“Mr. Burke is a friend of mine,” put in Rokesbury promptly. “I brought him out to inspect the causeway.”
Wildemar Brent shrugged his shoulders. He seemed only half convinced. He turned abruptly toward the door of the old mansion.
“Come, Dorothy,” he ordered. “Too much of this swamp air is unhealthy. I have inhaled it long enough for to-night.”
The girl followed her uncle into the house. Twindell closed the door. Bolts clattered. The light went out in the alcove. Nicholas Rokesbury laughed softly.
“That means good-bye to us, Burke,” remarked the engineer. “Let’s take the hint and drive back to the hotel. Keep this out of your newspaper story, as a favor to me. I don’t want to get in wrong with Miss Brent. Forget about the — what was that name Brent called the marsh light?”
“The ignis fatuus,” responded Clyde, as they stepped into the coupe. “Commonly called the will-o’-the-wisp.”
“That’s it,” affirmed Rokesbury. “Well — try to keep it in small print.”
“I’ll stick to the murder story,” promised Clyde. “I’m here to dig up harrowing details — not scientific data.”
The coupe rolled slowly toward the narrow road. All was silent outside the gray-walled mansion. But as the tail light of Rokesbury’s car dwindled in the thinning mist, motion occurred from beside the old house.
A soft swish sounded in the darkness.
AN invisible figure slowly circled the mansion. The long, sweeping beam of the airway beacon gave one fleeting glimpse of its shape as the form moved toward the fringe of the marsh. A being clad in black-draped cloak — slouch hat — the guise of The Shadow.
The tiny beam of a miniature flashlight glimmered at intervals along the boggy ground. With uncanny skill, The Shadow picked a solid path off through the mushiness of the lonely swamp. The tiny glimmer faded.
Unseen, The Shadow had been a witness of the meeting between Wildemar Brent and his unwelcome visitors.
Late that same evening, Clyde Burke, returning to his hotel room, found an envelope upon the table. He opened it and read a brief cryptic message in blue ink that faded when his perusal was completed.
The night telegraph operator was on duty in the little Rensdale station when Clyde Burke walked in at midnight. The reporter handed him a wire to the New York Classic, to be sent at press rates. He also gave the man a night letter to a New York investment broker named Rutledge Mann. This was a personal message that referred to sales of small securities in which Clyde Burke, apparently was interested.
Actually, that night letter was a coded message from The Shadow. For Rutledge Mann, the investment broker, was the contact man through whom The Shadow could summon new agents to perform his bidding.
CHAPTER VII. FIGURES OF NIGHT
LATE the next afternoon, a trim coupe came whining upward on the far side of the mountain that loomed beyond the town of Rensdale. Its driver found a twisting, rocky road. With his car in second, he took the bumps until he neared the summit of the ridge. The road became impassable. The driver chose a clearing and the car rolled out of view behind a clump of heavy-leaved trees.
The man who alighted from the coupe was a clean-cut young chap who was businesslike in his procedure. He opened the rear of the coupe, took out a heavy box and a rolled-up pack, then stretched out a broad-centered leather strap that formed a loop above them.
Hoisting the joined box and pack, he thrust his forehead into the loop. Supporting the weight with head and shoulders, the young man clambered up the steep, rocky slope to the top of the ridge.
This arrival on the mountain was Harry Vincent, trusted agent of The Shadow. He was following instructions given him by Rutledge Mann. He was carrying his heavy burden with the aid of the familiar tump-line, used to transport luggage across portages between lakes in the Canadian wilds. This form of luggage-hauling made it possible for him to carry the huge load in a single trip.
Harry came puffing to his objective. He was at the foot of the air beacon on the mountain. A small shack was located close to the tower. Harry pushed open the door and eased the box and pack from his back.
His next act was to open the box. From it, he produced the necessary equipment for a short-wave radio.
Using the spreading posts of the beacon, Harry set up the apparatus. Inside the shack, he adjusted earphones to his head. He spoke into a microphone. A pause; then a voice came in response.
Harry Vincent had opened communication with Clyde Burke. The agent on the mountain was connected with the agent in the hotel. Through this communication, The Shadow could maintain a double vigil.
His call completed, Harry produced a pair of field glasses from the box. He left the shack and pushed through the underbrush until he discovered an overhanging rock. From this point, he could see the ground below.
FIRST came the sloping hillside. The cabins of the squatters were tiny, block-shaped objects. Then the hillside ended in the spread-out swamp. Wildemar Brent’s new home rested like a toy castle in the midst of a brackish plain. The road from it; the causeway across the marsh — both looked like thin lines furrowed through the bog.
The sun was setting over the mountain. Harry focused his glasses on the causeway. He saw the figure of a lone man standing by the tool house. This was the watchman posted for the night. Lowering the glasses, Harry let his gaze sweep to every portion of the panorama. A tiny, crawling figure caught his attention.
This was on the hillside. A man had come out from a clump of trees. He was moving downward toward an isolated cabin. His very manner of approach showed that he did not wish to be seen by any who might be looking up the hill from below. Harry raised the glasses.
Through the powerful lens, he sighted a tall man clad in somber garments of dark gray. This fellow was wearing the flat, wide-brimmed hat that was characteristic of the Dalwars. His face turned so that Harry could see it. The Shadow’s agent spied a bearded countenance, blacker than the hat which the fellow wore.
The door of the cabin was on the upper side of the house. Harry watched the Dalwar unlock it and enter.
The door closed. Harry looked off below, following the open space that stretched from cabin down to marsh.
Another figure attracted his attention. It was coming from the mansion. Harry used the glasses to discern a sober-looking individual who was moving toward the marsh. He saw the man pick his way along an invisible path. This was Wildemar Brent, setting forth on his sunset search for the ignis fatuus.
Dusk blotted Brent from Harry’s view. The airway beacon began to blink, high above Harry’s head. It had started automatically. Its sweeping rays flashed against the darkening sky. Tiny glimmers were showing from trees beyond the marsh. These were lights from the town of Rensdale.
Cloud banks had been gathering through the day. Though they did not mar the sunset, they blotted out the moonlight. Only occasionally did the silver glow come struggling through the clouds. Yet Harry could at times make out thin patches of white mist upon the broad bog.
Hours passed. On occasions, Harry caught faint traces of a tiny dot of light upon the bog. This was Wildemar Brent’s lantern. The naturalist was using it but intermittently. Evidently he did not want the glare to interfere with any sighting of the ignis fatuus.
When the spot of light did appear, it bobbed up in most surprising places. Brent seemed to be learning most of the pathways through the quagmire that most persons regarded as impassable.
The mansion was dark; Harry decided that the inside lights were probably subdued. Suddenly, he traced the lantern moving toward the house. A light came on within the alcove. Harry raised his field glasses and managed to distinguish a closing door. Evidently, Brent had returned.