The light clicked off. A laugh whispered weirdly through solid darkness. Hollow mirth carried a foreboding note. The Shadow had gained a clue to coming crime. Though the present balked him, the future would bring The Shadow to the mysterious house in the marsh.
CHAPTER III. HEIR TO THE MANOR
WHILE The Shadow, in his sanctum, was studying the photograph that served as clue to coming crime, people in the town of Rensdale were discussing the very house that the picture had portrayed.
Though unknown outside of the district where it was located, the old house in the marsh was a familiar object to those who dwelt in the secluded region near Rensdale. The building had been a landmark for many years. Hence, eager listeners were gathered by the desk in the Hotel Rensdale while a pasty-faced young man chatted loudly with the proprietor.
This young man was Hector Lundig, sole heir to the estate of Thaddeus Culeth. He was gleefully telling David Prell, the hotel proprietor, about the stroke of luck that had come his way.
“I’m selling the old mansion,” boasted Lundig. “The deal is settled. Twenty-thousand berries in four installments. Added to the few thousand I got in cash, that fixes me for a trip abroad. Boy! Wait’ll I show those pikers in Monte Carlo. I’ve always wanted to see that place.”
David Prell nodded. He was a solemn-faced man who took the hotel business seriously. He was not interested in Hector Lundig’s future. As a resident of Rensdale, Prell wanted to know more details regarding the old Culeth mansion.
“Who’s buying the house?” he questioned.
“A fellow named Wildemar Brent,” announced Lundig. “Going to move in right away. He’s welcome to the place.”
“He’s crazy,” commented a bystander.
“Don’t I know it?” snorted Lundig. “Say — that old dump gave me the creeps the moment I saw it. I’ve stayed away from the place. Got to go out there, though, to-night. Philo Halthorpe is coming here with Wildemar Brent. Whoo!” The young man made a grimace. “Think I’ll go up and take a couple of swigs. Got to brace my self for a trip out to that spooky place.”
Lundig strolled toward the stairs. Prell spoke in a low tone to the bystanders, as he nudged his thumb toward the departing figure.
“A couple of swigs,” repeated the proprietor. “That means he’s going to get soused.”
WHILE the bystanders nodded and chuckled, a keen-faced, broad-shouldered man entered the lobby.
The newcomer was wearing riding breeches and leather puttees; his khaki shirt gave him a military appearance. He was smoking a pipe, which he removed from his mouth as he spoke to Prell.
“Hello, Dave,” was his greeting. “Why the confab?”
“Sort of a post mortem, Mr. Rokesbury,” responded the proprietor. “We’ve just been listening to a lot of empty-headed talk from Hector Lundig.”
“Sorry I missed it,” declared Rokesbury. “Don’t be too harsh with Lundig, though. He’ll show more sense when he grows up. What was he talking about — Monte Carlo?”
“Yes. He’s going there at last.”
“On that few thousand he gained as Thaddeus Culeth’s heir?”
“That — and more. The old house is being sold.”
“You don’t mean it! For how much?”
“Twenty thousand dollars. Quarterly installments. I reckon. Fellow named Wildemar Brent is buying it.”
“Who is Wildemar Brent?”
“Didn’t recall him when Lundig mentioned the name,” declared Prell. “But it’s kind of come back to me. Wildemar Brent has stopped at this hotel off and on; what’s more, he’s taken cottages during the past few summers. Sort of a bug on nature study.”
“I think I know the fellow you mean,” nodded Rokesbury. “I saw him a bit last summer, when we were building the new bridge over the Tallahannock Creek. Stoop-shouldered man, about forty years old. Walks with arms swinging; always looks like he was talking to himself.”
“That’s the fellow!” exclaimed Prell. “Well, it would take a queer duck like him to buy that old Culeth house. Queer duck” — Prell chuckled — “well, ducks like water. He’s a duck all right, Brent is, and the swamp ought to suit him.”
“Lundig is fortunate.” Rokesbury paused to puff at his pipe. “That mansion is a white elephant. I don’t blame Lundig for being elated at its sale; I don’t blame him for wanting to go abroad. But he ought to stay away from Monte Carlo.”
“He ought to stay away from the bottle,” declared Prell. “He’s celebrating the sale right now — up in his room — and when a man drinks alone, it’s bad.”
Rokesbury nodded his agreement.
“A fellow like Lundig ought to appreciate his luck,” grumbled Prell, “but he doesn’t. First of all, he oughtn’t to have come into that money.”
“Why not?” inquired Rokesbury.
“On account of Austin Culeth,” responded Prell. “He was a likable young chap. Different from old Thaddeus. An only son, Austin was, and a good son. But he had a bad father. That’s why he went away.”
“He died, didn’t he?”
“That’s what we heard, a couple of years ago. The fever got him, in Africa. Then, a month or so ago, when old Thaddeus Culeth was stricken with paralysis, Philo Halthorpe sent out a call for all relatives.”
“Halthorpe being Thaddeus Culeth’s lawyer.”
“That’s right. But you know the story, Mr. Rokesbury. Austin Culeth was dead. No one else could be located except this young upstart, Hector Lundig. When he arrived, he lived here in my hotel, waiting like a vulture for old Thaddeus Culeth to die. Easy money for him; but he was plenty disappointed when he found the estate only amounted to a few thousand dollars.”
“Except for the house.”
“Which Lundig didn’t want. You know as well as I do that he hasn’t been inside the place since he got here. Well — it’s sold and he’s lucky.”
Rokesbury nodded. He yawned sleepily and glanced at the clock above the desk.
“Call me at eleven,” he said to Prell. “I’m going to take a nap until then.”
“Going back to the causeway?”
“Only long enough to check up on the night watchman. I want to make sure he’s on the job. There is a lot of valuable equipment in that tool house.”
TIME slipped by after Rokesbury had departed. David Prell, reading a book as he sat behind the desk, was surprised when he looked up at the clock to see that it was a few minutes after eleven. He despatched the lone, slouchy bell hop to awaken Rokesbury. Two minutes later, the man appeared from the stairway, still clad in riding breeches and khaki shirt.
As Rokesbury neared the desk, the front door opened. A tall, rangy, harsh-faced man appeared. He was followed by two others: one, a sober-faced individual who answered to the description of Wildemar Brent; the other, a young and attractive girl.
The harsh-faced man was Philo Halthorpe, the local attorney who had handled the estate of Thaddeus Culeth. He nodded to Prell and Rokesbury; then turned to introduce the people who were with him.
“This is Mr. Brent,” announced Halthorpe, in a drawly tone. “Wildemar Brent, who is buying the old mansion that belonged to Thaddeus Culeth. This young lady is Miss Dorothy Brent.”
“My niece,” put in Wildemar Brent, in a solemn tone. “This is her first visit to Rensdale.”
Prell smiled and nodded. Rokesbury bowed.
“This gentleman is David Prell,” said Halthorpe, indicating the proprietor, then turning to the Brents. “And I should also like to introduce Nicholas Rokesbury. He is building the new causeway across the swamp” — Halthorpe made a quick correction — “across the lowlands by the old mansion.”