“They only saw him once,” remarked Rokesbury, “and that was when Lundig was barely sober. But I should be glad to take you out there to-night — for a personal reason.”
A smile showed on Rokesbury’s steady lips. The man was prompt to explain it.
“The visit,” said Rokesbury, “would give me another opportunity to meet Miss Brent. She is a very charming young lady.”
“How soon can we go?” questioned Clyde.
“Say half past eight,” responded Rokesbury.
IT was nearly seven when Clyde strolled out into the gloomy lobby. Another dulled sun was setting; Prell had failed to turn on the lights. Clyde caught a statement that Prell was making to a man by the desk.
“That room of Lundig’s is closed,” the proprietor was saying. “Nobody’s going in there. Not for a month, anyway. Perhaps I’m superstitious—”
Clyde had a room on the third floor. He went to it. At a table, he began to write an account of all that he had heard in Rensdale. The reporter used a pen that delivered ink of vivid blue. He wrote in a strange code that looked like shorthand. He folded each sheet the moment that its ink had dried.
Clyde was an expert reporter. He did not omit a single detail that he had heard. Finished, he tucked the folded sheets in an envelope. He sealed the packet and left it on the table. At the door of the room, Clyde turned the light off, then on; then off again. Locking the door, he strolled down to the lobby.
A FEW minutes after the reporter’s departure, a soft sound came from the window. A weird, hazy outline showed in the gloom of dusk. A figure came stealthily into the room. It was The Shadow. Here, in Rensdale, the mysterious master had come to gain the report of Clyde Burke. The reporter was one of his secret agents.
Deft fingers opened the envelope. A flashlight directed a tiny beam upon the first written page. Steadily, The Shadow read the report that his agent had made. Every detail remained within his keen brain. As he finished the page, The Shadow watched the coded writing disappear. Clyde Burke had used the special vanishing ink that The Shadow required in all communications of this sort.
Page after page, The Shadow completed his perusal. Blank sheets and envelope dropped into a waste basket. The Shadow’s cloaked form swished toward the door. With a blackened, keylike instrument, gloved fingers opened the lock.
Like a specter from darkness, The Shadow moved through the dimly lighted corridor. He descended stairs to the second floor. He followed another passage to the door of the room where Hector Lundig had been slain.
The lock yielded to The Shadow’s craft. The tall form merged with the darkness of a room where blinds were drawn. The door closed; its lock clicked. A soft laugh came in whispered tones within the room of death.
The Shadow had noted the final lines in Clyde Burke’s report — a reference to Prell’s statement that this room would not be opened. The Shadow had made use of that circumstance. For the present, this shunned room would be his abode. Here he could remain, unseen, unknown, within the town of Rensdale.
Such was the way of The Shadow. While his agent, Clyde Burke, conducted investigations in the capacity of a newspaper reporter, he, the master, would seek findings of his own. Yet there was something in The Shadow’s laugh that seemed to go beyond the murder of Hector Lundig.
That was Clyde Burke’s plan to visit the old mansion. The mention of the house in the marsh — culled from a newspaper clipping that had reached The Shadow’s hands — was the motive behind The Shadow’s presence here.
For The Shadow knew that the home of Thaddeus Culeth — now the residence of Wildemar Brent — was the mystery mansion that he sought. The Shadow was following the clue to crime that he had gained despite the sealed lips of Squeezer Dyson and Luke Zoman.
CHAPTER VI. AT THE MANSION
PROMPTLY at half past eight, Nicholas Rokesbury appeared in the lobby of the Hotel Rensdale. Clyde Burke was awaiting him. Together, they went out to the front driveway and entered Rokesbury’s coupe.
“I’m going to make a double trip of it. Burke,” stated the engineer. “I want to go out to the causeway and look things over before we visit the mansion.”
“The causeway runs close by, doesn’t it?” inquired Clyde.
“Yes,” responded Rokesbury, “but there’s only rough ground between. I don’t care to come prowling up to Culeth’s — I mean Brent’s house.”
They rolled through the silent lanes of Rensdale. The sky had been clearing since dusk; bright moonlight showed itself through the thick-leaved trees. Then the coupe came suddenly to an open patch. Before him, Clyde Burke caught his first view of the marsh.
The swampy ground spread out like a broad, fog-laden lake. Rising mist hung close to the boggy ground, forming a white blanket in the moonlight. Staring toward the swampy lowlands, Clyde caught sight of the old mansion, as it loomed with graystone turrets from the isle of solid ground. An involuntary exclamation came from the reporter’s lips.
“What is it, Burke?” questioned Rokesbury, as he stared along the road ahead.
“Nothing,” responded Clyde. “Just a surprise — that was all. The marsh looks like a sea of steam; and that flashing beacon on the mountain was rather startling.”
“The place impressed me when I first came to Rensdale,” returned Rokesbury. “That was before I worked on this job. After we started the causeway, the marsh lost all its glamour. Soggy, dismal ground — that’s all it is when you come in contact with it.”
Clyde had avoided all mention of the old mansion. There was reason for his omission. Deep in his inside pocket, Clyde held a reproduced photograph of that very house. It was one that he had received from The Shadow — a copy of the picture which the master fighter had found on Squeezer Dyson’s table.
Clyde knew now what The Shadow had already divined — that this was the mystery mansion that marked the end of a quest.
“Here’s the causeway,” remarked Rokesbury, turning the car along a rough patch of road. “We can drive out a few hundred yards. After that it’s only rough fill.”
“How did you place the rock base?” questioned Clyde, as the coupe thumped along the first portion of the unfinished causeway.
“Had to use caterpillar treads,” returned Rokesbury. “We wanted to give the cracked rock a long while to settle. That’s why we laid the base clear across the swamp. Well — this is as far as we go.”
Rokesbury stopped the car at a spot where only crushed rock showed ahead. No surface had as yet been applied. Clyde could see spots where the fill had sunk unevenly. While Clyde studied the rough causeway, Rokesbury turned off the motor and delivered a low, shrill whistle.
THE call was answered. Soon a lantern swung through the clinging mist. The stubby face of the watchman appeared at the window on Rokesbury’s side of the car. The boss talked with the worker.
Satisfied that his man was ready for the night’s vigil, Rokesbury managed to swing the car about. They started back toward solid ground.
This time, Rokesbury chose a road that ran along the edge of the swamp. Clyde watched the swirling mist as it rose steaming from the bog. The vapor was gradually clearing. Patches of quagmire showed mucky by the fringe of the road.
Skirting the swamp, Rokesbury neared a point almost directly opposite the center of the causeway. Here he slowed the car, picked an opening among the trees and drove carefully along a rough road. Clyde could see ahead to the narrow strip of old highway that led out to the mansion. The car jounced into a slight skid; Rokesbury yanked it straight and gave it gas. As the coupe responded, Clyde caught sight of a long, stooped figure leaping to the bank to avoid the car. Then they had passed the man and Rokesbury, grunting from his sudden effort, was driving out over the marsh.