“The Faithful Fifty,” said Warwick, in a voice filled with awe.
From his vest pocket, Palermo removed three coins — a five-cent piece and two coppers. Rising, he delivered them to Warwick. The detective stared at the coins. All three bore the date 1915.
The detective fumbled in his pocket and brought out a fifty-cent piece, which he gave to the physician. Its date corresponded to those on the other coins.
“WARWICK,” said Palermo, drawing his chair close to the detective, “you know the mission of the Silent Seven. They are known only to themselves”—his voice became low and impressive—”and their followers must obey them without question.”
Stanley Warwick nodded.
“Like the others,” continued Palermo, “you have gained your present position through the influence of some member. We are men of power, seeking more power.
“Here in New York you have been useful to us. But never did we demand your services except in cases of extreme urgency. That is why our power has become great and our secrecy has been preserved—
because we have not abused our privilege. How often have you worked for us?”
“Only twice,” replied Warwick.
“Both times concerned matters of tremendous consequences, did they not?”
“They did.”
“Then be prepared. This time a great task lies before you. It concerns a most dangerous man — a man who, if he ever suspected the existence of our band, would do his utmost to destroy it.
“That man is called The Shadow!”
“The Shadow!”
“Exactly. Like each member of the Seven, I have purposes. I perform my work so smoothly that no one has ever before suspected me.
“But The Shadow is a superman. It was he who disguised himself as Haggerty, in an effort to force a confession from the lips of Gunner Macklin. I prevented it. Pretending to be an interne, I gave Macklin a poisoned drink.
“The Shadow is now seeking to destroy me. It was he who told you to investigate me.”
“A whispered voice,” gasped Warwick. “It sounded uncanny — over the telephone.”
“The voice of The Shadow,” said Palermo. “The voice of my most bitter enemy! I must thwart him!”
Warwick’s furrowed face took on an expression of determination. He was a fighter, this man. The public knew him as a detective who worked months upon a single clew, a man who would stop at no opposition.
But he owed allegiance to the Silent Seven; that allegiance ruled his life.
“With your aid,” came Palermo’s low voice, “I can defeat The Shadow. You are a man above suspicion.
The police are at your disposal. Through you, I can combat this menace which threatens all of us.”
“Give me your commands,” replied the detective.
“Say nothing of the Macklin case,” said Palermo. “Work on your own, in your accustomed way. Keep all information to yourself.
“The Shadow may be watching your departure from this building, but he will suspect nothing. He will believe you came here to quiz me.
“In the meantime, I shall set a trap. The Shadow may be watching for gangsters; he will never believe that the police are out for him. He is a dangerous man. He must die!”
Stanley Warwick’s face seemed to harden as he nodded.
“You have been here long enough,” Palermo said. “I know where to reach you. Do not come again until I instruct you to do so.”
When Stanley Warwick left the Marimba Apartments, four eyes were watching him from the darkened room across the street. Harry Vincent made his report. Stanley Warwick had been in Palermo’s apartment less than half an hour.
The Shadow’s agents left their hiding place, satisfied with their work. They were confident that the net was tightening about Palermo.
Little did they suspect that their enemy had already laid the groundwork for a new and vital thrust.
The name of Stanley Warwick bore the sterling mark. As Palermo had said, this relentless pursuer of criminals was above suspicion. No one could possibly know what had transpired that evening in Palermo’s apartment. No one — not even The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIV. PALERMO’S MESSAGE
A MAN and a woman were finishing dinner in an alcove of the roof garden atop the Riviera Hotel. Palm trees secluded them from the main dining room.
The soft, melodious music of the dance orchestra seemed very far away. A gentle breeze came through the arched opening on the other side. The girl looked out through the archway, where the myriad lights of Manhattan glittered like jewels in the darkness.
“Cigarette?” questioned the man.
The girl nodded.
The man watched his companion as she blew tiny puffs of smoke which took an orange hue from the mellow light of the alcove.
She was very beautiful. Her eyes were half-closed; her long, black lashes added to her natural charm.
She seemed a modern Circe — an enchantress whose loveliness could lure a man into forgetfulness.
The girl smiled as she glanced at her companion, but his face revealed nothing. His features were somewhat handsome, yet they seemed stern and masklike.
The girl slipped her hand across the table and gently pressed her companion’s wrist.
“George,” she said softly, “life has seemed different since I met you. I have never forgotten that night at the Larchmore.
“You left me, then — you have never told me why. But since that night, I have thought of no one but you.
We have been together often, since then.
“Although it has been but a few days, it seems as though I have known you always.”
The phantom of a smile appeared upon the man’s thin lips.
“In these new dreams of yours,” he said, “have you forgotten—”
“Others?” questioned the girl. “Yes. I have forgotten them. From now on there can only be one. You will always be first in my heart, George. First and alone.
“Tell me. Do you feel the same toward me?”
“I have no past remembrances,” said the man solemnly. “Love is a new emotion in my life, Thelda. It is new — and wonderful.”
Their eyes met. The girl’s gaze was appealing. Her face held an expression of sincerity. As she looked into the eyes of George Clarendon, she seemed to be peering into infinite depths. There she saw a strange glow that betokened tenderness.
EITHER these two were governed by mutual sincerity, or they were actors par excellence. For neither betrayed any expression that would belie the words that they had spoken.
Had Doctor Palermo been there to see them, he would have been disturbed. For it seemed as though Thelda Blanchet, in her efforts to win George Clarendon’s confidence, had succumbed to the man’s dynamic personality.
And Clarendon seemed yielding to the charm and beauty of this exquisite girl.
The two were playing a part in a grim game. Each knew the circumstances, although no mention had been made of them.
While they were together, George Clarendon apparently controlled the only agent through whom Doctor Palermo could act. In like manner, Thelda Blanchet, while she accompanied George Clarendon, prevented action by Doctor Palermo’s archenemy. It was a neutralizing of forces.
While this condition existed, the death duel between Palermo and The Shadow was indefinitely postponed. Strangely, both participants in this passive drama seemed to have forgotten everything but each other.
“George,” said Thelda, in tones of sincerity, “I shall be frank with you. I have forgotten the past. Are you willing to forget? Now that we have found each other, why should we think of anything else? All our affairs are trivial— compared to love.”
She glanced through the archway, and smiled bitterly as she viewed the lights of the city. “I should like to be away from all this; to be some place where I could live — and love.”