The ringing of the telephone was summoning Farnsworth into his living room and with the conversation lulled, Margo glanced toward the deep gloom of the park, only to hear Cranston’s calm and accurate query:
“Thinking about banshees, Margo?”
“Why, yes.” Momentarily surprised, Margo laughed it off. “I suppose a lot of other people are, too.”
“Miss Sylvia Selmore for one,” informed Cranston. “I forgot to tell you that she postponed her trip to Florida today.”
Still staring at the darkness, Margo asked why.
“Sylvia wants to attend more seances,” explained Cranston. “She hopes for another manifestation of the Gwrach y Rhibyn.”
Remembering the tense scene in the seance parlor, Margo wasn’t inclined to laugh.
“Of course the Canhywllah Cryth must appear first,” assured Cranston. “We saw it again in the park last night. Remember?”
Margo did remember. She shuddered; then asked in hollow tone:
“That creature near the transverse. Did it - did it really materialize when those lights appeared - over there?”
Staring straight across the park, Margo was looking toward the dimly outlined tower of a building, the same one she had noted the night before.
“The right place,” declared Cranston. “In fact the only place the blinks could have come from. That tower is on a direct line with the rear window of the parlor in Madame Mathilda’s house.”
Margo turned, surprised:
“How soon did you learn that?”
“Before we left Mathilda’s,” declared Cranston. “I took a good look from that window after I ripped away the blackout curtain.”
“Then why didn’t you send someone over there?”
“I did. Shrevvy took Hawkeye there to find if the way was clear. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland followed.”
“But the blinks occurred again -”
“Because Harry and Cliff sent them,” interposed Cranston, “to assure me that the roost was empty. It worried the lurker in the park. He was stationed where he was to cover the banshee’s trail.”
“But how could she slip through the cordon?”
“Very easily. A slide down the rock, slowed by the scrubby shrubs she encountered; then around to the gully.”
Margo shook her head.
“I don’t think it could be done, Lamont. She would have been seen from the bridge.”
“I’m looking up the proof tomorrow,” assured Cranston, “and until then -”
A change came into Cranston’s eyes. Following their direction, Margo saw something that riveted her, then added a freezing touch. From far across the park, at a new angle, there came another set of mysterious blinks, like those of the night before.
At last, Margo laughed.
“That’s carrying it too far, Lamont. Sending our friends to play the blinker just to frighten me.”
“Except it’s not Harry and Cliff,” declared Cranston. “I would know their signals. Besides, they are watching the park itself tonight.” Cranston’s arm steadied Margo and turned her toward the living room. “Stay here” - the words were an undertone - “and talk with Farnsworth. Tell him I want complete details on the business of the treasure. Take them in shorthand.”
As Margo nodded, Cranston left. Farnsworth was still busy on the telephone, his voice came booming from the next room as he argued with his lawyer over the tax exemptions that were legally permissible on money invested in a treasure hunt.
Despite herself, Margo was back at the terrace rail a few minutes later, but she wasn’t looking for the tiny twinkles that still continued. Margo’s eyes were gazing downward toward this subdued sector of Fifth Avenue.
Imagination maybe, but Margo Lane could have sworn that she saw a cloaked figure glide across the avenue and blend into the foliage of Central Park. This time at least, the illusion wasn’t caused by the chance flit of a passing bird.
The Shadow had appointed himself a one man Association of Adventurers to find out what wasn’t right in Central Park!
THE name of the sleek-haired brunette was Thara Lamoyne, which went with her exotic appearance, at least in Phil Harley’s opinion. During dinner she had proven reasonably talkative, always with that unusual accent which Phil couldn’t quite trace back to its origin.
She thought strange things were ludicrous, this Thara.
“How very funny!” Thara exclaimed, reverting to a topic of the dinner. “You meet a blonde lady and pouf she vanishes! Then you meet Thara. But tell me” - Thara leaned across the table in a fashion most intriguing - “the name of this blonde girl. You still remember it?”
Phil nodded and said:
“Her name was Arlene Forster.”
Annoyed, Thara leaned back.
“By now you should have forgotten it!” she asserted. “Tell me, why do you still think of this other girl, who disappears like - like” - Thara couldn’t find the word at first - “like that thing they talk about, the banshee.”
That opened Phil’s eyes really wide.
“Say, maybe that was it!” he exclaimed. Then, with a laugh, Phil added. “No, that couldn’t be. According to the descriptions of the banshee, Arlene would have left her clothes in the telephone booth if she evaporated in person.”
Thara took that statement seriously, or in another sense, she was serious enough to think that Phil was gullible.
“You believe that nonsense?” she queried. “It is very foolish if you do. Maybe the moonlight played some tricks with people’s eyes, as in the country where I have lived so long. Or perhaps some girl wearing a bathing suit was going swimming in the pool, just because it was not allowed there.”
“She wasn’t wearing a bathing cap,” reminded Phil. “The newspapers spoke of her long, flowing hair, like Arlene’s, except that it was dark.”
“You mean the night was dark,” argued Thara, “except for the moonlight, which plays so many tricks. But if you wish to find out more, go to the park - in daytime.”
“Why in daytime?” parried Phil. “Are the banshees liable to catch me?”
“The banshees? No! The police! You read the newspapers and you will find out they have put many of them there. Too many police - no banshee. You see!”
With that, Thara laughed in her really musical style; then, resting her elbows on the table, her chin between her hands, she gave Phil all that serious glow of her dark, breathtaking eyes and came back to prosaic matters.
“It is a friend of mine who asked that I should meet you,” said Thara. “Just a business friend” - seemingly she added this so that Phil would lose no budding thoughts of romance - “but it is better it should be that way, because the business should be good for you.”
Phil gave an approving nod.
“You were in the army,” stated Thara. “You were with what they call the engineers, doing special work?”
Another nod from Phil.
“The job will be one hundred dollars a week,” asserted Thara. “It is to study some papers that they call patents and give reports if they are practical.”
“Sounds great,” enthused Phil. “Whose office do I work in?”
“Some office?” queried Thara. “No, that would be too much expense. The hotel room is reserved for you, along the street here, at the Sans Souci.”
“The Sans Souci,” repeated Phil. “That sounds expensive in itself. Still, since I’m starting at one hundred a week -”
“None of the expense is yours. The hotel room; it will be paid for each week in advance, by the person who will wish the work done with the patents.”
If money had come floating through the air, Phil Harley couldn’t have been more amazed. Still, he’d heard of fabulous business dealings in New York, and getting off to a quick start like this was probably the type of break that occurred every day.
They were rising from the table, Phil and Thara, the girl awaiting the decision that she was to take back to her unknown friend. Phil wasn’t long in rendering it.