Only one person noted the shrewd, furtive look that showed upon the old servant’s face. That observer was Paul Marchelle. The young lawyer saw that Vorber was apprehensive. The servant apparently had a definite desire to uncover the missing document himself, and with all these persons present was worrying about their activities.
Moreover, Marchelle had noted a peculiar fact regarding Vorber’s entry into the library. The servant had arrived at the psychological moment; he had immediately suggested that he aid in the search; he had seemed to know what was going on. It was obvious — to Marchelle, at least — that Vorber had been listening outside the door.
Peering eyes were at the portal. They were the eyes of The Shadow. Unseen, they watched the searchers. They saw Vorber’s actions. They observed that Marchelle had gained an inkling of the servant’s unusual interest in the present search.
Howard Wycliff, stepping away from a large table, noted that Paul Marchelle was not searching. He laughed in jocular vein as he called attention to the fact.
“Thought you were enthusiastic,” he said. “Why don’t you join in the game, Paul?”
“I have an idea,” returned Marchelle, thoughtfully. “It seems to me that this search is being conducted in a rather hit-or-miss fashion. Why not go at it more intelligently?”
GARRETT SLADER and Doctor Keyes turned to hear what Marchelle intended to suggest. Vorber, who also ceased activity, listened while he looked here and there, seeking spots that had been neglected.
“What is your idea, Paul?” questioned Garrett Slader.
“A deed,” replied Marchelle, “is a fair-sized document. Moreover, most persons — and Cyril Wycliff was such a person — seldom fold such heavy papers. Therefore, to be systematic, we should reject places which seem unlikely.”
“You mean the furniture?” questioned Howard Wycliff.
“No,” responded Marchelle. “I would consider the furniture first. But why not segregate those items of furniture which obviously could not contain the deed?”
“An excellent idea!” exclaimed Howard.
“It means more work,” observed Doctor Keyes.
“At the start, yes,” declared Marchelle. “But it will lead to better results in the long run. Suppose we rearrange the room — set aside all articles which are useless?”
“Good,” agreed Howard Wycliff, in a decisive tone.
“That will end the search for tonight,” remarked Doctor Keyes.
“Certainly,” said Howard. “We can get the furniture established, then begin the actual search tomorrow.”
“You have the key to this room?” asked Marchelle.
“Yes,” returned Howard. “The only one. We can lock up after we have finished fixing the furniture. Those iron shutters will make the room completely barred.”
“I believe I must be going,” decided Doctor Keyes. “I think I would find the search interesting, gentlemen, but if it is merely a matter of moving furniture, my stoutness renders me incompetent.”
“I must waive claims also,” declared Garrett Slader. “I make my plea on account of my age. It is late. I think that I shall leave.”
“If you are leaving, Mr. Slader,” objected Paul Marchelle, “that means that I must have to go also—”
“Not a bit of it!” broke in Howard Wycliff. “You can stay here, Paul. There is plenty of room in the house. Why not remain overnight?”
Marchelle was about to voice an objection when he caught a glimpse of Miles Vorber’s face. The old servant seemed eager to have him go with the others. Marchelle pretended not to notice Vorber’s glance. He turned to Garrett Slader.
“I believe I shall accept Howard’s invitation, sir,” he said. “It will speed up the work here.”
“All right,” agreed Slader. “I shall see you at the office in the morning.”
DOCTOR KEYES and Garrett Slader went from the library. Vorber followed to get their hats and coats. None of the departing trio noted the gliding blackness that slid along the floor of the hallway, merging with the velvet curtains beyond.
When Vorber returned, a few minutes afterward, Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle were already shifting the furniture. Without a word, Vorber joined them in the work. Operations progressed.
It required three quarters of an hour to rearrange the library. When the work was finished, one end of the room was packed with possible objects that might contain the supposedly hidden deed. The secretary, a heavy table that contained several drawers, a long couch — these were the items that had been retained.
The other end of the room held light, frail chairs; two thin-topped, long-legged tables; a flimsy bookrack; and other articles that were naturally rejected. Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle stood puffing, with coats off. Miles Vorber, shrewd-faced as ever, stood near the door, surveying the faces of his new master and the young lawyer, Marchelle.
“What next?” questioned Howard, turning to Marchelle.
“Lock up,” returned the lawyer, “and call it a night.”
Miles Vorber sidled away from the door. The two young men went out. Vorber, his scrawny shoulders stooped, made a shrewd survey of the room, as though doubting that all had been properly done. At Howard Wycliff’s call, the servant turned quickly and went into the hall.
Howard Wycliff closed the massive door of the living room and locked it with a large key, which he pocketed. He and Paul Marchelle, coats over arms, went up the stairs together. Vorber stood in the hall, watching until they reached the top of the steps. The servant turned to stare sullenly at the locked door of the library. A knowing smile appeared upon his usually straight lips.
With his catlike tread, Vorber crossed the hall to the front door. He locked it, then followed the path that the two young men had taken. A switch clicked at the head of the stairs. The lower hall was plunged in darkness.
Blackness reigned near the locked door of the library. The stillness indicated that the search for the missing deed would be a matter of the morrow. Yet there was an ominous token of approaching action.
The Shadow, invisible as a phantom of the night, was still within that darkened hallway!
CHAPTER XIII
THE SHADOW’S SEARCH
LONG minutes had passed since Miles Vorber had followed Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle up the stairs. Complete silence reigned throughout the darkness of the Wycliff mansion. A light suddenly glimmered in the lower hall.
The rays of a tiny flashlight centered themselves upon the library door. Something swished softly in the darkness as The Shadow approached the barrier. The invisible investigator — his presence revealed only by his light — listened intently before he began operations on the lock.
The lock was a formidable one. The Shadow, however, attacked it with skill that was equaled only by the amazing silence with which he worked. While a hidden hand held the little flashlight, gloved fingers crept into view. They carried a projecting pick of blackened metal.
With this instrument, The Shadow probed the lock. His sensitive hand seemed to feel the hidden tumblers. A tiny click came forth, its sound muffled. Another click.
The Shadow wedged the pick in a new position. The light focused downward. The visible hand moved to the knob. The door of the library opened.
The Shadow paused before entering. His flashlight was out. His keen ears were listening. Any sound within that mansion would have been audible to The Shadow. Satisfied that no one was about, the black-garbed being entered. The pick came from the lock. The door closed.
The Shadow was in the shuttered library. Nevertheless, he did not turn on the light. He preferred the rays of his electric torch. This search was to be a concentrated one.
The beam of the flashlight enlarged. The Shadow approached a heavy table.