THE SHADOW was right. Miles Vorber intended to return to the library. It was more than a half hour, however, before the servant’s key clicked in the lock. When he had entered, Vorber left the door open so that he could hear the first sounds that would tell of Howard Wycliff’s return.
Vorber’s first action was a final inspection of the furniture. The servant seemed to have difficulty in rejecting the bulky objects which had been so thoroughly examined. Convinced, however, that further search of this sort would be fruitless, Vorber began an examination of the walls and floor.
There were hanging pictures on the walls. The searchers had looked behind them. They were to be removed with the books. Vorber went to one picture and lifted it carefully. He looked at the back of the picture; he examined the wall where the picture had been. He replaced the object.
Vorber repeated the operation with the next picture that he reached. Slowly, methodically, he continued the procedure until he came to a large photograph which hung near one end of the room. It was a portrait of Cyril Wycliff.
Holding the picture in the light, Vorber stared at it with narrowed eyes. The servant was looking at his master. The portrait, life-sized, was a perfect reproduction of Cyril Wycliff’s visage. Vorber’s lips moved. His teeth grated. His breath came in short hisses. This study of his former master’s features had roused the servant to a state that resembled suppressed fury.
Carefully, Vorber hung the picture upon the wall. He stared toward it as he backed to the center of the room. Then, with new incentive, he began a more rapid search. His desire for accomplishment had reached a fever pitch.
The Shadow, stationed in the niche beyond the bookcase, saw all this. Every emotion appearing upon Vorber’s face had been plain to The Shadow. Vorber was at the walls, tapping here and there. On hands and knees, he crawled along the floor, pounding in a vain effort to discover hollow spots under the flooring.
The servant seemed to lose all sense of time as he continued in his exploration of new territory. He rounded the end of the room, and neared the place where The Shadow was stationed. It was then that The Shadow glided across the floor. Totally unseen by Vorber, the phantom watcher gained the door that led to the hall.
As on the preceding night, the motion of The Shadow seemed to produce a psychic effect upon Miles Vorber. The servant turned abruptly toward the door, and assumed a listening pose. He was a few seconds too late to witness the departure of The Shadow.
However, Vorber was not content. He went to the door of the room, stepped into the hall, and listened. Two minutes elapsed. Vorber saw nothing and heard nothing. He did not detect the unusual blackness that pervaded the curtains hanging in the near-by arch.
WHEN Vorber finally went back into the library, The Shadow moved from his hiding place. He glided swiftly up the stairs, reached the telephone in Howard Wycliff’s room and quietly called a number. Burbank responded. The Shadow held a whispered conversation with his agent.
When he returned to the lower floor, The Shadow, spying from the door, saw Vorber tapping the window sill. The searcher had passed The Shadow’s chosen hiding place. Gliding along the wall, The Shadow reached the bookcase niche and merged with darkness.
Vorber completed all the searching that was possible. He appeared dejected as he looked about the room. He knew that he would have to wait until the furniture was gone, much though he might prefer to anticipate the others who were anxious to uncover the missing deed.
The servant had two courses: one was to leave; the other to go over the ground again. Vorber preferred the latter course. He stared at Cyril Wycliff’s portrait; then resumed his tappings of the wall.
The hour was growing late. Vorber seemed to know that Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle might return at any minute. Nevertheless, the servant was loath to end his search. His attitude became spasmodic: first a few taps upon the wall; then moments of listening.
It was during one of these latter intervals that the telephone rang in the lower hall. Quick as a cat, Vorber leaped to the door of the room. He switched off the light. He answered the telephone. His querulous “Hello” was repeated. Vorber received no answer.
Within the darkened room, The Shadow was busy. He knew the source of that telephone ring. Burbank had called this number to signify that Howard Wycliff’s car had returned. The garage was farther along the street. It would be a few minutes before the master of the house would enter. Those were the minutes which The Shadow wanted.
The black cloak swished. The slouch hat came from The Shadow’s head. It went beneath the cloak. Gloved hands were bared. The Shadow crouched between the two small tables that were with the rejected pieces of furniture.
Something glowed in The Shadow’s hand. It was a tube of glass from which a rubber covering had been removed. The hands stroked the tube; The Shadow raised it toward his face.
From the hallway came a click as Miles Vorber replaced the telephone receiver upon the hook.
The servant had returned to the door of the library. He was about to close it, puzzled by the phone call and knowing that Howard Wycliff might soon return. It was then that The Shadow acted. His right hand, shining in the darkness, stretched forth and overturned the small table that was nearest to him.
Miles Vorber sprang into the room. He had heard the table fall. His hand upon the light switch, the servant faltered as he gazed into the darkness. He did not press the switch. The Shadow had half arisen and was staring in Vorber’s direction.
The Shadow’s hands and face were luminous. They glowed through the darkness and cast a weird, phosphorescent range of dimmed radiance. The sight was ghostly; to Miles Vorber, the effect was doubled.
There, in the darkness, the old servant saw the shining features of Cyril Wycliff! The Shadow, who had seen Cyril Wycliff’s portrait on his previous visit to the room, had adopted a countenance that resembled the dead man’s visage!
BURNING from the face above the floor were the eyes of The Shadow. Those brilliant orbs held Vorber’s gaze. The servant dared not press the light switch. The Shadow’s hands came upward, and the space about them reflected their ghoulish light. The Shadow was raising the table that he had overturned.
Weird, hollow raps came through the darkness. Vorber heard them. They were the same spectral tappings that The Shadow had delivered on the preceding night; this time they were heard by Vorber’s ears as well.
The table settled on its legs. It seemed to topple back and forth as the ghostly hands released it. Then the hands were gone — they had passed beneath the black cloak — and only the face still showed; the face that was the countenance of a dead man!
Blackness suddenly obscured the ghostly visage. The Shadow’s slouch hat, brought from darkness, was responsible for the strange evanishment. Vorber, trembling with excitement, fumbled with the light switch. A cloak swished; Vorber did not hear it. When the light came on, the servant found himself staring at the end of the room, where nothing but furniture was visible.
Hissing tensely, Vorber crept forward. His hands were outstretched like claws. His eyes were bulging. He feared that phantom face that he had seen; dreaded it as a visitor from the other world.
Upon the floor, Vorber spied a long streak of darkness that came from the niche beyond the bookcase. Before he could advance farther, Vorber stopped and leaped back toward the door of the room.
He had heard someone rattling the front door. He knew that Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle had returned. With frenzied speed, Vorber extinguished the light and closed the door of the library. He gained the hall just as Howard Wycliff entered. The young man spied Vorber with his hand upon the door knob.