At that particular moment, Cliff Marsland was also watchful.
He had reached the head of the stairs. He stood on the threshold of a dimly lighted room. It was an antechamber, furnished in Chinese style. A grinning joss rested beside the entrance. A paneled door showed between two curtains. That was evidently where Sneaks had gone!
What was happening behind that door?
The room seemed to have an alluring power. Try as he would, Cliff could not repress the urge to slip closer. This was increased by the sound of mumbled voices. The door was evidently a thin one, or the crack beneath it was by no means soundproof.
Cliff moved forward. He reached the door and crouched there. Even then, he could not make out words from the low conversation on the other side.
The room was a narrow one. It was also low-ceilinged. Cliff had walked forward about seven steps to reach the mysterious door. By spreading his arms, he could touch the wall on either side. After he had listened for several minutes, he chanced to move backward a trifle.
He bumped suddenly against something solid. He swung quickly, with his gun in hand.
Behind him was another door — a duplicate of the one in front. Silently, unnoticed, it had descended from the ceiling. He was in a boxlike trap, scarcely five feet square, not much over six feet in height!
Cliff clutched a curtain in front of him. His head was beginning to swim. That was odd! He tried to rise to his feet, but found it impossible. Dizziness swept over him. His throat was becoming numbed. Gasping, he sought to cry out, but an inarticulate gurgle was his only response.
Cliff sank to the floor, moaning. Some powerful gas was overwhelming him. If he could only signal to Harry! It was too late, now.
Cliff’s automatic slid from his nerveless fingers. He crumpled upon the floor. He fancied that he heard his name being whispered.
“Cliff! Cliff!”
He could not respond. He managed to give one last choking gasp. His final thought was the thought of death. Was this to be the end?
THE words that Cliff Marsland had heard had not been formed by his imagination. Harry Vincent, waiting below, had decided it was time to act. He knew that Cliff would return shortly, if only to post him regarding matters upstairs. So Harry, in turn, had ascended the narrow flight.
Like Cliff, he had encountered an antechamber with a curtained doorway at the end. But the space between Harry and the door that barred his path was only fifteen feet!
With Cliff Marsland, it had been twenty!
Harry, listening, also heard a sound beyond that doorway. It was a human utterance, but not in the form of words. Some one seemed to be gasping. Like a shot, Harry realized that Cliff had encountered trouble. He crept forward and stooped before the door, calling Cliff’s name in a low, tense whisper.
There was a faint response; but it could not be called an actual reply. Harry repeated his words. Silence was the only answer. What to do?
Perhaps it would be well to go downstairs; to enter the third floor by tapping at the entrance to Loy Rook’s door at the foot of the regular stairway. Harry would tell the old Chinaman that he had heard some one enter — that he had thought it best to inform his employer.
He turned as he raised himself to his feet. Like Cliff, he was startled. He was facing a blank door, within arm’s reach. He, too, was in a boxlike trap. He realized what had happened to Cliff Marsland. His friend was helpless; so was he!
Harry became unsteady. He felt a sickening sensation. It was doubly bad, for when he began to emit gasping cries, he knew that he was meeting the same power that had overcome Cliff. Was this a poison gas? Did every breath he drew spell doom?
He tried to hold his breath, but in vain. The odor of the gas was scarcely noticeable, but its effects were benumbing. Harry sank to the floor and tried to seek fresh air at the bottom of the door; but the barrier was tightly closed.
There was no hope. His senses were going. Despite the dim light that pervaded this weird prison, blackness was closing over Harry’s eyes. He gasped once, and lay inert.
Minutes went by — minutes that were unknown to the two victims, each in his own gas-filled prison. A figure appeared at the top of the stairway — a black-clad form that had arrived there in total silence.
A man, almost invisible in the darkness of the stairway, stood surveying the scene before him with eyes that were shaded beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat. About the newcomer’s shoulders lay the folds of a black cloak, as he stood close by the squat, hideous idol at the entrance.
The same antechamber lay in front of this man — the antechamber that ended with a curtained door. But the distance to the barrier was now but ten feet— not fifteen. The man in black stood silently, as though fascinated — as though about to move forward.
Two victims had fallen in Loy Rook’s toils — each in his separate trap. The third snare was in readiness — for The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVII. THE THIRD SNARE
“KEEP watching,” said Loy Rook.
Sneaks Rubin, his pasty face gleaming, stared at the little taboret which the old Chinaman indicated. The carved piece of furniture was open, like a box. Within glowed tiny lights.
Loy Rook’s long-nailed forefinger ran along a row in which a single bulb was extinguished — the one at the end. He pointed to the last lighted bulb.
“He is here,” declared Loy Rook.
“In the doorway?”
“Yes. Here” — Loy Rook pointed to the first light in the row — “he was at the door on the street. Here, at the second floor. Here, at the entrance. The next light will show. When it comes on, the man will be in the trap.”
“He’s been waiting a long while,” was Sneaks Rubin’s comment.
“They always wait,” declared Loy Rook solemnly. “Perhaps he is looking at my joss.”
“You mean that brass statue?”
“It is made of bronze,” corrected Loy Rook. “It is very valuable. The solid metal in it weighs nearly two hundred pounds.”
An exclamation came from Sneaks. The final light had turned on! Loy Rook smiled benignly.
“He is in the trap,” he declared. “Watch!”
He pointed to three larger bulbs, each marked by a Chinese character. They were figures, symbolizing the numbers one, two, and three. Two were lighted. The third came on while Loy Rook spoke.
“The trap has closed,” asserted the bespectacled Mongolian.
“You are sure he’s in there?” questioned Sneaks.
In reply, Loy Rook pointed significantly to the last light in the lower row.
“It works from the floor of the trap,” he explained. “Once a person has stepped upon it, the light goes on. Should that person step away, it would go out. It worked for the first trap; then I put out the light and arranged it for the second. Now, it is set for the third.”
“How about the other lights?” questioned Sneaks. “I mean the ones that tell when he’s down below, coming up the stairs. They’re still on.”
“They are arranged to stay on,” replied Loy Rook. “They show when a man comes up. They were working when you came. You remember that I put them out after you arrived?”
Sneaks nodded.
“But look here, Loy Rook,” he said. “Suppose a man should start back again—”
“They do not go back,” replied Loy Rook contentedly. “You have seen that, Sneaks. But I shall show you.”
He pressed a switch. All the lights in the row went out — save the last.
“You see? He is in the trap. Should any one else come in, the lights would turn on, one by one. Should any one go down the stairs instead of up, the lights would turn on the other way — backward.”