Standing in the doorway, holding a revolver, was Paul Marchelle! The young lawyer’s eyes were cold. Vorber quailed before the indignant gaze.
“You thief!” exclaimed Marchelle scornfully. “I knew you were playing a crooked game! I have caught you with the goods!”
Vorber glowered. His momentary fright was ended. Boldly, he faced the man with the gun. He waited to see what Marchelle intended to do.
“If you make trouble,” announced, Marchelle — “I shall shoot. I warn you, Vorber, your game is up. Drop that deed before I fire!”
Marchelle’s tone was threatening. Reluctantly, Vorber obeyed. He half slumped as he let the deed fall to the floor. Assuming a cringing pose, he slipped to his knees.
Then came the break.
A DULL sound came from downstairs; the noise might have indicated the opening of the front door.
Marchelle lost his vigilance for the moment. In an instant, Vorber’s hand had dropped to the floor. Seizing the hollow leg that he had broken from the table, Vorber, with a scream of rage, leaped upon Paul Marchelle.
The young man did not have time to fire. As he dodged the blow, Vorber caught his right wrist. Marchelle, with his left arm, warded away the table leg. The two men grappled. They staggered across the room in a furious clinch.
Footsteps were pounding on the stairway from the second floor. Howard Wycliff came into view. Vorber could see the approach of his master. Marchelle could not.
For the moment, Marchelle’s strength relaxed as the young lawyer sought to free himself from Vorber’s grasp. The servant bursting into a paroxysm of fury, swung a back-handed stroke with the table leg, and knocked Marchelle’s revolver from his hand.
Marchelle leaped into a new clinch. As he and Vorber turned, Marchelle saw Howard Wycliff. Seeking to avoid the wild blows which Vorber was making with the table leg, Marchelle screamed.
“Get him, Howard! Get him! He stole the deed!”
Howard saw the deed on the floor. He leaped forward and picked up the gun, just as Garrett Slader came into view. As Marchelle and Vorber suddenly tightened in their grasp, Howard aimed the revolver at the old servant.
Seeing the action, Vorber twisted away. He broke free and jumped beyond Marchelle as Howard Wycliff fired wildly.
Vorber swung the table leg. He missed Marchelle. The lawyer grabbed the servant and whirled him directly into the path of Howard Wycliff’s aim.
Vorber saw death ahead as Howard Wycliff’s finger trembled on the trigger. Paul Marchelle, too, saw death as his eyes turned toward the alcove. There, stepping from darkness, was a being clad in black. The Shadow!
A terrific shot burst through the room. It did not come from Howard Wycliff’s gun. The Shadow was the one who fired. A huge automatic, held in his black-gloved hand, issued a mighty tongue of flame, while the burning eyes above it directed the perfect aim.
The grappling men fell to the floor as one gave way. Howard Wycliff, loosing his volley, was too late. His shots went above the heads of fallen men.
Staring — entirely unconscious of The Shadow’s presence — Howard Wycliff saw one of the combatants arise and drop his antagonist’s limp body to the floor. A gasp of indignation came from Howard’s lips.
The rising man was Miles Vorber. The motionless form upon the floor was Paul Marchelle. In his nervous stupor, Howard Wycliff believed that he had shot his friend instead of the servant whom he had branded as a traitor.
Howard Wycliff was wrong. It was not his hand that had done the act. The Shadow, now merged with the darkness of the alcove, had fired the fatal shot.
It was The Shadow — he who never failed — who had decided the outcome of the struggle. Seeking to save the life of the man who had deserved to live, The Shadow had picked Paul Marchelle as his victim instead of Miles Vorber!
CHAPTER XXIII
TRUTH REVEALED
MILES VORBER, panting, stood with the broken table leg within his grasp. All fight had gone from the old servant. His eyes, however, still held a venom as they gazed toward the prone form of Paul Marchelle.
As Howard Wycliff brandished his revolver, Vorber walked toward the door. He stopped at Howard’s command. Garrett Slader had entered. He was bending over Paul Marchelle, while Howard Wycliff covered Vorber. The old lawyer raised his head.
“Marchelle is dead,” he said bitterly. “You have killed him, Howard.”
“I tried to get Vorber,” returned Howard soberly. “The twist they made was fatal. I shall give myself up to the police, Mr. Slader.”
“Not yet,” returned the old lawyer, as he arose from the floor. “Keep Vorber covered. We shall turn him over to the detectives when they arrive. I was a witness, Howard. Your shooting of Marchelle was accidental.”
Slader pointed toward the stairs. With a regretful gaze toward Paul Marchelle’s dead form, Howard Wycliff mechanically ordered Vorber to descend. A silent trio — Vorber, Howard, then Slader — they reached the hall on the ground floor.
It was here that Vorber offered his passive protest. Backed against the wall, still clutching the table leg, the servant looked toward Howard Wycliff and tried to explain his actions.
“I did it for you, sir,” he said. “Your father feared enemies. He told me to make sure that all went well after his death—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” questioned Howard. “I don’t believe you, Vorber. You knew that Marchelle was my friend.”
“He was not, sir!” blurted Vorber. “He was trying to find that deed! I knew it all along! He wanted it for himself — or for others—”
“Be quiet, Vorber!” snapped Garrett Slader. “We know your purpose. You were disgruntled because you were not remembered in Cyril Wycliff’s will. Howard has explained all that.”
“Mr. Wycliff did remember me,” said Vorber soberly. “I can prove it, sir. There are bank books in my desk. They show the deposits that I made. Ten thousand dollars, sir — Mr. Wycliff gave me the money long before he died. It was my old master’s way. He rewarded me for faithful service while he was still alive — not after he was dead!”
“This will be used against you, Vorber,” warned Slader, still unconvinced. “If you have been paid to sell this deed, your pretext that your money came from Cyril Wycliff will not save you. We shall investigate it to the core. We intend to turn you over to the police as soon as they arrive.”
“Here they are now!” cried Howard.
THE front door was opening. Miles Vorber, like the others, turned to see the men who entered. These were not detectives.
Howard Wycliff and those with him stared blankly at the faces of Ward Fetzler and Martin Hamprell. Before they could move, Hamprell had uttered a cry of recognition. He knew the trio — he remembered them from the time when he had played the part of Doctor Johan Arberg.
Hamprell’s revolver flashed into view. As Fetzler echoed his minion’s cry, other faces appeared from the darkness. Ham Cruther, the gang leader, and two gunmen, arrived with revolvers in their hands. It was Ward Fetzler who issued the command.
“Give me that deed!” he ordered.
Stupidly, Garrett Slader yielded the document. Fetzler laughed as he read its contents.
“This is what I want,” he asserted. Then, with a sharp, questioning air, he demanded: “Where is Paul Marchelle?”
“Dead,” said Howard Wycliff in a dull tone. “I killed him.”
“He tried to steal the deed!” blurted Miles Vorber, with a frenzied scowl. “I knew that he was a crook!”
“Certainly,” said Fetzler, with his evil smile. “He was my inside informant. He is dead — ah, well, poor Marchelle. He should have waited until we arrived.