“It is yours,” said the man.
“I–I don’t understand.” Margaret was looking toward Larkin. “What does it mean—”
“You do not understand me,” said Zayata’s voice, beside her. “When I say it is yours, I mean that it belongs to you; that you are free to keep it — although, unlike the emerald ring, it cannot be carried with you. I mean that, should you need a home, you are welcome to that one!”
“But — but I have a home — ” Margaret objected.
“You intended to leave it.”
“When?”
“When Robert Buchanan was ready to provide another one.”
“Of course. But Robert is no longer here. I wonder where he has gone—”
“Robert will not return,” said Zayata sadly.
“But my uncle — ” The girl was puzzled.
“Suppose,” said Zayata softly, “that your uncle would no longer be in his home. Suppose that, if you lived in his house, you would be alone, friendless, worried, extremely unhappy—”
The girl was nodding, even though she did not understand.
“—where would you go?” came Zayata’s question.
“I do not know.”
“Would you come here, knowing that no one could harm you, knowing that you would be free from worry—”
“I–I suppose so,” the girl admitted.
“Margaret,” said Henri Zayata firmly, “when you leave here, you will go to the greatest unhappiness you have ever experienced. Sadness — difficulties — misery — all await you. You can avoid them all.”
“How?”
“By not leaving here,” Zayata answered.
“But my uncle — he would wonder about—”
“He will not wonder. You can write a note. Larkin will leave it in your room at your uncle’s house. Poor Larkin! He must go back, because he knows—”
“Larkin knows—”
“Yes!” Zayata pointed to the secretary, who was nodding solemnly. “Larkin knows the truth, and he must be there to tell. You know nothing. You can stay away.”
“I still don’t understand,” protested the girl.
“I must tell you, then, even though it will hurt you. Suppose you realized that it would be unsafe for you to live in your uncle’s home; that you would be called upon to speak against him. Suppose you knew that you could no longer trust your uncle; that you would be called upon to revile him—”
“I could not do that,” Margaret protested.
“But if you knew that all those things were threatening,” his voice persisted, “what then? Would it not be better to stay away? To disappear? To be free from scorn and misery? To be here, happy and secure?”
“Yes,” admitted Margaret.
“You would stay here, if you were convinced that all that was not only possible — but present?”
“I would,” said the girl, in a dazed voice.
“Bring the pen and ink, Larkin,” ordered Zayata.
“But I can’t write anything,” protested Margaret. “Not unless I know — know that all these awful things could really be. Tell me — tell me—”
“The truth?”
“Yes. The truth!”
HENRI ZAYATA reached forward and pressed the girl’s hands between his own. There was something in his touch that reassured Margaret, even though she dreaded what he might have to say. The end of her little world was in sight, although her understanding was vague. Here was sanctuary, while at her uncle’s home lurked what strange perils?
“The truth should never hurt,” Zayata was saying soothingly. “Never — when it is told by a real friend.”
Margaret nodded and bit her lips.
“My uncle—” she began, but went no further. Words failed her.
“Your uncle,” said Zayata softly. “Your uncle is a murderer!”
“A— a murderer?” Margaret’s voice was faltering and far away.
“Yes!” Zayata’s tone was still quiet. “A murderer. The murderer of— of Robert Buchanan!”
The girl could not even gasp. The words dazed her. She looked away and saw Larkin, standing with paper and pen. The pale-faced secretary was nodding solemnly, his face tinged with sadness.
Margaret Glendenning looked into the eyes of Henri Zayata. Even though this man had told the terrible truth, she felt that he had done it through regard for her. Those dark eyes were full of understanding. Margaret was sure that they were the eyes of a sincere friend.
CHAPTER X
KILLERS AT WORK
CLIFF MARSLAND was correct in his assumption that The Shadow was watching Flash Donegan. Cliff knew, after hearing Dip’s vague speech over the phone, that Flash was secure in some room, with no thought of going abroad that night; and he pictured The Shadow close by the spot.
But in that, Cliff Marsland was wrong. The Shadow was far from Flash Donegan’s abode.
When Cliff had called Burbank, tonight, he had used a new number. That was not unusual. Burbank changed his number frequently. The old one was always forgotten, and each of The Shadow’s agents kept the new one constantly in mind.
Burbank’s location was always a matter of the greatest secrecy. So Cliff had thought nothing of the fact that Burbank was in a new place. Yet therein lay the secret of The Shadow’s watchfulness over Flash Donegan.
Burbank was sitting in the dark room of an apartment. He had moved in there that very afternoon. The apartment was in an old building, where tenants were few, and new ones were welcomed with very little question.
It had not been difficult for Burbank to obtain the very apartment he wanted. As a result, The Shadow’s quiet-voiced agent was located in the room directly beneath Flash Donegan.
Before him, on a table, Burbank had two telephones. One had been in the apartment — an outside connection used by the previous tenant. It had been restored to service that morning.
The other phone was of Burbank’s installation. It had a wire running upward toward the ceiling. Beside it was a switch box. Burbank had been listening over that telephone before Cliff had called by the outside wire.
Burbank was now dialing the outside phone. He had called a number before he had heard from Cliff, but had received no response. Now, with Cliff’s call ended, the man in the darkness again dialed.
He heard the ringing; then a low, whispered voice came from the receiver. Burbank replied.
“Burbank reporting,” he said.
“Report,” came the voice.
A flashlight glimmered. Its tiny spot showed a sheet of paper covered with shorthand notations. Burbank began to read. His report was a complete account of the telephone conversation between Flash Donegan and Dip Riker.
But, unlike Cliff Marsland, Burbank was able to report both ends of the conversation. His statements were verbatim.
“No calls made by Donegan?” came the whispered question, when Burbank had finished speaking.
“None.”
“I am standing by. Connect when Donegan receives a call.”
“Right!”
Burbank hung up the outside phone and remained silent. He was a patient waiter; it was his business to wait. Yet, this very afternoon, Burbank had indulged in other work.
Flash Donegan had gone out during the afternoon. Burbank had learned of the fact through a call over the outside wire. It was then that Burbank had entered Donegan’s apartment, with the aid of a special key that had been left for him.
The Shadow, master of locks, had not neglected to study the fastening on Flash Donegan’s door the night on which he had paid his unseen visit.
In Donegan’s, Burbank had worked swiftly. When he had finished his labors, not a clew remained. Flash Donegan’s wire had been tapped and hooked up with Burbank’s second telephone in the room below. It was through this medium that Burbank had listened to every word that had passed between Flash and his subordinate, Dip Riker.