Greerson recognized the animal as a Dalmatian, the species used as a carriage dog. Of medium size, its white coat evenly studded with distinct spots of dark brown, the dog was unquestionably a thoroughbred. As Greerson eyed it, the dog growled and raised its long, pointed head. It made no further sign of enmity, however.
An open book upon a table, an ash tray from which smoke was rising; both were signs that the room had been but recently occupied. Greerson supposed that Mox, the man whom he had come to see, would soon return. Instead, the servant arrived.
“Mox is ready,” he said. “You have articles to show him — in these bags?” Greerson nodded. The servant picked up the bags. He led the inventor back along the corridor and stopped. He placed his hand against a panel. It moved upward and showed a lighted entry; beyond it, another panel.
The servant motioned Greerson into the opening. The two stood in the square space; the servant lowered the panel behind them. Then he pressed the panel ahead. It rose, and Greerson saw a small, oddly furnished room.
There, a man was seated behind a low desk. The chair that he occupied had a very short back — a peculiarity which marked the other chairs which the room possessed. There was a low bookcase by the wall. Beyond the seated man, in contrast to the small size of the room, was a huge open fireplace, all out of proportion to the apartment.
It was the man, however, who interested Greerson. It was impossible to tell his height while he was seated; his age, though, must be advanced, judging from his appearance. The man wore a heavy gray beard, and a shock of bushy gray hair adorned his head.
“Have a chair, Mr. Greerson,” cackled the old fellow. “Sit here at the desk. We must talk.”
The servant had retired. Greerson brought his bags over to the desk and took a chair. He looked closely at the old man across the desk. He had a distinct impression, at this close range, that the beard and hair were false.
“To begin with, Mr. Moxton,” said Greerson, “I was somewhat doubtful about coming here.”
“Do not say that,” returned the old man, in his shrill tone. “Do not call me Mr. Moxton. I am known as Mox. Call me that. I am Mox, the great adapter.”
Mox stared with sharp eyes as he spoke. He saw the look of apprehension which appeared upon Greerson’s thin face. The inventor was a frail sort of a man, who showed the effects of an indoor life.
“REMAIN tranquil, my friend,” asserted Mox, with an odd chortle. “I, like yourself, am one who prefers retirement and seclusion. Our mutual friend, Schuyler Harlew, told me that he informed you of the fact.”
“Harlew did,” announced Greerson pointedly. “He told me that you paid large sums for inventions.”
“I do,” returned Mox. “I have great wealth, my friend. I am always willing to deal fairly with those who can supply me with practical inventions. I am an adapter — not an inventor. Through Harlew, as my discoverer of obscure inventors, I have been of great aid to men such as you.”
“I have my plans,” said Greerson guardedly, “and also my models. I have brought them with me, on the understanding that you will pay the price I ask.”
“Name the price.”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” gulped Greerson. Then, as Mox gave no sign, he added: “It should be worth a million, easily.”
Mox nodded solemnly.
“I shall pay your price,” he cackled. “Let me see the plans and the models.” As he spoke, he opened a drawer in the desk and drew forth piles of bank notes. Greerson gulped again. He unrolled his sheets of plans and placed them upon the desk. He lifted the bags and opened them.
“This device,” he began, as he brought out a completed model, “will increase dynamo efficiency—”
Mox waved his hand by way of interruption. He was studying the plans. “I understand,” he said, in his high voice. “I rely much upon Harlew’s report. He told me that you had perfected your invention, but that you did not have the means to continue with it.”
“Exactly,” admitted Greerson. “The patenting would take a long time. I needed money; I need it now. It would be a mistake to lay these plans before representatives of a large corporation. When I met Harlew, he showed an interest—”
Again, Mox interrupted; this time with a chuckle.
“You are right, my friend,” he said, “this invention is worth much money to the man who develops it. I shall be that man. It is worth more, however, than you ask.”
Reaching to the desk, Mox bundled up fifteen piles of notes; he placed the others back in the desk drawer. He set the stack that he had kept directly in front of Greerson’s eager eyes.
“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” chortled Mox. “Ten thousand in each packet. That is what I shall pay you, my friend. Come; we shall take the money to my living room. Your plans and your models are mine; they can remain here.”
Greerson turned toward the panel. He was in a fanciful daze. In a few short minutes, the transaction had been completed. He had sold his invention for a half more than he had asked. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars! It was the fortune for which Greerson had been striving!
At the panel, Greerson turned inquiringly. Mox was still seated at the desk. The old man pressed a button; the panel came up. He waved his hand for Greerson to step into the entry. Greerson obeyed, noting that Mox was about to press a second button, evidently for the outer panel beyond the entry.
Mox cackled gleefully. From the entry, Greerson stared. He saw the old man, clutching the pile of money with his long left arm, his right hand upon the button. He saw a clock directly above Mox’s head. The clock was whirring. Its chimes began to strike the hour of midnight.
Mox pressed the button. A wild cry came from Greerson’s lips. The floor had dropped beneath him, splitting in the center. The inner panel was falling. As Greerson plunged downward, screaming, he made a hopeless clutch. It gained him nothing. His fingers slipped as they struck the smoothness of the dropped panel.
Wailing an instinctive scream, Peter Greerson went to the doom that Mox had prepared for him.
The old man did not hear the cry, nor did he hear the crash as Greerson’s body shattered in a stone pit at the bottom of the deep, dark shaft. The dropped floor had risen shut. The panel was closed. All sound was drowned.
PETER GREERSON’S plans, his models, had been gained by Mox. The plotting fiend had stolen the fruits of the inventor’s genius. Greerson, instead of Mox, had paid the price: with death.
While the slow chimes of the clock continued, Mox bundled the money back into the table drawer. He stalked to the panel and opened it by pressure. He stepped into the entry — no longer a danger spot — and raised the outer panel.
The panels dropped as the clock completed the stroke of twelve. In the corridor, Mox cackled as he walked with stooped shoulders toward the living room where the Dalmatian reposed in the corner, and the fire burned merrily in the hearth.
A figure appeared at the entrance to the room. It was a servant whom Greerson had not seen; a curious, dwarfed sort of man who had evidently been hiding somewhere in the living room. Mox chuckled as he observed this short creature, whose form seemed all legs and arms.
“Another, master?” queried the dwarf, in a hoarse tone.
“Yes,” trebled. Mox. “Another. The last was yours, Sulu; this one was mine. We shall both have more.”
The dwarf displayed fanglike teeth in an ugly, brown-faced grin. He stepped aside to let his master pass. With a short, bouncing stride, this spidery satellite followed his ruler into the living room.
The hour of twelve had struck. Mox, the murderer, had sent another victim to an unexpected death!
CHAPTER VI
THE SHADOW MOVES