“And Twindell?” asked Brent, in an anxious tone.
“He was dead when we found him,” said the workman. “We put his corpse in with the others.”
Nicholas Rokesbury slumped in a chair beside the fire. He knew that his bullet had taken the old servant’s life. His solemn gaze showed that the news had stunned him.
“Three men dead,” declared Philo Halthorpe, in a serious tone. “It is important that I have the details before I go back to my home and call the county prosecutor.”
Halthorpe looked toward Dorothy, as though expecting the girl to make the first statement. Recovered from her prolonged ordeal, Dorothy nodded. She began her story, describing the events in the mansion.
She ended with a hazy recollection of the fight in the cabin.
“A man came in to rescue me,” said the girl, in a positive tone. “The squatter knocked him to the floor.
Then another challenged the bearded man, from the door of the little room. They fought. I saw the injured man get up from the floor. Then — then I fainted. When I recovered my senses, the place was empty.
After that, Nicholas arrived.”
“What can you tell us, Rokesbury?” asked Halthorpe.
“We saw Dorothy’s flashlight,” declared the engineer. “Over at the causeway. I told my men to surround the house. I ran ahead of them. As I neared the house, I decided to get inside, if possible. So I took to the side toward town. I came in through one of the windows in the passage to the far end of the hall.”
“Go on,” ordered Halthorpe.
“I found a hiding place beside the stairway” — Rokesbury pointed— “and waited there. I was just in time to elude Twindell, who came prowling from the stairway. Then the door opened; in came the chap with the beard. He began to whisper to Twindell; I couldn’t hear what they said.”
“Why didn’t you challenge them?”
“I wanted to be sure my men were ready. The bearded man was edging toward the door. I had my revolver so that I could cut him off if he tried to double back through the house. Then, just at the crucial moment, Dorothy turned on the lights. Twindell saw me. He sprang upon me.”
“And you shot him?”
“I fired one shot, wild. That was to warn my men; to frighten Twindell and make the squatter run for it.
Then I had my hands full. Twindell fought like a fiend. I didn’t want to kill him; but I had to. He was pulling the gun from my grasp. Beyond him, I could see the squatter, carrying Dorothy from the house. I pulled the trigger. Twindell fell away from me.”
“I witnessed the struggle!” exclaimed Dorothy. “I saw Twindell make the attack—”
“I have heard your statement,” put in Halthorpe, dryly. “It is sufficient to exonerate Rokesbury, since it is obvious that Twindell was an accomplice of the squatter. You men outside — you saw the bearded killer shoot down your companions?”
The workmen nodded. The wounded man pointed to his arm.
“The guy nicked me,” he said.
“He is already wanted for murder,” decided Halthorpe. “This adds conclusive evidence to circumstantial facts. Your statement, Mr. Brent.”
“The firing was over,” declared the naturalist, “by the time I arrived downstairs. I learned that my niece had been abducted. I led the way.”
“And you, professor?” quizzed Halthorpe.
“I was even later,” stated Shelby. “I must have come downstairs while the bodies were being carried into the tapestried room. This hallway was deserted. So I went outside and followed the distant lantern through the marsh.”
“I shall go to town immediately,” declared Halthorpe. “Suppose, Rokesbury, that I accompany you to the causeway. You can drive me into town; walking would take too long on this occasion. You can remain at my house until the coroner arrives to question you again regarding Twindell’s death.”
“Very well,” agreed Rokesbury. “Can I leave some men here to make sure that all is well?”
“That would be advisable,” responded Halthorpe.
The lawyer paused to ponder. His gawky form seemed powerful as he straightened and raised his head in thought. Then, in terse fashion, he delivered his usual summary of opinion.
“The murderer must have had enemies,” decided Halthorpe. “They may have been persons who wondered what he was about. So they attacked him in the cabin. Miss Brent saw him overpower one; the shattered window is proof that he must have hurled the other out into the darkness.
“Then, in all probability, he fled. His assailants, half groggy, decided that it was unwise to remain. They also departed before your rescue squad arrived. That sums the case. Come, Rokesbury. Let us go to the causeway.”
The lawyer and the engineer departed. Workmen took up their guard, outside the house. The occupants retired for the night. Thick blackness laid its hush over the house in the marsh.
LATER, a phantom form appeared mysteriously within the glow of the embers from the hearth. The Shadow moved toward the room with the paneled tapestries. His gloved hand opened the door; his flashlight flickered on the dead faces of Twindell and the slain workmen.
That same light roved along the walls; it flashed across the drawn shades that hid the solid, small-paned windows. Out went the light. The Shadow moved through the end of the hall, past the windows there; then through the windowed passage. He stopped at the door of the little room which Brent and Cray had occupied in turn.
That door was locked; by opening it, The Shadow could have found an exit through one of the ordinary windows. Instead, he kept on through other passages until he reached the cellar stairs. There, his form was lost in blackness.
AFTERWARD, a swish came softly through the gloom that hung over the solid ground between the old mansion and the causeway. The Shadow paid no heed to the distant lights and the dull sounds of the sledges that the workers wielded. He moved silently toward the blackness of the bog. From then on, his course was a mystery.
Hidden paths that he had discovered through the quagmire; rising wisps of mist that made white specters in the mist; these formed The Shadow’s habitat. But later, as dawn was nearing, the cloaked form again appeared within the great hall at the mansion.
Before the fire place, The Shadow loomed unseen by human eyes. Only the long-faced portrait of Thaddeus Culeth glared upon his strange, outlandish figure. That portrait, had it been alive, could have told of weird events within this hall. But of all the personages that its painted eyes might have viewed, none was so sinister as the figure which stood before it at this moment.
The Shadow moved toward the stairway. His form was blotted by darkness. Dying embers crackled.
The painted eyes of Thaddeus Culeth’s portrait stared sightless into empty space.
CHAPTER XV. THE SQUATTER RETURNS
SEVERAL days had passed since the night when the bearded Dalwar had abducted Dorothy Brent. An early autumn chill had settled over the great marsh. It was late afternoon and Wildemar Brent was discussing the cool snap with Professor Darwin Shelby.
“If this cold increases,” asserted Brent, “there will be a frost. The slough will freeze all through the marsh. There will be no use in continuing our search for the ignis fatuus.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Professor Shelby. “However, the weather may turn warm again. I think, Wildemar, that I shall venture forth as usual at dusk.”
“So shall I,” decided Brent. “It is almost dusk at present.”
“So it is!” exclaimed Shelby. “My word! I believe I shall set out at once.”
The professor went out through the big door. Alone, Brent rose to his feet. He glared savagely at the portrait of Thaddeus Culeth. The long face with its aristocratic air seemed to annoy him. Brent gripped the portrait and brought it down from the wall. He studied the space that it had covered. The wall was solid.