“In the road on the side hill.”
“Off my property. Well, that is a good point. Nevertheless, Forey, I have told you that prowlers have been about. Perhaps this man was one of them.”
“I don’t think so?”
“Why not?”
“Because we have an idea who the dead man was. Mr. Vincent discovered the body; it was gone when I came to the place. But we feel pretty sure of the fellow’s identity.”
“Someone from the town?”
“A bit closer. Grantham Breck.”
Ezekiel Twinton stared in horror. His lips opened; then formed a gasp. This revelation seemed to strike him with pangs of terror. Forey proceeded.
“I was busy most of the day,” explained the sheriff. “I couldn’t get up here as soon as I had hoped. I had an idea that perhaps Breck had come up here to see you.”
“No.” Ezekiel Twinton was emphatic in his reply. “Breck and I have not visited each other since I flatly refused to sell any of my property to him.”
“He wanted to buy the house, didn’t he?”
“Not exactly. He said that he would be willing to purchase the entire estate. But he chiefly wanted the portion that was once the old Pastely farm. Come. I shall show you. My! This is terrible news, Forey.”
TWINTON led the way through the kitchen. Standing on a broad porch, he pointed along the brow of the hill. A few battered fence posts marked what had once been a dividing line. Just beyond was a low, flat building built of stone. It was scarcely more than five feet high.
“The old spring house,” declared Twinton. “It was abandoned after the farm buildings burned. That was before I bought any of this property. After I took over this house, five years ago, I bought the old farm also.”
“When did Grantham Breck offer to buy it?”
“He made his final offer about a month ago. He insisted that he must have a house on the hill. I told him I wanted no neighbors within view. I added that he could buy houses on other hills hereabouts; that he would be a fool to build a new one. Somehow he seemed set upon rebuilding on the site of the old Pastely farmhouse.”
“That’s about a hundred yards past the fence line, isn’t it?”
“Less than that. Fifty yards, I should say. I filled in the old cellar so no one would fall in it. I left the spring house closed. But tell me more concerning Grantham Breck” — Twinton paused quizzically — “and how he happened to be wandering along the hill road.”
“Breck seems to have been going out at nights,” declared Forey. “The servants were sort of mysterious about it until we pinned them down. They finally admitted that Breck used a little side door that led to his study.”
“I know the door,” observed Twinton, nodding. “Breck showed it to me. I used to visit him occasionally before we came to loggerheads about the property sale.”
“What is more,” stated Forey, “we learned that people have come in and out that door within the past month.”
“Secret visitors?” inquired Twinton.
“Yes,” responded Forey. “We are anxious to know who they might be.”
“I might name one for you,” stated Twinton, in a casual tone.
“Who?” demanded Forey, quickly.
“Young Elbert Breck,” replied Twinton.
Dusk was nearing and it was gloomy under the projecting roof of the porch. Yet Harry Vincent could distinctly see the expression that flickered over the face of Sheriff Tim Forey. Ezekiel Twinton was watching it, too. The owner of the hill house smiled sarcastically as he made his next statement.
“Young Breck does not know that he had been seen hereabouts,” remarked Twinton. “I chanced to see him over in Laporte, about a month ago. He was registered at a hotel, under the name of Elwood Turner.”
“How did you learn that?” demanded Forey.
“I inquired at the hotel,” replied Twinton. “I knew the clerk well. I told him to keep check on his falsely registered guest. I was in Laporte yesterday afternoon, Forey. Elbert Breck was still staying there.”
“Elbert Breck,” mused the sheriff. “Grantham’s only son. In wrong with the old man. He deserved to be, too. Squandered money, got himself in trouble. I thought maybe the kid had landed in jail by this time.”
“He was not quite that bad, Forey,” put in Twinton, with a charitable chuckle. “Perhaps he was here to regain his father’s confidence. As I said before, he visited his father secretly. Late one afternoon I was driving by Breck’s house. I saw young Elbert entering that side door.”
“Humph,” grunted Sheriff Forey. “Thanks for this information, Twinton. Well, if you notice any prowlers around, give me a prompt call. Come on, Vincent. We’ll walk around to the front.”
Harry was staring across the lawn as he heard the sheriff speak. Over beyond the fence, close by the darkening side of the spring house, he had fancied that he had seen the outline of a moving shape. The impression faded as Harry gazed. As he walked along with Tim Forey, The Shadow’s agent smiled.
Only one person — to Harry’s knowledge — could have approached so close to Twinton’s house while daylight still persisted. That being was The Shadow. Harry already knew that his mysterious chief was in the vicinity. The absence of the report was proof of that. But now the agent knew that The Shadow was already deep in his investigation about the scene of crime.
HARRY and Forey drove along the roundabout way to the Breck house. Gloaming had set in; yet the twilight still gave Harry the complete view of the Breck estate that he had gained during the morning. Off to one side of the house was an old barn; Forey’s searchers had searched it today. Farther away was a stone smokehouse; a square, windowless building with a tiny chimney in the top. Its steel door was fastened with a massive padlock. The searchers had therefore ignored it.
As they pulled up in front of the house, one of the deputies appeared. He beckoned hastily. Forey clambered from the coupe and approached on the run. The deputy put a quick question.
“Say, Tim,” he said to the sheriff. “Take a guess — who do you think blew in while you were up at Twinton’s?”
“Save the riddles for the next barn dance,” growled Forey. “I’ll answer this one just the same. Elbert Breck.”
“Say-y” — the deputy paused with mouth agape. “How’d you figure—”
“Just forget it,” snapped Forey. “Where’s young Breck?”
“In the living room.”
Forey beckoned to Harry. Together, they entered the house. Floor lamps were lighted in the living room; stretched in an easy chair was a young man, smoking a cigarette. He sprang to his feet as the newcomers entered. Harry Vincent stopped short. He saw a distinct facial resemblance between this arrival and the dead man whom he had discovered on the hill road.
“Hello, sheriff,” greeted Elbert Breck, in a troubled tone. “Is this true — what I read — about my father—”
“What you read?” inquired Forey.
“Yes,” replied Elbert, shifting his gaze. “In the New York newspaper. I was in New York this morning. Reading a newspaper. It said a search was being made for the body of Grantham Breck.”
“Got the newspaper with you?”
“I–I guess I left it on the train. I was so worried, I came here right away. Is — is this the chap who saw the body up on the hill road?”
“Yes.” Forey introduced Harry. “Vincent here thinks it must have been your father; but the body was gone when I came to investigate.”
“I’m sure that the body was that of Grantham Breck,” said Harry, solemnly. “I can see the resemblance between the dead man and his son.”
Elbert Breck succumbed. Dropping in his chair, he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook from the effect of convulsive sobs. Harry and Forey stood by while the young man managed to overpower his emotions. Elbert Breck stared upward. His countenance was haggard.