“Ah!” exclaimed Partridge. “The car is ready. Come.”
He led the way through the hall, out through the front door and to the gate. Guthrie and Vignetti followed. The Corsican entered the car. Guthrie paused to say good-by.
“I can never thank you enough,” he said sincerely. “You are indeed a true friend.”
“Wait,” replied the old man. “Wait until I have completed all my plans. Much is in store for you, Guthrie. Much that you do not expect.”
Their hands joined in a shake, Guthrie’s bare palm gripped within Partridge’s glove. Guthrie entered the car. Vignetti drove away.
Looking back, Guthrie saw the figure of Lucien Partridge, standing at the open gate. With white hair flowing in the morning breeze, the old man was the picture of benignity.
The car turned the corner, and the picture ended. Vignetti was silent at the wheel; Guthrie was complacent as he leaned back in the seat.
Lawrence Guthrie’s mind was no longer troubled. Through his brain rang those words that Lucien Partridge had uttered after the parting handclasp.
“Much is in store for you, Guthrie. Much that you do not expect.”
Like Clifford Forster, Lawrence Guthrie had left Lucien Partridge carrying a promise. Like Forster, Guthrie thought of gold. Like Forster, Guthrie felt sure that he had left a true friend.
Not for one moment did Lawrence Guthrie’s mind turn to thoughts of creeping death!
CHAPTER VIII
THE MAN FROM THE ARGENTINE
DIRECTLY across the river gorge from the spot where the road turned to the woods, a man was standing in a clump of bushes. In his hands he held a pair of powerful binoculars. His eyes were peering through the glasses.
As the car which Vignetti was driving came into view, the concealed observer saw it from a distance of less than one hundred yards. With the aid of the binoculars, he clearly discerned the faces of Lawrence Guthrie and Vignetti, for the car was moving slowly at the turn.
When the sound of the motor had disappeared into the woods, the man lowered his glasses and emitted a short laugh. Turning, he strolled along a faint path that took him away from the place where he had been watching.
Tall, dark-haired, and with flashing black eyes, this man had all the appearance of a Castilian grandee. His dark complexion was another evidence of his Spanish ancestry. As he walked along through the woods, the man smiled in a satisfied fashion.
The path bordered the cliff opposite the rear of Lucien Partridge’s well-protected stronghold. It was just far enough from the edge of the gorge to hide the presence of the walker. When the man arrived at one particular spot, he stopped and again raised his binoculars. Pressing aside the branches of a small tree, he sighted across the chasm to the estate where Partridge dwelt.
The large frame mansion showed among the trees. The little workhouse near the gorge was hidden behind sheltering trees. The observer seemed to be watching for any sign of activities upon the premises. At length, he ended his lookout and continued along the path.
The way led from the cliff, and after a short walk, the man came to a small cottage that was situated in a clearing. There was no road to the cottage. It was an old deserted building, apparently on the verge of abandonment.
The man ascended the steps of the cottage and walked quietly through the open door. He turned into a room where a short, powerful man was seated dozing in a chair. At the sound of the footfalls, the short man leaped up excitedly. When he recognized the man who had entered, he sheepishly resumed his chair. The tall man laughed.
“Frightened you, eh?” he questioned. “Ah, you are becoming nervous, Jose.”
Jose made no reply.
“Our friend has gone,” remarked the tall man. “You remember — the one you saw arrive last night? I suspected that he would be leaving early to-day. That is why I was on watch to see him. They must rise early, Jose, if they expect to catch Alfredo Morales asleep.”
The speaker laughed and walked across the room. He placed the binoculars in a case and turned again to Jose.
“Bring me some breakfast,” ordered Morales. “We will not wait for Manuel. It may be some time before he arrives.”
JOSE went from the room. Some minutes later, he returned with a tray of breakfast, and set his burden upon a table.
Although Jose was evidently the servant of Alfredo Morales, the two men were on an equal basis after Jose had completed his task, for one sat at each side of the table, and both began to eat.
“Yes,” remarked Morales thoughtfully, “he is gone. That makes three of them, Jose. Three visitors since we have been watching. I suppose that this last man has gone to New York like the others. Well, we shall wait for Manuel’s report.”
Breakfast completed, Morales waited impatiently, watching through the open door. At last a man appeared in the clearing. This was the slender, dark-complexioned man who had seen Clifford Forster arrive at Westbrook Falls. The newcomer advanced across the clearing and greeted Morales.
“Well?” questioned Morales.
“He has gone, senor,” was the reply.
“To New York?”
“No. He bought a ticket for Buffalo.”
“Hm-m-m,” observed Morales. “That is different, eh, Manuel? Did he seem like the others had — pleased with his visit?”
“Yes, senor,” responded Manuel. “He was rubbing his hands while he waited for the westbound train. Rubbing them — so” — Manuel imitated the action — “like one who is happy. He seemed very pleased, senor.”
“Good,” declared Morales. “Now tell me, Manuel. Are those two men still at the inn?”
“Yes, senor. I believe so. I have not seen them to-day—”
“Then you do not know if they are still there. Go back, Manuel. Keep watch as before — at the station — and come back here later on.”
When Manuel had left, Morales strolled about the clearing, smoking cigarettes, one after another. He went back into the house, and again startled Jose by his stealthy arrival. This time Morales laughed in an irritable manner.
“What is the matter with you, Jose?” he questioned. “Do not tell me that you are still frightened at every shadow that you see.”
A troubled look appeared upon Jose’s greasy face. The servant tried to avoid the glance that Morales directed toward him.
“You and your shadows. Bah!” Morales spoke contemptuously. “You are a fool, Jose. I brought you with me because you were a brave man — and one who could speak English fluently. Around here you are useless. Every night, when you watch, you talk of shadows. Bah!”
“But I have seen them, senor!” blurted Jose. “I have seen them. Out there — in here — everywhere!”
“You have madness, Jose. You spoke to me about those shadows twice. I looked where you pointed. I saw nothing. What is it that you can see and I cannot see? Nothing! That is what you have seen, Jose — nothing!”
“But, senor, I have seen the same thing more than once. It is not just shadows that I have seen. One time I looked quickly — there I saw — him! He was like a shadow himself, senor!”
“I was there Jose,” responded Morales, in an annoyed tone. “I looked where you pointed. I saw nothing — not even a shadow.”
“But he was gone, senor. Gone before you saw—”
“Gone? From the middle of the clearing? You are crazy, Jose. You are crazy! No man could have disappeared into the ground or into the air.”
“No man, senor! I am afraid of no man. But if he is more than a man — some one that certain eyes can see and other eyes cannot—”