“Stop him!” Forster was shouting hoarsely. “Stop Guth — stop Guth” — his voice choked as he tried to pronounce the name — “stop that man—”
The rest of Forster’s words were inarticulate; but Graver understood. Turning, the caretaker hastened in pursuit of Lawrence Guthrie.
The front door slammed as he ran through it to the street. A moment later there was a dull thud in the library as Clifford Forster tumbled to the floor.
The dying man was staring straight upward, his eyes glazed, his lips moving helplessly. The terrible paralysis had reached his throat; his limbs were numbed. The creeping death was claiming another victim!
THEN those staring eyes saw a strange sight, which to Forster’s feverish vision appeared to be a vista of the world beyond.
Into the range of Forster’s gaze came a tall figure garbed completely in black — a being wrapped in the folds of a long cloak, with features obscured by the broad brim of a slouch hat.
The spectral form came closer. It stood above Clifford Forster; it leaned over him. The eyes of The Shadow burned like points of light as they met the stare of the dying man.
Instinctively, the numbing brain of Clifford Forster realized that here was some one who might prove a friend. The sight of those eyes cleared his fading mind. The thought of Lawrence Guthrie vanished from his clouded brain. A wild gleam of new suspicion came over him.
With a last effort, Forster tried to speak. His lips moved; his voice came in a creaky groan as he sought to pronounce the words that he desired.
The effort was too great. The trembling lips ceased their motions. Clifford Forster’s bulging eyes saw no more. The creeping death had gained its victory!
Somber and motionless, The Shadow stood looking at the dead man before him. Then to those keen, hidden ears, came a sound from the street outside. The Shadow turned, and, with one gloved hand gathered up the papers that lay on the desk.
Voices sounded as the front door was thrown open. With a quick, swift stride, The Shadow moved across the room, his long cloak showing its crimson lining as it swished through the air.
When Graver and a policeman burst into the room a moment later, they saw only the dead form of Clifford Forster. The silent witness of the encounter between Forster and Guthrie — the one man who had observed Clifford Forster in his final death throes — was no longer there. Only a long shadow lay across the floor, projecting from the window. Neither Graver nor the officer observed it.
That shadowy shape silently slid away. The window curtain rustled so slightly that its sound could not be heard. The two men were alone in the room where the creeping death had struck.
The Shadow had departed. Death had done its work here. This part of crime was over. But elsewhere, The Shadow knew, more crime was breeding; the source of the evil was somewhere else!
CHAPTER VI
IN THE LABORATORY
LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was at work in his laboratory. Garbed in a stained frock, and wearing long white gloves, the old man was making a series of unusual tests. Holding a test tube in his hand, he poured a small quantity of a colorless liquid from a bottle.
To this he added a few drops of a purplish fluid; then a few grains of a reddish powder. The liquid in the test tube clouded; then changed to a brownish hue. Within it appeared tiny flakes of gold!
Partridge set the tube in a holder above a Bunsen burner. He ignited the flame and kept it at a low point. The gold flakes moved slowly within the liquid. The old man watched the results eagerly; then walked away and descended the stairs to the room below.
Here two men were standing beside a furnace. As Partridge approached, one of them leaned forward and opened the bottom of the furnace to reveal a crucible filled with a yellowish mass of molten metal. Partridge smiled and nodded.
The door was closed, and the roar of the furnace sounded, the old man listening as though hearing music that was pleasing to his ears. He walked from the room and went upstairs. From the laboratory he went through a door that led outside.
Dusk was falling. A single star glimmered in the dulling sky. Lucien Partridge’s eyes turned in that direction. But they did not notice the star. They were centered upon a chimney at the top of the building.
A spurt of flame appeared through the chimney. It died away. Then came another red spurt. Lucien Partridge chuckled. He went back into the laboratory and again stood watching the tube that glowed with flakes of gold.
The old man turned to see Vignetti entering the laboratory. He motioned to the Corsican, and the faithful servant came to stand beside him. Partridge pointed to the test tube and chuckled. Then, in a low voice, he began to speak to Vignetti.
Partridge’s method of conversation was curious. He spoke in English, as though expressing his thoughts aloud. Whenever he came to certain remarks, he turned to Vignetti as he spoke, and added a few words in Italian as an interpretation.
“You see it there, Vignetti?” he questioned, as he pointed to the now boiling tube. “Perhaps I have discovered it — perhaps not. Ah — some day, Vignetti, I shall have it!
“Gold — gold!” The old man’s voice rose to a scream. “The alchemists sought it” — the voice became a whisper — “but they could not find it. They tried to transmute baser metals into gold. My way has been different. I have compounded those metals. By seeking first that which would resemble gold, I have sought to some day step beyond and form gold itself.
“Perhaps I shall fail” — the old man smiled wanly — “but it does not matter now. My false gold has brought me true gold. That is because I am clever, Vignetti.”
PARTRIDGE turned off the Bunsen burner, and watched the gold flakes settle to the bottom of the muddy liquid. The old man shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to Vignetti.
“You remember that man who was here a few days ago?” he asked. “He wanted my gold, Vignetti. The real gold — not that yellow stuff that looks like gold.
“I have been giving him gold Vignetti — gold that is mine — gold that I have obtained by my own brains, in exchange for the false gold. But he wanted still more — more — more — always more.
“Well, Vignetti” — the smile kept over Partridge’s lips — “we need not worry longer about him. He was too greedy, Vignetti.”
The old man paused. When he spoke again, his tone became reminiscent. His English words were freely interspersed with Italian, and Vignetti listened with intent pleasure.
“You have traveled far with me, Vignetti,” said Partridge. “We have been everywhere. You have seen — you have learned. The vendetta that you saw in your youth was nothing, eh, Vignetti? A few people — killing — there on one island. Those who killed were killed in turn.
“But my vendetta” — the old man’s gleaming eyes found their reflection in Vignetti’s flashing optics — “ah, my vendetta is with the world! One man against many — and I never fail! Not when I have you helping me, my faithful Vignetti.
“You remember in Peking, Vignetti? My quarrel with that Chinese savant, Li Tan Chang? He knew that I sought to kill him. He would not tell me the secrets that he knew. To kill him was my only way. He tried to kill me, when he so blandly stretched forth his hand.
“But you were there, Vignetti! You knew what he meant to do. Your knife saved my life. I gained what I wanted; and with it, I learned the secret of the death that Li Tan Chang had sought to deal to me. Ah! That secret has served me well!
“Remember how I used it in Hamburg, when Tolfens, the German scientist, would not reveal his methods of experiment? Tolfens is dead — but his work goes on. It is my work, now. You have done well, Vignetti, to be faithful to me.”
The old man drew himself up proudly. He stared across the room as he mechanically removed his working gloves. He gave the gloves to Vignetti. The Corsican unlocked a drawer in a table and placed the gloves at the front of the drawer.