She uttered a shrill cry of wonder.
The man who stood facing her, his countenance etched in lines of suffering
and pain, was an exact counterpart of the wounded man who lay on the ground.
It
was as though Bruce Dixon had split himself, by some diabolic magic, into two separate bodies.
Bruce Dixon was staring downward into the sneering, wide-open eyes of -
Bruce Dixon!
CHAPTER XX
HIS FATHER'S SON
FOR an amazed second, Edith stared at the identical men. Then two things happened. The wounded Bruce uttered a faint, snarling oath. The Bruce whom The Shadow had brought back from the corridor offshoot held out trembling arms toward the girl.
"Edith! Thank God, you're safe! Oh - my darling!"
Her face cleared. She moved toward him, crept with a sob into his open arms. This was the man she loved and trusted. He talked tenderly to her in a voice she knew. But his smile was ashen; there was fear in the depths of his eyes.
"You are Bruce," Edith whispered. "Now I understand at last! This wounded man is an impostor. He was playing a criminal role, pretending to be Arnold Dixon's true son."
The man holding her in his arms was silent. His eyes avoided Edith. But the wounded man laughed jeeringly.
"Why doesn't he answer you? He can't - because he's a liar! He's not Arnold Dixon's real son. I am!"
The girl shuddered, drew back a pace. Clyde Burke glanced at The Shadow.
The Shadow nodded permission to speak.
"It's the truth," Clyde told Edith, quietly. "Dixon's real son is that murderous rat on the floor. The man you love is an impostor. But don't misjudge
him. The real criminal is Dixon's own son."
He glanced at the sneering crook on the floor.
"You're dying, Bruce. You might as well talk, before you die."
Bruce laughed feebly.
"Okay. Why not? I hated my stupid father - left him ten years ago - never would have returned until it was time for me to identify myself and inherit his
fortune. But I happened to read an item in a San Francisco paper, and realized that this good-looking fake was taking my place in the family, pretending to be
me."
He drew a deep, rattling breath.
"I came back secretly. I found out what was going on. This fellow was being used by Timothy, the lawyer, who was after the Dixon wealth. Rodney was the guy who arranged the substitution."
"That's not true," the white-faced impostor replied. "I never met Rodney.
I never saw him until the night he first appeared outside the library window at
Shadelawn."
Clyde Burke shook his head.
"You had met Paul Rodney before, but you didn't recognize him in his disguise of the brown beard."
The Shadow took a quick step forward where the dead Rodney lay. He bent suddenly and his gloved hand ripped the false beard from the stark face. It was
no longer Paul Rodney. It was the sleek, clean-shaven face of Donald Perdy, the
art photographer.
THE fake son of Arnold Dixon gave a shuddering cry. He buried his face.
"You'd better talk," Clyde told him in a gentle voice. "You're safe, now.
Tell the truth."
The young man nodded, squared his shoulders. His eyes moved toward Edith.
He seemed to be talking only to her.
His name, he confessed, was not Bruce Dixon but Bill Chandler. He had come
to New York as a young civil engineer, out of work but determined to get a job.
He failed. He was hungry, penniless, on a park bench when Perdy discovered him.
Perdy had been combing the city with a camera, hunting for some one to impersonate the missing Bruce Dixon. Chandler agreed, not knowing the criminal plot he was furthering. The smooth Perdy took Chandler to Dixon's lawyer, Timothy, and the latter convinced the young engineer that the whole scheme was a last effort to save the life of a sick and sorrowful old man.
Dixon, according to Timothy, was dying from grief because of the continued
absence of his son.
Bill Chandler was completely transformed. The fact that he was physically an exact double of Bruce was merely the beginning of the scheme. He was operated on, given a duplicate appendicitis scar. Timothy, who had known the real son from childhood, taught Chandler every fact he could recall - and the cunning lawyer's memory was prodigious.
The result was a masquerade that defied detection. It fooled the old man and Charles, the butler, and, at first, Edith.
"I love you, Edith," Chandler whispered, brokenly. "And - and I learned to
love Arnold Dixon, too. As soon as I discovered that I was being used in a plot
to kill him and turn his fortune over to Timothy, I - I tried to protect him.
I
knew that if I stayed in the house and pretended to work with the crooks, I could guard Arnold Dixon and perhaps save him from death."
He drew a shuddering breath.
"I - I didn't know that the real Bruce had returned secretly from San Francisco. I didn't know who Snaper and Hooley were. There was no one that I dared turn to for help, except a crook named Spud Wilson.
"I offered Spud money, and he agreed to double-cross Timothy and help me to protect the old man. But Spud was discovered the night he crept to my window
to talk to me. The next night, Perdy planted dynamite in Spud's parked car and blew him to pieces."
"You mean," Edith faltered, "that all through this horror you've been helping Arnold Dixon, not trying to - harm him?"
Chandler nodded.
"He's telling the truth," Clyde Burke said. "The Cup of Confucius was stolen by Bruce himself, not young Chandler. The murder of Charles and the attempted killing of his own father were also the ugly work of the real Bruce.
Chandler was innocent all through this case. His sole guilt is the fact that he
impersonated another man. He -"
THERE was a quick warning hiss from The Shadow. He had been listening quietly to the true story he had already discovered for himself. He failed to reckon on one thing: the criminal cunning of the real Bruce Dixon.
Bruce had not been fatally wounded. His dying moan was merely a piece of clever acting. He had apparently fainted. But he was biding his time.
He staggered suddenly to his feet. Reeling, he fled toward the corridor.
Clyde's first warning of disaster was the quick movement of The Shadow.
The Shadow raced after the disappearing figure of the wounded son of Arnold Dixon. He ran swiftly because he divined in a flash what Bruce intended. But he
was unable to overtake the desperate fugitive.
Bruce Dixon darted into the rocky crypt where the explosives were stored.
Before The Shadow could reach the doorway, he reappeared, something clutched in
his wildly waving hand.
It was a deadly thing - an explosive cap of fulminate of mercury.
"Back!" he shrieked. "You can't arrest me, do you hear? One step nearer and I'll -"
Clyde Burke came racing along the dim corridor. His gun whipped level for a shot. He couldn't hear what Bruce had cried. The rocky walls of the corridor had blurred the words.
Before The Shadow could restrain him, Clyde had fired.
The Shadow threw himself and Clyde flat on the rock floor. Bruce Dixon swayed with a bullet in his lungs. His dying hand threw the deadly cap. But he was too weak to toss it far. It smashed against the floor directly in front of him.
The roar of the explosion was terrific. Flame gushed up in front of the toppling murderer. When the dazzle was gone and the long thunderous echoes of the explosion died away, Clyde Burke uttered an exclamation of horror.
The place where Bruce had fallen was like a shambles. The walls were spattered crimson. Dixon's criminal son had blown himself to pieces. Only a twitching huddle of bloody rags showed where the desperate fugitive had been.