“I have never seen the throne, Bexler,” remarked Dutton, turning to the gray-haired man. “I hope that some time you may grant us the treat of viewing it.”
“Not I,” laughed Bexler. “You and Brockthorpe can display your prized possessions. My throne will remain where it belongs — in the big vault at my home. I prefer to keep my treasure guarded.”
“Like Ferrell Gault,” nodded Dutton. “That emerald Buddha of his is glistening away inside of steel walls. Where is Gault, by the way?”
“Out of town,” informed Brockthorpe. “As for the Buddha. I understand he is preparing a shrine for it in his apartment. He is copying our plan, Dutton, of placing a rare treasure in a suitable spot where his friends can see it.”
DORIS MUNSON was listening intently. She turned to Mark Tyrell with an inquiring lift of her eyebrows. Tyrell replied in an undertone.
“These collectors are a clique,” he explained. “Sebastian Dutton boasts of his Sicilian tapestry. Rudolph Brockthorpe becomes boring when he talks about his golden screens. Ferrell Gault owns a Buddha that glitters with emeralds. As for Hubert Bexler, the gray-haired man, he has some sort of a throne that belonged to a boy emperor in Persia.”
“How interesting!” exclaimed Doris. “I knew of Mr. Dutton’s tapestry, although I have never seen it. Are these the only collectors in the group?”
“There are several others,” responded Tyrell, in a bored tone. “One chap, Powers Jordan, has some sort of a diamond tiara. I think he is also out of town—”
Tyrell paused. Another guest had joined the group. A tall, hawkfaced man with keen eyes, this individual captured Tyrell’s immediate attention.
“Good evening, Cranston!” Sebastian Dutton was extending an eager hand. “A rare pleasure to have you with us! We were just matching the merits of our treasures. What have you to offer?”
“No treasures,” returned Cranston, quietly. “I have curios and trophies; but no items of singular value. I am looking forward to a glimpse of your famous tapestry, Dutton.”
“Lamont Cranston!” murmured Tyrell, as he stared toward the newcomer.
“Lamont Cranston?” whispered Doris. “Is he the famous globetrotter?”
“Yes,” replied Tyrell.
“I should like to meet him,” said the girl. “He looks like an interesting person. Why are you staring so oddly, Mark?”
“He reminds me of some one,” mumbled Tyrell. “Was I staring? Quite impolite. So you would like to meet Lamont Cranston” — the schemer smiled as he faced Doris — “very well, you shall. Mrs. Dutton will introduce you.”
“Don’t be jealous, Mark—”
“I’m not jealous. Remember what I told you over the telephone? I should like you to meet men other than myself. Cranston, for instance. He is a man who has traveled everywhere. Why not make his acquaintance?”
“I shall, since you insist,” pouted Doris. “I shall have Mrs. Dutton introduce me to him. I should like to hear his comments on the famous tapestry.”
“An excellent idea,” decided Tyrell, in a sarcastic tone. “Go right ahead, little girl. But remember, you’re a debutante no longer. Pretty flowers wilt when summer passes.”
Placing a cigarette to his lips, Tyrell strolled away. He smiled as soon as his back was turned. He knew Doris Munson’s childish nature. He had learned long ago that the girl was in love with him. To Doris, a man’s jealousy meant love reciprocated. Tyrell knew that she would do exactly as she had said; that for the remainder of this evening she would seek to annoy him by showing interest in Lamont Cranston.
That was to Mark Tyrell’s liking. For in his study of Cranston’s steady features, Tyrell had made a prompt discovery. To him, that aquiline visage was a mask. It might well have been the blackness created by the overhanging brim of a slouch hat. For Tyrell had recognized the eyes that burned from Cranston’s countenance. They were the eyes of The Shadow!
Tyrell had expected to find The Shadow on his trail. He was sure that the master of disguise would choose some identity that would enable him to appear wherever Tyrell might be. He did not believe that this guest was actually Lamont Cranston. Having viewed The Shadow as himself, Tyrell decided that the mysterious being had simply made himself up to look like the famous globetrotter.
What could The Shadow do to frustrate crime to-night? Tyrell smiled coldly. He had prepared for The Shadow’s appearance here. He was determined to go through with his threat should The Shadow try to prevent the planned theft of the Sicilian tapestry. But at the same time, the schemer was anxious to avoid the encounter. Through Doris Munson, he felt that he might do so.
A servant approached with a tray. Tyrell took a glass and raised it to his lips. He spoke in a low tone that none but the servant heard.
“All set, Chopper?”
“Yeah.”
“Gat ready?”
“Right.”
“Muff all set?”
“Yeah.”
Tyrell nodded. He finished his drink and placed the empty glass upon the tray. The servant walked away and Tyrell smiled. This was “Chopper” Hoban: the man looked well in livery. The mention of a gat had been a precaution on Tyrell’s part. Guns were not to be in the proceedings unless he called for them. With The Shadow here, he might find it necessary to do so.
TYRELL strolled about, chatting with other guests. Fifteen minutes passed; when Tyrell again approached the group of boastful collectors; he noted that Lamont Cranston was gone. Looking about, he spied the globetrotter talking with Doris Munson. The two were engaged in earnest conversation. Tyrell smiled.
“As for the tapestry—”
Tyrell heard Rudolph Brockthorpe speaking. He also caught the interruption that came from Sebastian Dutton.
“I shall tell all my guests about it,” the host returned. “Every one is here; there is no need of further delay. Come, every one!”
The last sentence was uttered loudly, above the buzz of conversation. All eyes swung toward Dutton. The wealthy collector turned toward a door at the end of the room and waved for his guests to follow.
Dutton led the way into a broad but gloomy hall. As the twenty-odd guests gathered about in a semicircle, the host beckoned to his beaming wife. She joined him by a double doorway. Dutton, speaking in the manner of a lecturer, pointed to the barriers.
“These are sliding doors,” he informed. “You will notice that they have a large combination lock. I, alone, know the letters that open it. There are two other locks, also; for them, I use keys.”
So speaking, Dutton turned toward the doors and worked with the locks. No one could observe his operation. The fastenings yielded; at Dutton’s order, two servants slid back the doors. Dutton pressed a switch at the wall. A buzz of admiration came from the observers.
The pressing of the switch had focused a spotlight on the further wall of the inside room. There, hanging in the daylike glare, was a gorgeous hanging. Its weaving, glistening with golden thread, portrayed paneled scenes of ships and armored knights.
“This room is windowless,” remarked Dutton, as he stepped through the doorway. “Its doors are impregnable. Of course, they might be chopped to pieces, but people in the house would hear such operations. So much for the protection of my treasure. Let me speak of the tapestry itself.
“It is woven of silk; it dates from the fourteenth century. It is comparatively light in weight and texture; one might consider it an embroidery, rather than an actual tapestry, although it belongs to the latter class. The scenes which it portrays are taken from the story of Tristram and Isolde.
“Here, for instance, is the Morold come to Cornwall with forty galleys; here, the ambassadors visiting King Mark. Singularly, though the story comes from English legend, the inscriptions are in Sicilian dialect.”