Outside the curtained window, The Shadow's burning eyes were riveted on the pale face of Bruce. He paid no attention to his father.
Arnold Dixon, oblivious to everything but the pride of his possession, was
talking dreamily, like a drugged man.
"You must know the legend," he said faintly. "Confucius himself created the cup, out of a cracked earthen pitcher presented to him by a pious peasant.
He was weary and thirsty and the peasant offered him a drink of cold water after wealthy mandarins had driven the fainting holy man from their courtyards.
"Confucius blessed the pitcher, gave it back. The peasant fell on his knees when he saw it. It had changed to priceless jade, ornamented with nine circles of rare and perfect jewels. A circle of rubies, of pearls, of emeralds,
diamonds - of the mystic number of nine."
The millionaire's voice rose triumphantly.
"Gentlemen, that is the wonder that now belongs to me - mine! - in this house! It's crusted with the dirt of centuries, it looks like a smoke-blackened
piece of junk. But it is the true Cup of Confucius! Would you like to see it, to
touch it and feel the ancient satin smoothness of this priceless relic of old China?"
Bruce said, hurriedly: "I'm sorry, father. Some other time. I've got to leave. Right now."
His father and Timothy stared at him.
"Edith is waiting for me to pick her up at the door of the theater in New York," Bruce explained, doggedly. "I gave her my word I'd meet her after the show."
"But Bruce," his father said - "Surely -"
"Edith and I are dangerously close to a quarrel because I've had to break other dates. I wouldn't have left her to-night except for the telephone call I got from Charles. Her love is more important to me than a thousand priceless Cups of Confucius! Good evening, dad."
He bowed departure to Timothy, who was watching him with a steady scrutiny.
OUTSIDE the curtained window, The Shadow's eyes remained like hidden flame. They observed the two men who were left in the room. William Timothy uttered a throaty exclamation and walked to a table where there was a telephone.
Frowning, he picked up the instrument and called a Manhattan number. It was the number of the apartment of Edith Allen. Timothy talked for a few moments with his niece's maid, then hung up.
"Bruce told the truth," he said, quietly. "Edith's maid says that Bruce and my niece went together to the theater. He left her there alone and is going
to pick her up after the show and drive her home, as he told us. I just wanted to make sure."
Arnold Dixon's face flushed with anger. "Was it necessary to make that phone call, William? Do you think my son is accustomed to lie about his movements?"
Timothy shrugged.
"I was afraid he might have received a threatening note similar to the one
you got. I'm not worried about the boy's honesty. It's his safety I'm thinking of. A crook might figure the easiest way to extort the cup from you would be to
kidnap Bruce and offer to make an even swap - his life for the cup! Have you thought about that angle, Arnold?"
Dixon nodded. He turned nervously away, rang abruptly for Charles. The butler came in almost immediately. Timothy wondered if Charles might have been listening outside the door.
"I want the key to the Spanish chest," Dixon said.
Charles handed him a key from a large ring. The millionaire walked swiftly
to a carved blackwood cabinet and unlocked it. There was a combination lock on the lowest drawer inside, and Dixon twirled the dial and opened it. He took out
another key - the key to the tower in the south wing of the mansion. It was in an upper room in this tower that the millionaire's collection was stored.
The moment Dixon looked at the key he gave a faint cry. There were tiny flecks of white on it. Timothy sprang forward, examined the key.
"Wax!" he said, grimly. "Some one has recently taken a wax impression of that tower key." He swung toward Charles. "What do you know about this?"
"Nothing," Charles said. "If you think I tampered with the key, you're mistaken, sir. Only Mr. Dixon knows the combination of the lower drawer."
"Quick!" Dixon cried, faintly. "To the tower room! Come with me, William!
You, too, Charles!"
They followed his hasty steps down a long corridor. He fitted the waxed key in a lock and swung open a heavy door. Winding stairs led aloft and the three hurried up. At the top, Dixon produced another key. This was a smaller one, that he produced from under his shirt on a long neck chain.
The door of the treasure chamber flew open under his eager pressure. He sprang inside. Charles and the lawyer remained at the threshold, watching Dixon's quick rush toward a bare wooden shelf in a corner of the room. None of them paid any attention to the glass cases containing the collection of Chinese
pottery. They watched the shelf where Dixon was standing.
There was no wooden box on that shelf. Dixon was moaning, wringing his hands.
"Gone!" he cried brokenly. "The cup is gone! It's been stolen!"
IT was Timothy alone who retained his wits. A glance showed him that the tower window was open. He ran toward it, hobbling awkwardly and leaning on his heavy cane.
He thrust his head out the window - and stiffened. His yell was brief. It died in his throat, as his two companions rushed toward the window.
But Timothy blocked them off with his back. He had seen the face of the escaping thief. He knew it was the thief, because the fellow was carrying the missing wooden box strapped behind his back. Both hands were busily engaged lowering himself down the tangled mass of entwined ivy that clung to the wall of the tower.
Moonlight fell for an instant on the thief's frightened, upturned face.
It
was Bruce Dixon!
He sprang instantly to the ground, ran like a streak into the darkness.
He
was gone before Arnold Dixon or Charles could peer out the window.
"Who was he?" Dixon screamed, beside himself with rage and grief.
"I don't know," Timothy said, huskily. "He leaped down from the vines before I could see his face."
"Was it - Paul Rodney?" Charles asked, in a peculiar tone.
"I don't know Rodney," the lawyer retorted, sharply. "Do you?"
Charles shook his head. "I - I'm nervous. Excuse me."
They turned back into the rifled room. Arnold Dixon was sobbing in a dry, terrified voice. He stopped Charles as the latter rushed toward the tower stairs.
"Don't notify the police!" he cried, brokenly. "I don't want publicity.
The cup would be taken from me by the Chinese government. Oh, who stole it -
who stole it?"
Timothy avoided the old man's tragic eyes. He threw an arm about him, tried to comfort him, to whisper words of advice. But he didn't tell Arnold the
truth about the face he had seen in the moonlight. He remained silent.
Charles, too, was silent.
BRUCE DIXON had almost reached the looming mess of the stone wall that enclosed the estate, when a dark figure rose directly in his path.
The figure was The Shadow. He sprang forward, as Bruce crouched and drew a
gun.
The thief had no chance to fire. Before his finger could tighten on the trigger, he was dealt a heavy blow on the jaw that sent him sprawling. The box flew from his grasp and landed a half dozen feet away.
Instantly, The Shadow had pounced on the treasure. He rose, ready to shoot
if Bruce tried another attack.
To his surprise, Bruce did nothing of the kind. He staggered empty-handed to his feet, whirled, fled into the darkness. His sudden change of heart surprised The Shadow. For a split-second, he failed to understand the reason for this very easy capture of the priceless cup.