There were few doors here, and side passages led from the single corridor. Cliff went to each door in turn. At last he found the one he wanted. The dull sound of voices was audible, and as Cliff listened, he distinguished the tones of Ivan Orlinov and Glade Tremont. Oddly enough, their words referred to him.
"Good man, the one Towley sent you," Tremont was saying.
"Very goot, yess," rumbled Orlinov's bass. "Good — like the others."
"Not like Steffan," retorted Tremont, with a short laugh.
"That man wass bad," agreed Orlinov. "This one — he iss goot. But I must wait until a while. Then I can make him be useful."
"You aren't taking chances with him, though. That is best, until he has been here a few months. That's a nice trap you have if he gets curious. Petri could let that sliding door close in a second.
"I don't think there will be trouble, however. Biff Towley picks men who are reliable."
Cliff smiled as he fingered his revolver. He enjoyed this situation. Now he was hearing new information.
"It iss ready for tomorrow night?" came a question from Orlinov.
"Not tomorrow," corrected Tremont. "The next night. Matt Hartley is coming to my home. He will be there at ten o'clock. He has had trouble over some lawsuits.
"It was fortunate that I learned of them and arranged to give him advice. Owing to the circumstances, he is paying me a private visit. I shall do the rest."
"Our friend, the goot doctor—"
"He will play his part. Don't worry, Ivan. You will get your next shipment. It may be the last, unless—"
"Unless?"
"Unless we find others that are valuable. Savette spoke of further plans." There was a slight stir in the room and Cliff drew back along the passage. He was thinking as he went. He had heard of Matt Hartley. The man was an inventive genius in the field of aviation. He had made tests to develop new forms of aerial torpedoes, and had gained considerable publicity through his experiments.
Despite the delay that he had experienced in getting here, Cliff had arrived in time to hear a vital portion of the conversation. He knew that something was to be done concerning Matt Hartley. It would happen two nights from now.
The door of the room was opening, but Cliff had reached a point of safety. He was hiding in a short, black passage, between the room where he had listened and the stairway. He was confronted now with a problem that he had not anticipated.
What if the two men returned to the living room and found him missing? It would require some time for him to get back through the turrets. Then he would have to descend the main staircase into the face of danger.
Cliff was pondering futilely. The problem seemed insurmountable. But while he was disturbed by his dilemma, something occurred that changed the situation entirely.
Instead of returning along the corridor to the distant central door, Tremont and Orlinov were approaching the passage where Cliff was in hiding! Quickly, Cliff drew his revolver. If they came down this short passage there would be only one course — to fight it out and flee for safety. Cliff tingled with excitement as the footsteps came closer.
Then the men's forms passed by the end of the passage, and the menace was ended. A few moments later, Cliff heard them going up the stairs that led to the second floor of the wing.
They had taken the very avenue which he must follow to elude them! Cliff was now between two dangers. Petri at the door to the center of the house; Orlinov and Tremont on the second floor of the wing.
Then it occurred to the waiting man that Orlinov and Tremont might intend to stop at one of the rooms on the second floor. Tremont had said something about viewing Orlinov's work.
Cliff saw the opportunity he needed.
Boldly, he came from his hiding place and approached the stairs. He stole softly upward.
The corridor above was deserted. He was right; they had entered another room.
Cliff hurried along the passage until he came to the door of the little turret. He entered and carefully locked the door behind him.
Up in the turret, he squeezed through the slit and scrambled along behind the protecting battlement. His last effort was a quick pull to the turret window.
Then the course was easy. Down the spiral stairway — a door locked behind him — the central staircase. Within two minutes, Cliff was gliding across the main hall into the living room.
His clothes were dusty from the stone. He brushed them at the fireplace. Then he dropped into his chair and lighted a cigarette. After a few moments, Cliff was comfortably settled. He drew a sheet of paper and an envelope from his pocket.
With a fountain pen, he inscribed a coded message in clear blue ink — the fluid which was used in all The Shadow's messages. He sealed the envelope and placed it in his pocket. Cliff was on his third cigarette when he heard Orlinov and Tremont returning. The two entered to find Cliff staring moodily at the embers of the fire.
"Mr. Tremont iss leaving on the next train," informed Orlinov. "We shall go with him to the station. Yess. You and I, Marslandt."
Orlinov pressed a button on the wall. A few minutes later, the abrupt honk of a horn was heard from the front of the house. Orlinov arose, and both Tremont and Cliff followed him. A limousine was waiting outside, chauffeured by one of Orlinov's converted gangsters.
Cliff was elated as they rode toward Glendale. This was a great break. He had anticipated no difficulty in getting to the station on the morrow, for he had previously been sent with the chauffeur to get the mail. But tonight — in time for the last train — that worked in direct accordance with plans which he had been given by The Shadow. The big car pulled up by the station. Cliff alighted with Tremont and Orlinov. The two men were conversing about minor matters.
Cliff, as he strolled beside them, was positive that Orlinov was watching him, and that he was also under scrutiny from the gangster in the car. Cliff smiled to himself. His opportunity would be here soon. He waited until the headlight of the New York express came glowing down the track. His left hand slipped in his pocket. It emerged holding the folded envelope. Cliff's body was turned so that neither Orlinov nor the man in the car could possibly spy the missive.
It was at that moment that a young man idling on the station platform arose and moved past Cliff. Their hands met, and as the stranger continued, it was he — not Cliff Marsland — who carried the folded envelope.
Calmly and deliberately, Cliff Marsland had passed his message to Clyde Burke, whom The Shadow had stationed in Glendale for this purpose. Constantly in the neighborhood of the station, Clyde was ready for any report that might be slipped to him.
But Cliff did more. As Burke moved onward, Orlinov's new secretary raised his left hand to his hip. His outthrust elbow was a signal. Clyde saw it as the train was stopping.
The signal meant that the message was intended for The Shadow, that it should be taken directly to him. Clyde, with his hands in his pockets, stepped aboard the train.
Thus it was that two passengers left Glendale that night — each bound on a mission.
Cross-purposes were involved. Glade Tremont was on his way to prepare for some new crime.
Clyde Burke was taking information to The Shadow.
Cliff Marsland thought of the situation as he rode back to Orlinov's castle, along with the silent Russian. Tonight, two men had plotted, not knowing they were overheard. Their plans were doomed to failure. The Shadow was due to intervene!
Chapter X — The Shadow's Plan
A tiny spot of light was glowing in a darkened room. The shadow of a hand passed over the spot of illumination. A telephone clicked. The light went out. A low, whispered voice spoke through the darkness.
Low words came from the receiver: