The girl stared for a full minute. At last she turned away from the window and smiled weakly.
“It was my imagination,” she confessed. “All that I saw there by the tree was a shadow. But the man that went into the marsh—”
“Was also your imagination. You have been hearing things and seeing things. Come. Let us forget this folly. But remember, Twindell, the bolting of the door must not be neglected in the future.”
“I understand, sir.”
The cadaverous servant watched Dorothy go upstairs to her room. He saw Brent go back to his room on the ground floor. Twindell picked up a log beside the fire place; with surprising strength, the old servant tossed it on the fire, so that the heat might absorb the damp marsh air that had penetrated the ground floor.
The old servant’s face was strangely solemn. It was more pallid than usual. It seemed to quiver as the man turned out the hall light. Then Twindell noted that he had not extinguished the light that shone above the outside alcove. He pressed the switch. The light went out. By the glow of the fire, Twindell stalked slowly up the stairs.
BLACKNESS had enveloped the old mansion with the extinguishing of that outside light. A soft swish sounded in the darkness close by the tree toward which Dorothy Brent had stared. The girl’s first impression had been correct. She had seen more than a shadow. She had seen The Shadow.
By remaining motionless, the black-garbed visitant had deceived the observers from within the house.
Cloaked by darkness, this silent watcher was free to move. Noiselessly, his invisible figure traveled toward the marsh. No glimmers from the tiny flashlight aided The Shadow to-night. He had learned the paths that he wanted through the bog. His soft, whispered laugh was caught by the clammy remnants of the mist that spread across the swamp. The Shadow’s course remained untraceable.
ONE hour later, just as the distant chimes of a steeple clock were tolling midnight, The Shadow’s silent form was standing by the roadway that skirted the side of the swamp. Dull moonlight showed the contour of the road. The Shadow, invisible beneath the blackness of a thick-leaved tree, discerned a striding form. His keen ears caught the soft thud of footsteps in the thick dust of the road.
The pacing man strode by. Moonlight revealed the set features of a hard face. The midnight hiker was Philo Halthorpe. The lawyer was ending one of his late evening walks. He was heading townward.
The last chime ended. Halthorpe had turned a bend in the road. Creaking frogs alone disturbed the stilly silence of the countryside. Then came the repetition of an eerie, whispered laugh, that might have been the echo of a ghostly voice.
The Shadow, unseen, had seen. He had witnessed the flight of the bearded squatter who had come from the house in the marsh. He had observed Philo Halthorpe, pacing the deserted road. Silently, cloaked in darkness, The Shadow turned back into the bogland. Paths which he had discovered amid the impassable mire were to form his shortcut back into town.
The Shadow’s work was ended for the night. He was to find repose within the closed room at the little hotel — the room that only he had entered since murder had struck within its walls.
CHAPTER VIII. NEW VISITORS
SHORTLY before five o’clock the next afternoon, Dorothy Brent appeared outside the house in the marsh. The day was clear; the thick quagmire had lost its murky look. Nevertheless, Dorothy avoided the bog as she walked swiftly over the rough ground toward the causeway, a quarter mile away.
This portion of the mansion’s ground was barren. An old, disused well was covered with boards.
Deserted dog-kennels had been broken down. Scrubby bushes made the path as difficult as the bog itself.
Most of the workers had left the causeway; the few who remained were talking with Nicholas Rokesbury. The enterprising engineer always remained late on the job. Dorothy had noted that fact from her window. The group was breaking up as Dorothy reached the causeway. Rokesbury turned as he heard the girl call to him. Sweeping his campaign hat from his head, the construction engineer came down the edge of the stone embankment.
“How do you do, Miss Brent,” greeted Rokesbury. “Why did you come to all this trouble? You could have sent Twindell down to get me.”
“I’m supposed to be in the house,” replied Dorothy. “Uncle is cranky to-day. Worried about what happened last night.”
“What was that?” questioned Rokesbury, anxiously. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Only a prowler,” replied Dorothy. “Twindell left the door unbolted. The man entered the house.”
“A robber?”
“Only one of the hill-folk, I think. He hurried away when he knew we were looking for him. I heard tapping, in the cellar.”
“Did you look down there?”
“No. The man made his escape while I — well, I screamed and uncle helped me into the room with the tapestries. While we were there, the man ran out.”
“And your uncle?”
“He attributes it all to my imagination. He didn’t want me to leave the house or tell any one what happened. To make matters worse, the county detective called to-day.”
“Merle Cray?”
“Yes. A stout man. Uncle wouldn’t let him in the house. He made Twindell bolt the door. But Cray shouted that he was coming back.”
“All this sounds serious, Dorothy — pardon me, Miss Brent.” Rokesbury reddened and became apologetic, but the girl merely smiled. “I don’t like to think of you — alone — in that house.”
“I’m not alone. My uncle—”
“He’s a pretty querulous chap, Dorothy.” Rokesbury, in his seriousness, did not notice that he had used the girl’s first name. “As for Twindell — he is old — and from what you say, he forgets to bolt the door. Frankly, I don’t like it.”
“But” — Dorothy paused, then looked troubled — “what’s the use of my trying to pretend? I’m frightened — really frightened, Mr. Rokesbury. Yet uncle would be terribly angry if I said I don’t want to live in the old house. He’s my closest relation and he has been very kind since my parents died. And yet I—”
“Don’t worry.” Rokesbury smiled as he placed his brawny hand gently upon the girl’s arm. “I have an idea.”
“To make it safer there?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you about it to-night.”
“To-night?”
“When I come out to your uncle’s house.”
“But he may refuse to see you.”
“I don’t think so. Of course, I won’t bring Burke along. Leave it to me, Dorothy. My plan will work. To make it sure, you had better go back to the house before your uncle happens to look for you.”
NICHOLAS ROKESBURY dined with Clyde Burke at half past six. The two men, both in their early thirties, had become good friends. While they were eating, Rokesbury spoke in a confidential tone.
“I can trust you, Burke,” he said. “I want to tell you something in confidence, before you hear rumors about the matter. Keep it out of your stories until I say the word. It may mean a lot to me.”
“All right,” agreed Clyde, thinking of The Shadow and forgetting the Classic. “What’s it about?”
“A prowler got into the old mansion last night. Miss Brent was badly scared. Twindell, the servant, either left the door unbolted or deliberately opened it. Wildemar Brent thinks Dorothy is imagining that something happened.”
“Did Miss Brent see the prowler?”
“Yes. She said he looked like one of the squatters from the hill. She may have been mistaken on that point. But she certainly saw some one. I’ve got to help her.”
“How can you?”
“By putting on a night shift at the causeway. We’re behind schedule. It can easily be arranged. I always take personal charge of night shifts when they start. We can keep an eye on the house all through the night.”