“I represent the law,” announced Cray, gruffly. “What Mr. Halthorpe says is right. I was just trying to put it easy to you, Mr. Brent. But if you refuse to let me stay here, I’ll act in the name of the law.”
“Very well,” agreed Brent, suddenly, as he chanced to glance at Professor Shelby. “Have your way about it, Cray. There are plenty of rooms in this house. Twindell will give you one on the second floor.”
“I’d sooner sleep down here,” insisted the detective.
“Take my room then,” returned Brent. “I have a chill and it’s too close to the marsh air.”
“Perhaps, Cray,” said Rokesbury, quietly, “your presence here would be unnecessary. This house will be well-guarded from now on.”
“How do you mean?” demanded Cray.
“I am starting a night shift,” replied Rokesbury. “My men go on the job to-night. I shall be in charge. I came out this evening to inform Mr. Brent. I thought that he was entitled to know what was going on, since we are working close to his house.”
“A night shift, eh?” questioned Cray. “That’s good.”
Dorothy threw a grateful look toward Rokesbury, who smiled in return. The girl realized that this must be the plan that Rokesbury had thought out for her benefit.
“Just the same,” added Cray, “I’m staying in this house. My bag’s out in my car. I’ll pull the bus up in back; then I’ll come in and get located.”
“I’m going back to town,” stated Rokesbury, as the detective left. “The night shift goes on the job within two hours. If any one wants me, I’ll be on the causeway.”
He turned to Halthorpe.
“Can I drive you into town?” Rokesbury asked the lawyer.
“No, thanks,” responded Halthorpe, dryly. “I shall stay here a while. Then I intend to take one of my evening walks. It preserves my physique” — the lawyer tapped his firm chest — “and keeps me from growing old.”
Rokesbury smiled as he said good-night to Dorothy. He drove away and headed straight for the Hotel Rensdale. He met Clyde Burke in the lobby. Drawing the reporter to one side, the engineer gave a brief summary of all that had occurred at the house in the marsh.
After Rokesbury had left for the causeway, Clyde Burke went to his room. He prepared a written report for The Shadow. He tuned in on his short-wave set and held a low-voiced conversation with Harry Vincent. Descending to the second floor, Clyde tucked his envelope under the door of The Shadow’s chosen room.
The arrival of Professor Shelby — Rokesbury’s beginning of the night shift — Cray’s presence at the old house — Halthorpe’s statement that he intended to take an evening hike — all these facts were in Clyde Burke’s report.
Whatever might be impending at Wildemar Brent’s, The Shadow alone could divine. His agent had supplied him merely with stated details. The rest remained with The Shadow.
CHAPTER IX. MIDNIGHT MURDER
DYING embers from the grate cast a faint, wavering glow through the great hall. Silence reigned within the house on the marsh. All the occupants of the mansion had retired at eleven o’clock. It was now nearly midnight.
Stealthy footsteps broke the quiet. Creaking boards told that some one was descending the stairs from the second floor. A creeping form reached the hall and moved toward the corner, ground-floor room where Merle Cray was sleeping. The detective’s snores were audible from the opened door of his room.
The prowler returned to the hall.
His creeping figure came within the firelight’s glow. The man was Twindell. The old servant was attired as he had been on the preceding night. Slowly and with much care, Twindell crept to the front door and drew back the bolts. Opening the barrier, he stepped out into the night.
Twindell was sheltered by the outside alcove. The projection of the house hid him from the view of any who might be watching from the causeway. Twindell knew that the night shift had gone on duty. That fact did not trouble him.
The servant produced a flashlight. Holding the lens toward the distant hill, he blinked the light. His signals came in quick repetition. A pause; then they flashed again. Pocketing the light, Twindell stole back into the house. He closed the big door but did not lock it. Sneaking to the door at the top of the cellar steps, he stood in the darkness, listening intently.
Outside the old mansion, stillness was complete. Yet there was movement there. After Twindell had closed the door, a figure emerged from the blackness beside the stone walls of the ghostly house. Faint moonlight, streaking through the clouds, revealed a momentary glimpse of The Shadow.
The cloaked form began a circuit of the mansion. Passing the alcove, The Shadow reached the side toward the causeway. Lights were gleaming through the mist. Distant blows of sledge-hammers were audible through the night.
The fog had cleared from the marsh; but it seemed to cling to the scrubby, thick-bushed sector that lay between the house and the causeway. Even the broken-down dog kennels were lost from view. Sound could penetrate the clustered remnants of the fog. So could the powerful lights on the causeway. But even the keen eyes of The Shadow could discern no objects through that white swirling blanket.
Any one approaching the house from the side toward the hill could not possibly be observed from the causeway, even should the workmen turn a powerful searchlight on the mansion. The Shadow sensed that Twindell had recognized this fact. This had been a good night for his signals toward the hillside. A secret visitor would soon be due at the old house.
For The Shadow knew — from observation — that Twindell had delivered the blinks on the preceding night. He had learned that Twindell was in contact with the mysterious bearded prowler from the hillside.
There was still time before the man would arrive in response to Twindell’s flash. The Shadow kept on around the house.
SOFTLY, the cloaked investigator passed the massive, tiny-paned windows of the ground floor. At last he came to the far corner of the mansion. He stood beneath the windows of the room where Merle Cray was sleeping. These were ordinary windows. Cray had opened one of them. Listening, The Shadow made sure that the detective was still asleep. Continuing on, he reached the side of the house toward the hill.
This trip had required some time; yet The Shadow knew that the bearded prowler could not yet have arrived. The cloaked form merged with the darkness of the house. The Shadow’s keen eyes watched toward the bushes that fringed the marsh.
Inside the old house, Twindell had moved from his place beside the cellar door. Softly, the servant stole up the steps to the second floor. He crept through the hallway, listening outside the doors of rooms where people were sleeping. He wanted to make sure that no one was awake.
Both Twindell and The Shadow had satisfied themselves that Merle Cray was sound asleep. They had surmised correctly. Yet chance was to play its part. During this short interval while The Shadow was on the far side of the house and Twindell was sneaking along the second floor, the detective happened to awake.
Perhaps some trivial noise had disturbed Cray’s slumber. Possibly the discomfort of his clothing — for Cray was fully clad except for coat and vest — was the cause of the detective’s awakening. Whatever the reason, Cray sat up and blinked. It took him half a minute to realize where he was.
Awake, the detective decided upon action. Plucking a revolver from the pocket of his coat, he held the weapon in readiness as he crept from the little corner room. He found a passage to the end of the great hall. Keeping away from the glow of the firelight, he decided to investigate the nearest room — the one with the paneled tapestries.
Cray opened the door with utmost stealth. He blinked a flashlight. The room was quite empty. Leaving the door open, the detective stole back into the hall. He chose a blackened passage beside the stairway.