only came here twice. First, to see Winstead -“
“To see Winstead Delthern?” broke in Gorson. “When? On the night that Winstead fell down the stairs.”
“Yes,” admitted Brosset, in a hopeless tone.
“So, now we’ve got it!” growled the police chief. “Frankly, I’m sorry about this, Brosset. You’ve let this murderer play you for a sap. We’ve been looking into these killings, Terwiliger and I. Now comes Jasper’s murder. Here we find out that Barringer was up here twice before. Did you ever think, Mr. Brosset, that your good friend Warren Barringer might have bumped off Winstead and his brother Humphrey?”
“I trusted Warren Barringer,” declared Brosset, in a serious tone. “I can’t believe that he is a murderer. Surely - if what he says is true - there must be something that can prove it.”
“Jasper Delthern killed his brothers,” asserted Warren suddenly. “He told me so, himself. Tonight -“
“Look around,” suggested Brosset. “Have you searched the desk? Maybe Jasper left something there. I can’t believe this about Warren -“
Police Chief Gorson was acting on the suggestion. He yanked open the top drawer of the big desk. He found an envelope. He opened it. He read two papers within.
“Look at these,” he said grimly.
Clark Brosset took the papers. Gorson spoke while Brosset was reading.
“Just little statements,” he declared. “Sworn to by Humphrey and Wellington before their deaths. Statements that Warren Barringer was here the night that Winstead died. Can you guarantee those signatures, Mr. Farman?”
The old attorney took the documents. He nodded sadly.
“Yes,” he said, “they are genuine. I knew about those affidavits, Chief Gorson. Humphrey wanted me to keep them for him. I refused to do so.”
“Jasper must have found them,” grunted Gorson. “Poor chap. I guess he wouldn’t believe it. Look at what he got.”
TURNING toward Warren Barringer, the police chief became savage in his denunciation.
“You might as well confess to it, Barringer!” he said. “You see how far your bluffing has gotten you. Three murders - four - that’s what we’ve got you for!”
Warren looked pleadingly toward Clark Brosset. He saw a look of anguish on that friendly face. He turned to Horatio Farman. The old attorney was solemn and challenging. Warren clutched at the last straw.
“Marcia Wardrop!” he cried. “Maybe she can tell you that I’m innocent. Maybe she knows -“
“Send for the girl,” ordered Gorson. “I wanted to make it easy for her, but if she knows anything about this, we’d better find it out.”
A few minutes later, Marcia Wardrop appeared in the room. The girl shrank back with a frightened gasp when she saw the body of Jasper Delthern. She looked toward Gorson; then stared at Clark Brosset. The president of the City Club stepped forward to catch the girl as she began to totter.
Marcia regained her nerve as she felt Clark Brosset’s grasp. Then Horatio Farman was beside her. The old lawyer took charge of the girl, while she looked toward Warren Barringer.
“What do you know, Marcia?” questioned Warren anxiously. “Help me - please
-“
“On what other occasions,” interrupted Chief Gorson, “did Barringer come to this house?”
Marcia Wardrop looked for friendly eyes. Clark Brosset stared sympathetically in her direction.
In a dull, frightened tone, the girl spoke:
“He was here - here the night that Winstead died. When Humphrey and Wellington were killed, I saw him again. He - he was in a taxicab on the boulevard. He - he - I noticed him because he had no hat. The - the hat is here - in the closet downstairs. Don’t ask me any more - please - that’s all I know. I couldn’t believe it - really - I couldn’t. I thought - I thought - I don’t know -“
“Take her downstairs,” said Gorson to Farman. “Stay in the big room - the place with the candles. That’s all she knows.”
Horatio Farman helped the sobbing girl from the room. Chief Gorson turned to Warren Barringer, while Clark Brosset stood to one side, his chin buried in his hand.
“Come on, Barringer!” growled Gorson. “We’ve got the evidence of murder. Give us your confession!”
CHAPTER XXIV
A DEAD MAN TELLS
HOPELESSLY, aimlessly, Warren Barringer persisted in his declaration of innocence. Still seated in the chair close beside the dead body of Jasper Delthern, Warren refused to make the false confession that Sidney Gorson demanded of him.
“I didn’t kill him,” asserted Warren. “I didn’t kill the others. Jasper, himself, told me he was the murderer.”
“Who did it, then?” demanded Gorson. “You were here; you ought to know.”
“I don’t know!”
“A ghost, perhaps. There’s supposed to be one around here.”
Warren stared with startled gaze. A ghost! Was that what he had seen? He thought of the figure in black; that reassuring phantom form that had shown him the sparkling girasol. The glitter of the flashing fire opal seemed to appear in vivid glow before Warren’s eyes.
A terrible theory suddenly asserted itself. That being in black had come here in some miraculous fashion. Could he have been here before?
For a moment, Warren held the wild thought that The Shadow might be the murderer!
Then his thoughts shifted. Warren realized that no killer would have revealed himself as The Shadow had done. There could have been no purpose in such action. Warren remembered The Shadow’s words - only through a call for aid to Clark Brosset could Warren hope for a way out of his dilemma.
Yet Brosset was here, and his coming had served only to clinch the proof of guilt against Warren Barringer. With pleading look, Warren turned to Brosset now. He saw the club president shake his head sadly.
Warren understood. In the face of this terrible evidence, with the body of Jasper Delthern upon the floor, Brosset could only believe that Warren had deceived him in the past. That ended the last chance of aid from the only person in Newbury whom Warren had regarded as a friend.
Prison; conviction for murder - these were the future that Warren Barringer faced. The evidence was all against him, and his clouded brain began to regard The Shadow purely as an apparition.
Warren realized that his nerves had been tense. Some flash-back to his night at Lamont Cranston’s home had probably made him fancy that he had seen a black-cloaked visitor here.
To speak of such a personage could do no good. To turn to the theory of a visitor who appeared and vanished would savor too much of the ghost talk which Chief Gorson had just derided.
“You won’t talk, eh?” The police chief’s words drummed into Warren’s throbbing ears. “Close that door. We’ll make him talk. Say - if Terwiliger was only here -“
THE police chief broke off abruptly. A sudden thought was perplexing Gorson.
Where was Terwiliger?
Jasper Delthern had said that the star detective would return at nine o’clock. Could anything have happened to him?
“Where is Terwiliger?” demanded Gorson, staring hard at Warren.
“Who?” asked the young man.
“You know who I mean!” growled Gorson. “Terwiliger - my detective. He was on your trail. Maybe -“
“Maybe you think I killed him, too,” blurted Warren.
“That’s just what I do think!” retorted Gorson. “I wondered why you were so stubborn. You might have had a break if you’d admitted to killing Jasper Delthern. You could have pleaded self-defense. But the trouble is, your other crimes were on your mind by this time.”
“I never met Terwiliger,” persisted Warren.
