“A good idea.”
“Say nothing about it, Burke. I’m going out to see Wildemar Brent to-night. It would be poor policy to take you along after the suspicions he had about you. But I’ll tell you all that happens, after I come back. There may be a hot argument.”
“Between you and Brent?”
“No. Between Brent and Cray. Dorothy says the detective was around to-day. Brent wouldn’t let him in, but he’s coming back to-night.”
AFTER dinner, Clyde prepared a report for The Shadow. He thrust it under the door of the locked room on the second floor. Strolling to the lobby, he saw Rokesbury leaving for his visit to Brent’s.
OUT at the mansion, Wildemar Brent and his niece were seated before the fire place in the great hall.
The naturalist was in a grouchy mood. He had caught a chill which he attributed to his arousal on the previous night. Hence Dorothy had managed to persuade him to stay away from the marsh this evening.
“No chill can stop me from my search,” Brent was growling. “It is not fear of the marsh air that keeps me in to-night. I don’t want to meet that detective. He may be prowling around outside. They are persistent beggars, those detectives.”
The door bell clanged. Twindell started to answer it. Brent waved him back. Dorothy arose and went to the door herself. She turned on the light and peered through the window. She began to unbolt the door.
“Don’t let that detective in here!” shrieked Brent, excitedly. “I’ll have nothing to do with the fool! Bolt the door, Dorothy! I command you.”
“It’s only Mr. Rokesbury,” responded Dorothy. “He is here alone. You were discourteous to him the other night, Uncle Wildemar. It is only fair to let him in.”
The girl opened the door. Rokesbury stepped inside. While Dorothy was bolting the door, the engineer strolled forward with a cheery greeting to Brent, who glowered in return.
“I have a report that will interest you, Mr. Brent,” remarked Rokesbury, quietly. “The marsh lights were seen last night.”
“Where?” questioned Brent, eagerly. His aloofness had turned to enthusiasm.
“On the other side of the causeway,” answered Rokesbury.
“Hm-m. I must go over there,” decided Brent. “I have not covered a great deal of that bogland in my search for the ignis fatuus. Who witnessed the phenomenon, Rokesbury?”
“My watchman. He observed intermittent flickers between nine o’clock and eleven. He was scared half out of his wits. It was fortunate that I had told him to be on the lookout.”
“Why did you tell him that?”
“To aid your research.”
“Thoughtful of you, Brent. These reports are valuable. Sit down beside the fire place.”
Rokesbury complied. Wildemar Brent broke into a discussion of the ignis fatuus. Rokesbury listened with keen interest, nodding his understanding. The door bell rang while Brent was talking.
“The detective,” snarled the naturalist, pausing in his discourse. “Keep him out.”
“It’s a stranger,” informed Dorothy, peering through the window. “He has come in the old cab from the station. A tall, elderly man, with large spectacles.”
“A disguise,” barked Brent. “Refuse to answer. Do not let him in.”
“It can’t be Cray,” remarked Rokesbury. “He couldn’t make up like a tall man. Cray is pudgy. Besides, he’s too dumb to put on a good disguise.”
The door bell sounded again. Wildemar Brent became curious. He ordered his niece to unbolt the door.
Dorothy obeyed. Peering through the crack, she asked the stranger’s name. She received a card in response.
“For you, uncle,” said the girl, bringing the card to Brent.
THE naturalist read the pasteboard by the firelight. His face showed sudden keenness. He waved his niece toward the door.
“My word!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard of this chap, Professor Darwin Shelby, Fellow of the Royal Academy! He prepared an admirable thesis on the ignis fatuus! Come in, professor!”
Wildemar Brent had risen as he pronounced the last words. He was standing with his hand extended to greet the tall, owlish man who had entered. Professor Shelby smiled and nodded as he peered through his thick-lensed glasses.
“Mr. Wildemar Brent?” he inquired.
“Yes, professor,” replied Brent as they shook hands. “You are indeed a welcome guest. Tell me, what has brought you here?”
“The same quest that caused you to choose this mansion for your home,” responded the professor.
“What an admirable location, Mr. Brent! What a superb spot from which to undertake the study of the ignis fatuus!”
“You have heard of my humble research, professor?”
“Indeed I have. But do not call it humble, Mr. Brent. It is a glorious contribution to the cause of science. I have come here, my friend, that I might ask a favor.”
“What is that, professor?”
“Permission to act as your assistant in the endeavors that you have undertaken.”
Brent’s face gleamed. The owner of the mansion swelled with pride. This humble request from a noted scientist appeared to be the greatest thrill of his lifetime.
“I shall not intrude when you do not desire it,” promised Professor Shelby. “I can take lodgings in the village and there await your instructions—”
“You will remain here, professor!” exclaimed Brent. “Here, in my home. You shall be the teacher — I, the pupil. No, no! I insist. That can be the only arrangement. You are the master.”
“My luggage is at the inn,” said the professor, with a bow. “I have engaged quarters there for to-night. But to-morrow—”
“I could not think of it,” interrupted Brent. “Twindell, send that hack down to the Hotel Rensdale. Have the driver bring out Professor Shelby’s luggage. At once, Twindell.”
The servant moved to obey. Brent invited Shelby to a seat before the fire. The professor smiled as he took his place. Brent sat down beside him. They began to chat concerning the elusive will-o’-the-wisp.
While Rokesbury strolled over to talk with Dorothy, the door bell rang again.
“It’s the detective this time,” declared Dorothy, looking through the grilled window. “But you will have to let him in, uncle. Philo Halthorpe is with him.”
A sour expression appeared upon Brent’s face. The naturalist waved his hands in resignation. Twindell, who had returned after despatching the cab, was prompt in unbolting the door.
WILDEMAR BRENT was ill-at-ease when the new visitors entered. He did not know whether to invite a private conference or to let them talk in front of Professor Shelby. He decided on the latter course, apparently desiring to show a gesture of complete friendship toward Shelby. Introductions were completed. Merle Cray began to speak.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brent,” said the detective, in an apologetic tone. “But I’ve been sort of worried about this old house, all alone in the marsh. You see, I think the fellow that got Hector Lundig might still be hereabouts. I’ve scoured the town; I’ve searched the hills. No luck. Maybe the man I want might be around these grounds.”
“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Brent. “There is no hiding place near here.”
“There’s the swamp,” argued Cray. “What’s more, this house is a funny old place. Might be some way for a man to get in and out. So I want to stay here a while. It’s for your protection, Mr. Brent.”
“I won’t allow it!”
“It can’t be helped, Brent,” put in Halthorpe, with a sour look on his hard face. “Cray is set on this plan. I’ve done everything I could to argue him out of it. He threatened to swear out a search warrant if you refused him entry to-night. That’s why I came along with him. It was in your interest.”