Past the big door was a gloomy corridor, with closed deep-set doors along the right. There was a wide doorway on the left; the servant stopped there, to look into a large lounge room. Harry and Arlene saw a pair of white-jacketed attendants, as hard-boiled as the man who guided them.
There were half a dozen others in the room, pitiful specimens of humanity. One was an old man, slumped deep in a chair, muttering to himself. Two younger men, weak-looking fellows, were seated at a table listlessly playing checkers.
Another was staring from a darkened window; of the last two, one sat brooding, with folded arms, while the final man, who looked like a dope addict, sat in a corner holding his pale face buried in his hands.
HARRY no longer doubted the necessity of the husky attendants. The term "guests" certainly did not suit this group of hopeless patients. Harry looked toward Arlene. Sight of the group troubled her; she was wondering about Dick's condition.
"Where's Mr. Remingwood?" gruffed the guide.
"In his room," replied one of the attendants. "Reading a book, the last I saw him."
The guide conducted them farther along the corridor. Dick's room was the last on the right; there was only one door beyond it; that final barrier was located in the very end of the corridor.
The man rapped, announcing that visitors had arrived. Abruptly, he opened the door of Dick's room and shoved it inward. Harry saw a young man rising from a table, laying a book aside. That first sight pleased him. Dick Remingwood was not like the rest of the patients that Harry had seen here.
Square-featured, Dick had keen eyes and firm lips that automatically formed a smile of greeting. His face was a trifle pale, but not haggard. His clothes looked well; his black hair was smoothly parted.
Dick gave an exclamation of genuine gladness when he saw Arlene. With a happy cry, the girl was across the threshold; a moment later, Dick was holding her in his arms. Harry looked at the attendant; the fellow gave a shrug and stepped out to the corridor, leaving the door ajar.
Harry Vincent remained as the lone witness to the reunion between Dick Remingwood and Arlene Delton. As he watched, Harry was convinced that this meeting was important.
There were facts, Harry was sure, that Dick alone could tell. Facts, perhaps, that Dick Remingwood regarded as unimportant, yet which would prove vital to The Shadow's quest.
CHAPTER XIV. FACTS BEHIND CRIME
THE big door had opened at the front of the long corridor. A shape of blackness blocked the whiteness of that door, then faded. The Shadow blended with the gloom along the wall. He studied the doorways on the right.
From one, the last in line, came a thin shaft of light. The Shadow knew that it must indicate the room where Harry and Arlene had found Dick Remingwood.
Keeping close to the right wall, The Shadow advanced. As he neared the doorway on the left, he saw the big room where two attendants watched their half-dozen patients. A third attendant had joined the pair already there. The additional man was the servant who had brought Harry and Arlene here.
The Shadow spent no time studying the six patients. All looked eccentric; anyone of them might suddenly glance toward the corridor. Men in their apparent state had the faculty of seeing things that escaped ordinary observers. If one spied The Shadow, the fellow might imagine anything, and shout it.
With quick, gliding stride, The Shadow passed that danger spot, blended into gloom beyond. He reached the doorway just before Dick's. Its depth, the dullness of the painted door itself, showed that it could be a perfect hiding place.
That tested, The Shadow stepped forward and peered into the room where Harry watched Arlene and Dick.
Arlene had introduced the two men. All three were seated, ready for a conference. Arlene's eyes were troubled, though, as she stared toward the shaded window. She could see the outlines of bars through the blind.
"Why are you here, Dick?" she questioned. "You seem well - and quite normal -"
"I'm in fine shape," interposed Dick. "I'm here merely for observation, and because I needed a rest. I supposed that Professor Lawsham had explained all that to you."
Arlene stared, amazed. She looked at Harry; with a grim smile, The Shadow's agent stepped to the door.
He saw that the corridor was empty. The Shadow had withdrawn to the next doorway, but he resumed his observation as soon as Harry returned into the room.
"I'm leaving the door ajar," Harry told Dick, in an undertone, "so we will know if any one approaches.
Let's hear your story from the start, Remingwood. Never mind what the professor told us."
DICK settled back in his chair, rearranged a few books that lay on the table.
"It was my own stupidity," he said. "I was in the testing room working with an acetylene reagent, and I overlooked the professor's instructions. I knew there'd be a gas, but I hadn't counted on the quantity that came.
"Before I knew it, the stuff had me. In that tiny room, with the door closed, I didn't have a chance.
Professor Lawsham thought I was dead, when he found me. Fortunately, he knew the whole formula that I had been using.
"How he managed it, I can't guess; but he's a wizard! He knew what was the matter. He didn't wait to send for a physician. He cooked up some kind of an antidote, and it worked."
Stark realization had come to Harry and Arlene. They knew exactly what had happened to three victims who were lying helpless, in New York hospitals.
"I was asleep, that's all," assured Dick. "Rather wobbly for a while, I'll admit; but the professor made me rest for a few days. Then he told me he'd tried the same test on guinea pigs. He said he was afraid there would be after effects.
"The antidote would work - any time within a week or so - but he said it took a strong heart to stand the gas in the first place. So he sent me here to get a real rest."
Arlene clutched Dick's shoulders.
"Don't you realize what's been happening?" she demanded. "Professor Lawsham lied to you - like he did to me!"
"The professor saved my life!" Dick was indignant. "Don't forget that!"
"There are other lives that he is not saving! Haven't you seen the newspapers?"
Dick shook his head. Harry unfolded a copy of an evening newspaper. Dick was horrified when he read about the shooting at Arlene's apartment. Harry turned to another page, pointed out a column that mentioned the Dead Who Lived.
None of the sleeping sickness victims had shown any improvement. Dick scanned that news; he looked up, startled.
"The gas!" he blurted. "It could have caused it!"
"These Dead Who Lived" - Harry was pointing to their names - "did you ever hear of them?"
Dick couldn't recall the names, but he remembered something that linked with them.
"Persons came to see Professor Lawsham," he declared. "I remember, one night, that he told me he intended to give them an option."
"What could have changed his mind?"
"The new tests, perhaps. It was always the same problem: finding some way to cut the production cost.
But it wasn't until I tried my new formula that -"
"Your formula?"
"Yes. The one I told you about. We needed acetone, and it can be obtained by fermenting potatoes, but that never worked out well, until I developed my formula. With the way we have it now" - in this enthusiasm, Dick was forgetting the charges made against Professor Lawsham - "we can turn the whole surplus potato crop into synthetic rubber.
"Bad potatoes, small ones, rotten ones - they don't matter. We can use them. We'd looked into prices, and potatoes are as cheap a source material as anyone could want. And there are thousands of acres of cheap potato land! And Lawsham promised me -"
Dick stopped. His eyes had taken on a horrified stare. His voice was hollowed to a whisper, as he added: