Another hour. Harry patiently maintained his vigil. He was rewarded. A spot of light came suddenly from the alcove of the mansion. Its glare was focused directly up the hill toward the squatter’s shack that Harry had observed.
Blink — blink — blink—
The light sparkled like a coded signal. Then it went out altogether. Producing a flashlight of his own, Harry went back to the shack beside the airway beacon. A few minutes later, he was talking to Clyde Burke.
Until he had seen the blinks from the mansion, Harry had given but little thought to the bearded man who had entered the squatter’s shack. Under present circumstances, the appearance of that prowler had become important. Harry reported all that he had seen from the rock.
DOWN in his hotel room, Clyde Burke wrote a message to The Shadow. He sealed it in an envelope, strolled down to the second floor and thrust the billet under the door of the closed room. This was in accord with new instructions. The message lay untouched after Clyde had delivered it. The Shadow would read it later. For the present, he was elsewhere.
LIGHTS were out in the house in the marsh. All had retired. Wildemar Brent was sleeping in a secluded room on the first floor. Dorothy had chosen an upstairs room on the side of the house toward the causeway — a room which also had a window above the alcove on the hillside of the house. Twindell occupied a far room on the same floor.
Half an hour had elapsed since Harry Vincent’s call to Clyde Burke when Dorothy Brent awakened from a sound slumber. Struggling moonlight was coming through the window toward the causeway. Its glimmer ended as a cloud intervened.
Croaking of frogs — the dull, monotonous sound was all that the girl could hear. Yet Dorothy had a sense that all was not well. Rising, the girl donned dressing-gown and slippers. She tiptoed to the hallway.
There she could hear the crackle of dying embers in the fire place below. Then came a sound that was plainly the closing of a door.
Wildemar Brent was a sound sleeper. Dorothy knew that the noise could not have awakened him.
Twindell’s room was in a remote spot of the house. Bravely, Dorothy descended the stairs. She knew that if she reached the ground floor, she could call her uncle.
Halfway down, Dorothy paused. From deep below in the cellar, she fancied that she heard a tap-tap-tap. The sound came in constant repetition. Intervals; then the tapping. Slowly, the girl reached the foot of the stairs. She moved toward a passage that led to a doorway into the cellar.
Then came footsteps, from the cellar stairs themselves. Dorothy stood petrified. She did not know where to find a light switch. She heard the footsteps pause at the door. Low whispers seemed to follow.
Roused by increasing fright, the girl sprang back toward the hall. Screaming, she stumbled toward one of the doorways that led to her uncle’s room. An answering call responded. It came from another passage.
It was Wildemar Brent, hurrying toward the hall. Frightened for her uncle’s safety, Dorothy dashed back in that direction.
Lights came on. They glowed in the side brackets of the hall. Dorothy saw two persons; one was her uncle, clad in pajamas. The other was Twindell. The cadaverous servant was wearing shoes, trousers and shirt.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Wildemar Brent, as his niece clutched the side of a doorway.
“I–I heard something,” gasped Dorothy. “Like a tapping — from the cellar.”
“Help her in here, sir,” suggested Twindell, pointing toward the room with the tapestried panels. “There is a couch where Miss Brent can rest.”
The servant went ahead. He turned on the mellow side brackets. Dorothy followed, half supported by her uncle. The girl refused the couch; she sat upon a chair just within the door.
“I believe I heard the same noise, sir,” declared Twindell, turning to Wildemar Brent. “I began to dress, thinking I should look about a bit. I opened the door of my room. I heard Miss Dorothy scream.”
“The noise was a tapping?” inquired Brent, staring from beside the big table.
“Yes,” said Dorothy, with a nod.
“A tapping, sir,” agreed Twindell. “Of course, I must remind you that this house is full of strange noises.”
“To what do you attribute them?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
Dorothy had recovered from her fright. She felt annoyed because she had screamed in such terrified fashion. Her lips were firm as she spoke.
“It was not the tapping at first,” declared the girl. “The noise that came in the beginning was like the closing of a door—”
Like an echo to her statement, Dorothy heard a repetition of the very sound that she was describing. For an instant, she stood stock-still. She was positive that the sound had come from the top of the cellar stairs. Acting upon sudden impulse, Dorothy sprang into the end of the long hall.
This time she saw a door closing. It was the outer door of the house, at the other end of the hall. The girl was just in time to see the barrier shut. The door opened inward into the hall; some person, sneaking from the cellar steps, had drawn the outer door shut behind him!
“Come quickly!” called Dorothy, as she rushed through the hall. “Quickly, uncle! Some one just went out!”
THERE were tiny, grilled windows at the sides of the massive floor. Dorothy was the first to reach them.
A surge of moonlight had arrived. Staring, the girl glimpsed a figure that was hastening across the driveway.
A huge, slouched form, with a head that wore a broad flat hat. The head turned at the instant that Dorothy saw the figure. The girl caught a glimpse of a black, bearded face. Then the fleeing man had reached a clump of bushes by the edge of the swamp. His figure disappeared from view.
“I saw him!” exclaimed Dorothy. “I saw him!”
“Who?” demanded Wildemar Brent, coming up behind her. “Where?”
“A man — with a beard. Going into the swamp.”
“Turn on the outer light, Twindell.”
The servant obeyed. Wildemar Brent stared through the grilled window. He could see no one. He grunted as he shrugged his shoulders.
“Your imagination, Dorothy,” he declared.
“But the door is not bolted, uncle,” returned the girl. “I am sure some one could have gone out this way.”
“What! The door unbolted?” Brent was furious. “What does this mean, Twindell.”
“I am sure I bolted it, sir.” The cadaverous servant was nervous. “I have bolted that door every night for years.”
“Humph. This is one time you failed. You think the man came from the cellar, Dorothy?”
“Yes.” The girl was still peering through the pane. “The door must have been unbolted for him to have gotten through so quickly.”
“Bolt the door, Twindell,” ordered Brent. “Then go about and make sure that all the windows are locked.”
“No need for that, sir. If the man came through a window, he must have entered by your room.”
“How so? What about these other windows?”
“They are solid grillework, sir. Old Mr. Culeth had them made so. All the windows on the ground floor, sir. That is, except those in the little room that you chose to occupy. That door was always kept locked, sir.”
“Look, uncle!” exclaimed Dorothy, as Twindell was closing the bolts on the big door. “I see some one — beyond the drive — by that tree—”
“Which tree?” Brent peered through the other window.
“The one just on the edge of the light. The largest one.”
“Look more closely,” suggested Brent, with a depreciating laugh. “What you are viewing is nothing but a shadow. No human being could stand so motionless.”