after the laugh had ceased - long seconds after the grandfather’s clock had sounded its final stroke.
“What was that?” gasped Police Chief Gorson, in an awed tone.
“The laugh of a ghost,” responded Horatio Farman, pale-faced in solemn sincerity. “The spirit of Caleb Delthern - the force that slew this man of murder!”
Gorson nodded, half believing. It seemed the only answer. The cry of a ghost - the shade of the former master of Delthern Manor.
Such was the belief of Horatio Farman. The old lawyer’s opinion would be unaltered now; and Marcia Wardrop, frightened, not knowing what to do, believed the same.
For the second time, the girl and the lawyer had heard the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXVII
THE SHADOW WRITES
UP in the study of Delthern Manor, with policemen at his beck and call, Police Chief Sidney Gorson reviewed the course of crime. With him were Warren Barringer, Marcia Wardrop, and Horatio Farman.
“We’ve got it pieced together now,” declared the chief. “Since you showed us all about the secret panels, Miss Wardrop” - he hesitated, realizing that he had used Marcia’s maiden name - “we’ve got the motive and the method. These papers prove the case.”
He pointed to documents that had come from the envelope in Terwiliger’s hand. One was the marriage license of Clark Brosset and Marcia Wardrop. Another was a confession signed by Jasper Delthern. A third was a record of debts which Jasper had owed to Brosset.
“Clark and I were married secretly, a few months ago,” declared Marcia, in a low tone. “He was a widower, and so much older than I, that we decided to keep the news from grandfather. I told Clark many things - and among them I described the secret openings in this house. Grandfather had told me all about the passages. No one else knew - not even Wellington, who lived here. Our old servant, Hiram, had known. After his death, grandfather confided to me.”
“You did not suspect your husband?” questioned Gorson. “Even after the murders began?”
“I wondered,” admitted Marcia. “I knew that someone could have opened the panel between the whispering gallery and the landing, to attack Winstead. When Humphrey and Wellington were slain, I knew that it could have been done through the panel in this wall.”
“A great trick, that panel,” said Gorson. “It can be opened only when the lights are out. That duplicate light switch in back of the panel did the stunt. It supports your story, Barringer.”
“Death struck three times while I was here,” remarked Warren solemnly. “Each time, the lights went out; then on. The murderer got away easily.”
“HERE was the game,” declared Gorson grimly. “Brosset saw how those passages could be used to advantage. The main one comes from outside the house - at that stone wall which runs alongside the grounds. It divides. One branch goes to the whispering gallery; the other to this study. Then there is the panel opening from the gallery to the landing. Is that clear?”
The listeners nodded.
“Jasper owed Brosset money,” continued Gorson, tapping the record sheet. “Brosset probably advanced him more. He knew Jasper for a scoundrel. He showed him how he could cut in on the big share of the Delthern estate.
“Brosset gave Jasper the lay of the secret passages. Jasper sneaked in here and bumped off Winstead and Humphrey. His call to Wellington was a bluff; and he killed the servant also. It was all part of the game, Barringer - to have you here as the goat. That was the protection for Jasper.”
“Brosset had me fooled,” agreed Warren. “I thought he was a friend, and he pretended to be hostile toward Jasper. I knew he talked to Jasper in his office, but it was presumably about Jasper’s behavior at the club.”
“From what you say,” added the police chief, “everything you did was subtly suggested by Clark Brosset. But he was double-crossing Jasper, too. He must have slipped Jasper the idea to talk with you tonight; to try and scare you out of town. Then he had the opportunity to kill Jasper, and put the whole works on you, Barringer.”
“Which would have eliminated Warren from his share of the estate,” declared Horatio Farman. “I would have seen that Marcia alone inherited the Delthern millions.”
“Clark said that we would be married again,” announced Marcia. “But he wanted to wait until after the estate was settled.”
“He would have controlled the wealth through you,” said Farman, in a solemn tone.
“I suppose,” remarked Gorson, “that Brosset thought you would give us the tip on the passages, Miss Wardrop. He knew that you were in the big reception hall. That’s why he came to the gallery. He wanted to kill you; then flee through the main passage that leads away from the house.”
There was a long pause. Chief Gorson began to study the documents. One at a time, Warren Barringer, Marcia Wardrop, and Horatio Farman, arose and left the study. The lawyer accompanied the two heirs - who were now to share the thirteen millions equally, according to the will.
ALONE, Chief Gorson tapped the desk as he sat in the huge chair behind it. He spoke half aloud, as he considered the strange situation which had resulted in the discovery of two murderers - Jasper Delthern and Clark Brosset.
“We’ve got the things that count,” mused Gorson, “but there’s parts that I can’t figure. One of those birds knocked off Terwiliger. Which was it? Jasper or Brosset?
“How did Terwiliger’s body come into the room? Brosset had hopped back to the club at that time. Terwiliger was dead when he arrived.
“How did he get those papers out of Brosset’s safe? This envelope” - Gorson picked up a blank container - “had writing on it when I took it out of Terwiliger’s hand. Was I dreaming?”
The police chief shook his head.
“There’s something strange in this,” he mumbled. “There was some person - something behind it. I heard that laugh downstairs. Whoever gave it was the one who planted the goods on those killers.
“If it was a man” - Gorson’s muttered tone showed a firm decision - “he has done his part. He was on the side of justice. If it was a ghost” - the police chief could not manage to repress a shudder - “it’s all the same.”
Gorson arose and put the documents in the envelope. He was thinking of that strange tragedy on the whispering gallery, where some amazing force had come from nowhere to strike down Clark Brosset.
The police chief shrugged his shoulders. Justice had been done. A murderer had gone to his deserved doom. This case was closed. Unanswered questions could be forgotten.
Only Warren Barringer had failed to tell all that he knew. The young man, after his story had been accepted, had decided not to speak of the strange being who had entered the strange room of death.
He half believed that it had been a dream. He was determined to say nothing, even to Lamont Cranston, should he again meet the friendly millionaire. The memory of that strange stone - the girasol - upon a long white finger, was something, however, that Warren Barringer could never forget.
FAR away from the city of Newbury, a solemn click sounded in a pitch-black room. Instantly, a bluish light appeared above the shining surface of a table. The changing hues of the iridescent girasol - the gem that was the token of The Shadow - appeared upon a long white hand.
Two hands became visible. They spread a massive volume upon the table. While the hand with the fire opal on its finger rested upon a broad blank page, the other hand produced a quill pen and began to write.
The Shadow was in his sanctum! Unseen, unheard, unknown, he was inscribing facts upon the page of a secret book. His steady hand was answering, in writing, the very questions that had perplexed Police Chief Sidney Gorson.
These statements appeared as definite portions of a narrative which The Shadow was relating in his annals;
