His hand encountered a door. Cray felt a bolt. It had been drawn back.
This was the entrance to the cellar steps. That door had been tightly bolted when Cray had retired. The detective knew at once that some one in the house had opened it. He decided that the person must be in the cellar.
Cray softly opened the door, closed it behind him without noise, and began a cautious descent. He did not use his flashlight, but he held it in readiness; also his revolver.
Soft creaks on the stairway from the second floor. Twindell was coming down. The servant stole toward Cray’s room. Hearing no sound, he moved back into the hall and lingered just out of the small sphere of light cast by the embers in the grate.
OUTSIDE the old house, The Shadow stood silent by the wall. His keen ears caught a faint sound from the marsh. His burning eyes saw a movement near the closest bush. Then dull moonlight revealed the figure that stepped into view.
Coarse clothes hung from a tall form; a flat hat covered the arrival’s head. The Shadow glimpsed a thick black beard. It was the squatter from the hillside.
The man was cautious as he approached the house. He opened the door and stepped inside. The barrier closed behind him. The Shadow followed. Like a specter, he came momentarily in view, then blackened with the front of the heavy, dark door. His hand tried the knob.
The door did not budge. To-night, the intruder had evidently sprung a bolt, in fear of the very condition that had arisen: namely, a person who might try to enter after him. The Shadow’s laugh was a soft whisper, lost in the gloom. Swinging to the wall, the cloaked investigator gripped the rough stones and began a swift upward ascent toward an opened window.
Like a human fly, he made the ascent without the aid of his rubber suction cups. The Shadow entered through the opened window. A bed stood in the corner of the room; but no sleeper could have heard the sound of The Shadow’s passage. Softly opening the door of the room, The Shadow glided into the hall.
He reached the stairs and paused there. Twindell was coming out into the hall below. The servant was creeping to the front door. Evidently he had decided that the bolt was a dangerous precaution. There was no sign of the bearded man; but the direction from which Twindell had come indicated that the intruder had gone down into the cellar.
The Shadow lingered while Twindell was returning. He was ready to follow as soon as the servant went to join the man whom he had summoned from the hill. Then, with total unexpectedness came the muffled reports of a revolver. The shots were from the cellar.
A door thumped the wall as it shot open from the darkness of a passage on the ground floor. As The Shadow, springing downward, reached the hallway, the bearded man, gun in hand, came dashing from the passage. An automatic showed in The Shadow’s gloved fist as the cloaked investigator swung into the sphere of the dying firelight.
As the bearded man shot a gleaming glance toward the sinister form that had swept into view, another figure came leaping from the darkness of the passage. With savage fury, Twindell hurled himself upon The Shadow. The bearded man dashed for the outer door. He yanked it open while The Shadow was grappling with the servant. A shot roared from the automatic. It went wide, for Twindell was gripping The Shadow’s arm.
A SCREAM came from the second floor. Dorothy Brent had reached the top of the stairway. The girl snapped a light switch. On came the brackets of the lower hallway. For one brief instant, Dorothy saw Twindell struggling with a blackened form. Then the two went twisting from her view.
Bravely, the girl started down the stairs. Her pace was hesitating. Hence she did not see the finish of the struggle in which Twindell was engaged. At the far end of the great hall, The Shadow overcame the servant’s frenzied strength. With a quick twist, he sent Twindell sprawling to the floor. The servant’s head jolted against a chair. Twindell lay half-groggy, while The Shadow swept off through the passage that led to Merle Cray’s corner room.
Dorothy Brent reached the lower hall. The girl was excited and bewildered. She saw Twindell rising weakly from the floor. Forgetting all danger, Dorothy hastened to aid the old servant. She helped Twindell to a chair. It was a full minute before the man recovered from the effects of the struggle and the jolt.
Shuffling footsteps. Dorothy turned. Her uncle had arrived, clad in slippers and dressing gown. He was holding a .32 revolver. Either excitement or his chill caused his hand to shake. In quavering voice, Brent demanded to know what had happened.
“I don’t know,” declared Dorothy. “Twindell can tell us. Who fired those shots, Twindell?”
The servant was lapsing into new grogginess. Dorothy looked about. She saw the outer door, still opened. She pointed as she exclaimed to her uncle:
“Some man was struggling with Twindell! He must have fled through the outside door!”
Brent shuffled along the hall. As he reached the door, he heard a hail through the night. He turned on the light above the entrance. Then figures came dashing into view. Nicholas Rokesbury, a trio of workmen at his heels, had come over from the causeway. Dorothy, staring from beside Twindell, gave a sigh of relief as she saw the newcomers enter with her uncle.
As Rokesbury and his men stamped into the hall, another person appeared. It was Professor Darwin Shelby. Half dressed, the tall man had come downstairs. He was standing at the foot of the steps, blinking through his large-lensed spectacles.
“What has happened, Dorothy?” demanded Rokesbury. “Has any one been hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” replied the girl. “I think that Twindell is all right.”
The servant was rising as the girl spoke. Yet his stare remained blank. Rokesbury ordered his men to search the ground floor. A result came promptly.
“Open door here, boss,” called a worker who was flicking a flashlight. “Leads down into the cellar.”
Wildemar Brent was closer than Rokesbury. The naturalist moved toward the cellar steps, clutching his .32. Rokesbury followed close behind. Dorothy boldly joined him. Brent pressed a light switch. They descended into the illuminated cellar, followed by Professor Shelby and Rokesbury’s men.
A sharp exclamation came from Brent as the owner of the mansion reached the bottom of the steps. The others stopped and looked in the direction of Brent’s pointing finger. They saw a body, arms outstretched, lying face upward on the floor.
No one spoke. All recognized that pudgy form and the fat, double-chinned face. The dead man was Merle Cray. A useless revolver glistened from his fat hand. Cray had found no chance to use it. Here, in the depths of the stone-walled cellar, the detective had been murdered at midnight!
CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW’S SEARCH
Two hours had elapsed since the finding of Merle Cray’s dead body. A solemn group was seated in the great hall of the mansion. One person, alone, was on his feet, stalking back and forth. This was Philo Halthorpe, brought from his home by one of Rokesbury’s workers.
“Until the county prosecutor arrives,” declared the rugged lawyer, “I shall remain in charge at this house. I am acting under the prosecutor’s order. I telephoned him from my home.
“My one regret is that I had not returned from my hike when your man arrived at my house, Rokesbury. I was tramping over on the other side of town. I walked farther than I had planned. Hence my lateness in returning.
“However, I am authorized to take statements. Let me hear them, while they are fresh in your minds.
You, Twindell” — the prosecutor turned to the old servant — “shall speak first.”