“Be ready,” came The Shadow’s whisper. “Watch the same window. Follow the red light. Leave if a green light shows.”
Harry nodded at the cryptic instructions. He began to speak again; then realized that The Shadow’s words were final. Harry waited for The Shadow to act. There was no motion in the dark. With sudden amazement, Harry realized that the mysterious visitant had left as silently as he had come!
AT that very moment, The Shadow was moving across the lawn to the Bartram mansion. He arrived at the window of the living room. Invisible hands moved upward and pried noiselessly. The window raised, and a silent form slipped into the house.
A tiny light, no larger than a half dollar, threw its rays along the floor. The guarded illumination cast no reflection that could be seen outside or elsewhere in the house.
The light revealed Willard Saybrook’s coat and vest. The young man had laid them on an obscure chair.
They must have escaped Mahinda’s attention. To The Shadow, these were a clew. Saybrook would probably have taken them upstairs had he retired.
The tiny light blazed a concentrated path across the hallway. It entered the dining room. It returned and headed for the passage at the rear of the hall. It revealed the steps that led to the closed workroom.
There, on the steps, lay the burned match which Saybrook had let fall.
Another clew!
Low, scarcely audible, a whispered laugh came from concealed lips above the tiny light. The glare was on the doorknob now. A black-gloved hand came into the sphere of illumination. The knob turned, but the door did not yield.
The hand produced a thin, blackened rod of steel. With this tiny instrument, The Shadow probed the formidable lock which held the door closed. Slight clicks were audible; then the lock emitted a louder sound. The door opened, and The Shadow stood within the workroom.
His light playing along the floor, The Shadow noted the position of the table on the rug. The light crept closer to the floor. The black hand, coming in from darkness, touched the surface of the rug.
Again, The Shadow laughed. His sensitive touch had found an unseen gap in the dark design. It marked a concealed opening beside the heavy-based table.
The light went out. The Shadow, striding through darkness, was returning over the route by which he had come. The vague swish of his black-surfaced cloak sounded by the window of the living room. His left hand held an object over the surface of the tiny flashlight. The right hand pressed the switch.
The tiny torch glared out into the darkness of the night. No longer were its rays focused upon a limited surface. They made a glow that could be seen from the street. The color of the light was red, due to the thin, crimson-hued disk that The Shadow had applied to the lens of the flashlight.
The light went out. The Shadow withdrew. A few seconds later, a slight sound occurred by the window, as Harry Vincent carefully entered, to find himself in the Bartram living room. The young man looked around. Across the hall, he caught another glimmer of the red signal.
Like the glow of a crimson firefly, the moving light flickered along the path that Harry was to follow. At last it stopped, in a small passage. It moved downward. Harry moved cautiously to the spot. He found a flight of steps. He descended and discovered a door barring his path.
This, for the present, must be the destination set by The Shadow. Harry knew well why he had been brought here. The Shadow had work beyond that barrier. He did not wish to be disturbed. It was Harry’s duty to remain on guard.
Seated on the steps, Harry drew his automatic and kept it in readiness. He stared back toward the dark passage.
If trouble came from that quarter, Harry could meet it. He knew that when the time arrived, the door ahead would open, and either the red light or the sound of The Shadow’s voice would bid him advance.
In the meantime, here within the Bartram mansion, Harry Vincent waited. Some mysterious work was afoot. In this house, The Shadow had discovered something amiss. Did danger threaten Willard Saybrook? That seemed a logical assumption.
The Shadow’s intuition had solved some strange problem. Master of deduction, the being who moved by night had acted promptly upon hearing Harry Vincent’s report. What had been obscure to Harry, was evident to The Shadow.
Harry Vincent was glad that The Shadow had arrived!
CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHAMBER OF DOOM
CONSCIOUSNESS returned to Willard Saybrook. The young man gasped as he felt himself in a pall of total darkness. He had a sinking feeling that he had gone blind. For a moment, a terrible dread seized his heart.
Recovering from the momentary fear, Saybrook felt the package of matches that was in his trousers pocket. With fumbling, weary fingers, he scratched a match and let the flame flicker in his hand. Profound astonishment gripped him.
Willard Saybrook was in a small, stone-walled chamber. Propped in a corner, he had scarcely room to move. To stand or to lie down would be impossible. As he shook the burning match away from his scorching fingers, Saybrook realized both the strangeness and the desperate condition of his situation.
He had been buried alive within this tiny room!
Saybrook’s breath came in short, hard gasps. He lighted another match, and held it above his head. He saw a crevice at the top of the room. Throwing the match aside, he raised his body and pressed his weight upward. The roof refused to budge. Willard Saybrook knew that he was entombed beneath an immovable slab.
There was no use to cry for help. None would come to this dark, hidden place. Even Saybrook’s gasps were hollow echoes. Desperation — anger — a medley of emotions flocked through the victim’s brain.
Saybrook subsided on the floor.
He recalled that he had been in the workroom off the passage when the menace that brought him here had struck.
Mahinda!
The servant was the one who had attacked him. This was the price he had paid for his desire to investigate. Saybrook rubbed his throat, where Mahinda had gripped it. He remembered the clutch of those fingers.
Could they have been the fingers of death? Was it possible that he had discovered the truth?
No — tonight they had failed to kill. Yet had they failed? What hope could come to Willard Saybrook here? Buried beneath the Bartram mansion, in a hidden spot which only Mahinda could have known, there could be no chance for life.
Breathing seemed difficult. Willard Saybrook lighted another match. He noted that the flame began to die away very quickly. He repeated the experiment, with the same result.
The obvious conclusion came forcibly to mind. The air supply of this limited space was becoming useless.
The oxygen would soon be exhausted. That meant death by suffocation!
In a mad fit of mingled agony and fury, Saybrook raised himself and beat against the relentless slab above. It had been placed there all too firmly.
Well did Saybrook know that Mahinda had brought him here; that the Hindu had left him to die. A simple way to dispose of a body of a victim, with no bloodshed or proof of murder. In this forgotten spot, escape was impossible.
The end was near. Gasping, Saybrook knew that his futile efforts had merely served to exhaust more oxygen. Bravely, he resolved to die in quiet repose. Leaning back against the stone wall, Saybrook closed his eyes, and made no further effort.
Breathing was difficult, and a strange ringing filled Saybrook’s ears. Its sound increased; then came a new and unexplainable noise. A peculiar scratching sounded from above. It changed to a dull grating.
In a last effort, Saybrook managed to rise and press against the slab above his head. To his joyous amazement, he felt the stone barrier yield!