EVENING lapsed. Again, the strange shape of The Shadow was prowling through the paths amid the marsh. This time, the master of the night came from the boggy land to the solid ground at the base of the sloping hillside. His course was upward. He neared the little cabin where two deputies, appointed by Garry Logan, were keeping guard.
Then came a brief interval. After that, the events that happened were of much concern to the men within the cabin. These fellows were husky chaps. They were armed with rifles; and they were vigilant. But at times it happened that they both laid their weapons aside.
As the deputies stood warming themselves before the log fire, the door sprang open. Into the room strode a tall, black-bearded man. His right hand held a gleaming revolver. The deputies stood flat-footed.
The missing squatter had returned!
Eyes glared. A snarl came from the black beard. Deliberately, pocketing his gun, the wanted man seized the rifles that were standing by the wall. He thrust one weapon in the corner behind him. He swung the other rifle and brought its barrel against the corner of the fire place. Stone cracked. The rifle barrel bent like a toy of tin.
Throwing the useless gun to the floor, the squatter seized the second rifle. As new evidence of his strength, he pressed its barrel against his knee. He bent with savage force. The barrel twisted. The second gun was ruined.
With a raucous laugh, the Dalwar turned and strode from the cabin, slamming the door behind him. The startled deputies could hear his insane laugh from the darkness. It was repeated, from below the cottage.
Then it came trailing from farther down the hillside.
“That was him!” gasped one deputy. “The murderer — with the beard!”
“One of the hill-folk, right enough!” exclaimed the other. “With the wide flat hat—”
“What’ll we do about it? We can’t use them rifles—”
“He was heading down to the marsh. Maybe he’s going back to the old house.”
“Say — we’d better act quick. Let’s hop down to the causeway. We can cut over to the right so we won’t run into the fellow with the beard. He’s armed. We ain’t.”
The disarmed deputies dashed from the cottage. They ran wildly along the hillside, until they encountered a road. Puffing in their haste, they gained the far end of the causeway. They pounded across rough, broken stone, stumbling, tripping, but keeping on toward their goal.
Nicholas Rokesbury had not yet started over to the house. He had decided that Philo Halthorpe would be arriving late. Standing by a crew of workers, Rokesbury was the first to hear the approach of the deputies. He strode forward to meet the panting men.
“The murderer,” gasped a deputy. “The Dalwar — from the cabin. We were watching for him—”
“And he smashed our guns,” chimed in the other. “He beat it — heading for the swamp. He’s armed—”
Rokesbury turned on his heel. Grimly he waved to his men. Tools dropped as workers responded to the beckon of the boss. Rokesbury snapped a short, decisive order.
“Get your revolvers, men,” barked the engineer. “We’re going to the old house. Looking for the bearded murderer. If you see him to-night, shoot to kill!”
CHAPTER XVI. THE MISSING MURDERER
WHEN Nicholas Rokesbury dashed across the solid ground between the causeway and the old house, the workmen and the deputies were close at his heels. Despite their tiring run down the hill, the former guardians of the squatter’s cabin managed to keep pace with the armed band that was making for the gloomy mansion.
As they passed the battered dog-kennels, Rokesbury veered to the left. Scrambling through scrubby bushes, he called a low warning to the men behind him.
“Look out for that old well,” he urged. “The boards are loose and weak. Keep over this way — to the left.”
Rokesbury skirted the edge of the swamp above the house. Coming in from an angle, he and his followers suddenly arrived in a sphere of brilliance. The light was burning in the alcove above the big door. The entrance to the house was well illuminated. Rokesbury stopped.
“Surround the house,” he ordered, in a steady tone. “Spread out by the borders of the swamp. Form a big circle. Then close inward.”
The workmen responded. More than a dozen in number, they moved off in different directions. The two deputies remained with Rokesbury. Unarmed, they were in a quandary. The engineer recognized their plight. He beckoned them to approach the mansion with him.
Rokesbury rang the door bell. He waited impatiently. Finally he heard the sound of bolts being drawn from within. The door opened. Rokesbury was face to face with Dorothy Brent. The girl stepped back as she saw the excited look upon the engineer’s face. Rokesbury sprang into the great hall. He saw that the place was empty.
“Are you alone here?” he demanded.
“No,” responded Dorothy. “You must remember, Nicholas, that I sent your men back to the causeway after my uncle came in.”
“That’s right,” recalled Rokesbury. “About fifteen minutes ago. Was that immediately after your uncle came in from the marsh?”
“Yes.” The girl seemed perplexed. “What is the trouble, Nicholas?”
“I’ll come to that later, Dorothy. Tell me — did you have the door bolted all evening?”
“Yes. I opened it to let Uncle Wildemar in; I bolted it again, immediately after he entered.”
“Then you two are alone in the house?”
“No. About ten minutes ago, the door bell rang. I answered it; I found Professor Shelby. He had arrived back from the marsh. I bolted the door again; a few minutes afterward, there was another ring. It was Mr. Halthorpe. I bolted the door after he entered.”
“Where are they now?” quizzed Rokesbury.
“In the room with the paneled tapestries,” informed Dorothy. “They are discussing the matter of this house — whether or not uncle wants to keep it.”
“I’ll talk to them,” declared Rokesbury.
THE engineer beckoned to the deputies. They followed him as he strode to the room with the tapestries.
Dorothy came along, wondering what the trouble could be. The door was open. Brent and the others looked up from the big table as Rokesbury entered.
“Where is Detective Logan?” demanded the engineer, speaking to Philo Halthorpe.
“He has gone to the county seat,” responded the attorney. “What is the trouble, Rokesbury? If it concerns the law, I can manage it.”
“Tell him,” ordered Rokesbury, turning abruptly to the deputies.
“The murderer,” said one of the men, speaking to Halthorpe. “He came back to his cabin. Broke in on us and smashed our rifles. Laughed like he was loony; then he ran out and headed down the hill toward the swamp.”
“Why didn’t you pursue him?” quizzed Halthorpe, testily.
“He had a revolver,” put in the second deputy. “Our rifles were no good. We headed for the causeway to give the alarm.”
“I brought over a squad of men,” stated Rokesbury. “They have surrounded this house. They are ready to trap the fellow before he can escape.”
“What makes you think he is hereabouts?” demanded Halthorpe, dryly.
“Where else would he have gone?” asked Rokesbury, in return. “He had plenty of time to get through the marsh. This was his previous objective. He would certainly come here again.”
“I disagree,” snapped Halthorpe. “You have come on a fool’s errand, Rokesbury. The county is paying you to build a causeway, not to head a tribe of vigilantes. Send your men back to work.”
“Not until they have searched the grounds about the house,” retorted Rokesbury. “I’m running my crew, Halthorpe. I’ll give them whatever orders I choose.”
“Suit yourself,” snorted the lawyer. “Let them search for nothing if you choose to occupy them with that task. Mr. Brent was out on the marsh to-night. So was Professor Shelby. I walked in by the old road. We would have seen the prowler if he had come here.