“While you were at Brindle’s?”
“Yes.”
THE SHADOW knew that Briggs was speaking the truth. Whatever mission Bob Maddox had gone upon tonight, Briggs was in ignorance of it. The man gained his tongue and tried to explain, for he feared The Shadow.
“Bob must have got a call while I was out,” he said. “He was figuring on something — that’s all I know. He’s gone. Where — I don’t know.”
The gag was replaced. The Shadow carried Briggs from the room. When he returned, he spoke to Harry Vincent, while Bob Galvin, weak and wondering, looked on and listened.
“Briggs is in the side vestibule,” spoke The Shadow. “Knocked out. Do not worry about him. He is yellow. Stay here with Galvin.
“Call in Perkins, the chauffeur. Tell him enough to let him know that there is danger. Burke will come here later.
“Keep on watch. Surprise Maddox if he returns — but — he may not return.”
There was a significant emphasis in The Shadow’s final words. Harry understood. He knew that this man of the night intended to find the man who had posed as Bob Galvin, and he knew that the pretender would not fare well in the encounter.
“Take him upstairs,” continued The Shadow, indicating Bob Galvin with a sweep of his black-gloved hand.
Harry arose and helped Bob from the room. The rescued man was regaining his steadiness now. His confinement in Wing Toy’s dungeon had been only temporarily weakening.
After the two were gone, The Shadow seated himself before the flat-topped desk. He made two phone calls. One was to Burbank, comfortably ensconced in a room across the street from Hiram Mallory’s home. The other was to Clyde Burke.
After receiving short reports, The Shadow sat in deep thought. For a few minutes, there was no motion of his black-clad form. Then came a low, soft laugh.
THE SHADOW stepped back from the desk. Quickly, he began to search its contents, looking for some clew that might be of value to him.
He had searched here before but that had been some time ago. The Shadow laid a few articles upon the desk, among them the old address book used by Theodore Galvin.
A black glove slipped away from a long white hand. Off came the other glove. The fire-opal gleamed upon its slender, tapered finger — a finger that combined shapeliness with strength.
The hands began to write, inscribing short, terse statements.
They do not yet know the purpose of the paper which they have found.
The hands carefully traced the eight mysterious symbols. A soft laugh came from the man in black as he wrote again:
They have sought to learn of it through friends of Theodore Galvin. There have been two interviews. Tonight — a third—
There was a pause. Then the hand wrote two names:
Harkness.
Westcott.
A laugh followed instantly. Then the hand inscribed one name above the eight cryptic characters, and another name below. The top name was Harkness, the bottom name Westcott.
The Shadow laughed mirthlessly. Here was evidence of the plotters’ efforts to decipher the cryptic symbols.
They had figured that a name was indicated. They had gone over the list of Theodore Galvin’s friends. They had found two whose names were spelled with eight letters, ending in a double letter.
The white hands were now running through the pages of the address book. Keen eyes were scanning the names registered there.
After one quick search, the hands turned back the pages to the letter M. Under that letter appeared the only other name that fitted with the idea upon which the plotters had been working. The name was Mitchell — Zachary Mitchell.
The address book was cast aside. The Shadow had the telephone book. He found the name of Zachary Mitchell. It was listed twice as attorney, Bridgeton Building; residence, an address on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.
The Shadow spoke into the telephone. He was calling Burbank. He gave quick, short instructions.
Then he arose, whirled toward the door and left the room. A low laugh sounded as the man in black strode toward the front door.
It was not a laugh of pleasure. It was a laugh of grim determination.
CHAPTER XX
“So you are Theodore Galvin’s nephew,” said Zachary Mitchell.
Bob Maddox nodded.
“I remember you as a boy,” declared the old, gray-haired lawyer. “You have changed greatly — according to my recollections. Ah, well — we all change.”
“You were a close friend of my uncle’s, were you not?”
Zachary Mitchell smiled cannily.
“Scarcely more than an acquaintance,” he said. “Yet in reality, his best friend.”
Bob Maddox seemed perplexed by this paradoxical statement. But he made no immediate reply.
“I have been quite anxious to meet you,” he said. “In fact, I have been waiting here quite a while.”
“You should have called me.”
“I did call — they said you would be back shortly.”
“Which meant a couple of hours,” smiled Mitchell. “Well, that is one of my peculiar traits. I have never valued time.
“But tell me, have you any special purpose in this visit, other than a friendly call?”
“Yes,” was Bob’s answer. “I came, hoping to find some information regarding my uncle. I thought that perhaps you might give it to me.”
Zachary Mitchell eyed Bob closely.
“Why do you think that I might have some information?” he asked.
“From what Hodgson said.”
“Hodgson?”
“Yes. My uncle’s old trusted servant. You know” — Bob’s voice broke as he pretended sudden sorrow — “Uncle Theodore died in Paraguay. I am sure that he would like to have talked to me — or to some friend. But he was unable even to write.
“Old Hodgson — I sent him away on a vacation, a few days ago — spoke to me confidentially and mentioned your name. Until now, I have not had the opportunity to call to see you.”
“Ah, yes. What did Hodgson say?”
“Nothing specific. Simply that my uncle had told him I should communicate with you. Evidently my uncle had forebodings when he went away.”
“Hm-m-m.” Mitchell was thoughtful. “Do you know much about your uncle, Robert?”
Maddox shook his head.
“Then I am going to tell you something about him; something that you must never repeat.
“Theodore Galvin had dealings with certain men — I have no knowledge of their identity — who were dangerous!”
Bob Maddox raised his eyebrows in well-feigned surprise.
“FOR some reason your uncle feared those men. Perhaps — I say this impartially, reviewing the hints that your uncle made privately — his own affairs were a trifle — er — unusual. Perhaps he had definite reasons for going so far away as Paraguay.
“But of one thing I am certain. Your uncle desired to protect something which he possessed — namely, wealth.”
“His estate is quite small,” declared Bob.
“That is on the surface,” declared Zachary Mitchell. “I speak now of hidden wealth.”
Bob Maddox kept control of himself. Only a gleam in his eye betrayed his restrained interest.
“The fact that you have come to me,” said Mitchell, “is proof in itself that you are following instructions from your uncle.
“I was not his attorney. I had no business dealings with him. That is, none, except one — which was secret.
“He knew that I could be trusted. He told me of his possessions, and arranged that I should turn over their key to the right person.”
“His heir?”
“Presumably. But the key would be useless to you unless you possess other information.