The quiet tone, as rich as the words, had a marked effect upon the old servant. Half choking, Worthington began to speak.
“It was good of you, sir,” said the servant. “I–I served Mr. Phraytag for many years. Just as you have said, sir. I was with him— actually with him, sir — when he died. I–I—well, it’s good, sir, to feel that some one understands.”
Cranston’s features were immobile, almost masklike. Yet Worthington caught a sympathetic gleam from eyes that showed on either side of a hawklike nose.
“You — you were here, sir,” stammered Worthington. “You saw those persons — the ones who came for a last glimpse of the master. They— well, sir — they were his real friends.”
“One was Mr. Tromlin — Donald Tromlin, the banker. Then there was Doctor MacCallert; of course he would be here, sir. And Mr. Laverock—”
“Mr. Laverock?”
“Yes, sir. Guy Laverock. He used to see the master often, a few years ago. There were two other men here, sir. I think of them with Mr. Laverock, because they came here with him. Mr. Kent — Harbrook Kent. Mr. Zurick; his first name was Lucius, sir. Lucius Zurick.”
WORTHINGTON paused. He seemed to be recalling times when the four had met. A sad smile played upon the servant’s lips.
“They were four alike,” mused Worthington. “The four philanthropists, they called themselves. They met here some months ago, sir. But that was the last time. The master was weary. Very weary, sir.
“I recall that he spoke about them several times, to me, sir. He told me that they were still together. That he was one of them, in spirit.”
“They still meet?”
“Yes, sir. At Mr. Zurick’s. One would not have known that they were here together when they stood beside Mr. Phraytag, there in his coffin. But that was the way they always were, sir. Like Mr. Phraytag. Very much to themselves. Only when they met with no one else about — only then would they speak.
“At least that is what I believed, sir. They always came here separately. Silent men. They were grieved. I could see it, sir, in their eyes.”
Again, Worthington paused. This time, the servant felt that he had spoken too much. Elwood Phraytag had trained Worthington to silence. From habit, the servitor looked toward Lamont Cranston as though expecting an order.
“Thank you, Worthington,” came the quiet tones. “I am pleased to have heard your opinion. I shall remember those three of whom you have spoken.”
The visitor was moving toward the door. Worthington accompanied him and bowed as he left. He saw Lamont Cranston stroll across the street, toward a limousine that was parked there. The old servant watched the car roll away.
THE limousine was heading toward the Holland Tunnel, under the guidance of Stanley, the chauffeur. In the rear seat, the form of Lamont Cranston was almost unseen in the darkness. A soft laugh came from steady lips. Its whispered tones were those of The Shadow.
This trip had not been the first that The Shadow had made to the old mansion since the death of Elwood Phraytag. Hours after he had first viewed the body of the deceased philanthropist, the mysterious visitor had entered the old mansion.
In a ghostly tour of inspection, The Shadow had assured himself that murder alone had been the motive of the person who had entered before him. Nothing, so far as The Shadow could determine, had been removed from the house.
The Shadow had assured himself of Worthington’s faithfulness. The servant had been on hand when Phraytag had died. So few objects of value were in the house that Worthington would certainly have spoken if he had found that anything was missing.
The house, though old and rambling, lacked secret places. Therefore, The Shadow had limited his theories to two! One, that Phraytag had been murdered because of something that he knew; the other, that some one intended to perform a theft after the old man’s death.
The first theory was plausible, following the death of Philip Lyken. Therefore, The Shadow had accepted it as a sufficient motive. But he had also kept the second theory under consideration and had come to the funeral intending to remain within the mansion.
Then had come the episode by the bier. First, The Shadow had observed that a certain object — an engraved signet ring — was to leave the house with the body of Elwood Phraytag. That was natural; such pieces of jewelry would usually go to the grave with the dead owner.
But into the picture had stepped three other men, each with a signet that matched Phraytag’s. Three philanthropists had come to view the body of the fourth; and all had assured themselves of one fact: that Phraytag’s ring was actually going to accompany the body to the tomb.
As plainly as if the three had spoken, The Shadow knew the answer. It began with Philip Lyken — a jeweler — who could well have known something about those four rings. The three had been friends of Phraytag’s. All could have shared a common secret. Possession of one of those signet rings — perhaps the ring itself — was obviously an important talisman.
Zurick. Laverock. Kent. The Shadow had checked their names by their initials. Each knew that the other two were present; it appeared that they had come by mutual agreement. No one of the three could have coveted the ring on Phraytag’s finger.
That made their purpose plain. The three philanthropists had come to make sure that the fourth was carrying his secret with him. The last of those to view the body, close watchers while the coffin was being closed, they had satisfied themselves that their secret was being buried with Phraytag’s corpse.
No need to remove the ring. Within a coffin in a mausoleum, it would lie unknown. The three men must have thought of the remote possibility of grave robbers. That proved that the ring, to any one who did not know its secret, would be nothing more than a mass of gold to be melted down.
THE limousine drew up in front of a large mansion. Lamont Cranston’s tall form alighted. His quiet tones ordered Stanley to bring the coupe from the garage. Five minutes later, the coupe rolled from the driveway.
The Shadow was taking a cross-country route to the Sky Line Cemetery. Darkness had set in; night, The Shadow’s shroud, had descended with foggy thickness.
Minutes passed. A tiny light glimmered upon the door of a whitened mausoleum. The name “Phraytag” was carved above the doorway. Steel worked within the deep lock of the door. The heavy barrier came open, smoothly; then closed.
Within the vault, the blinking light revealed the stone sarcophagus that bore the name of Elwood Phraytag. The lid swung upward. Gloved hands unscrewed the top of the inner casket.
The Shadow had come here in search of some clue to Elwood Phraytag’s death. He knew that the old philanthropist had been murdered. He had divined that Phraytag possessed an important secret. That was sufficient reason for the old man’s sudden end.
Only by examination of the signet ring could The Shadow gain the clue he needed without giving the other three philanthropists an inkling that he was on the trail. Whatever their purpose, whether true friends or secret enemies of the murdered man, The Shadow must work without their knowledge.
The flashlight shone within the opened coffin. It rested upon the dead, drawn features of Elwood Phraytag. It moved to the withered hand that still lay crossed upon the dead man’s breast.
There the light stopped. Keen, burning eyes stared. Phraytag’s left hand still lay upon his right. But the clawlike fingers were without an ornament. The engraved signet ring was gone!
THE light went out. Lids closed. The Shadow appeared, a blackened splotch, against the outside of the mausoleum. The door closed silently; The Shadow’s hand locked the tomb. Then, swiftly, the dark-cloaked figure moved away.
Theft after death. Such had been accomplished. It could only have been done after the coffin had been placed within the mausoleum. The Shadow knew that none of the three philanthropists would have performed this deed.