The Shadow had departed. He had dealt with men of crime. He had heard Luke Zarby’s accusation. It had given him a clue that he had sought. For The Shadow, when he spied from darkness, saw with uncanny intuition.
The Shadow had watched Dopey Roogan. He had picked the furtive fellow as a stool pigeon. The Shadow knew now that Dopey had brought this raid; not by trailing Luke Zarby, but by watching Doc Ralder, the owner of this hide-out.
THE proof of this conclusion came later, when a light clicked in a darkened room. Bluish rays upon a polished table denoted the presence of The Shadow in his hidden sanctum. A hand took pen and inscribed two names upon a sheet of paper:
Doc Ralder
Hoot Shelling
Luke Zarby had betrayed the connection between the two, hoping to get back at Ralder, whom he thought was a double-crosser. The Shadow had heard of both men. Doc Ralder, the elusive sawbones; Hoot Shelling, a crafty mobleader.
They were hiding out, this pair. They must be traced. The Shadow’s laugh crept through the sanctum as the names faded from the paper. The hand of The Shadow inscribed another name:
Dopey Roogan
The stool had traced Doc Ralder before. He might find the trail again. That meant three who were concerned — not two. Of the three, there was one who would be engaged in crime: Hoot Shelling.
There were two ways in which the crook might be found. First, through members of his mob — the course that The Shadow would ordinarily follow. Second, through this clue that Zarby had given; plus The Shadow’s keen discovery. Dopey Roogan — Doc Ralder — Hoot Shelling. Through the stool pigeon, the sawbones; through the sawbones, the crook.
A tiny light gleamed on the further wall as The Shadow brought earphones beneath the bluish light. Then came a voice across the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Instructions to Marsland,” came The Shadow’s whisper. “Report all movements of Hoot Shelling’s mob. Watch Dopey Roogan. He is a stool. Report his actions.”
“Instructions received,” came the response.
Through Burbank, his contact man, The Shadow had sent word to Cliff Marsland, his agent in the underworld. Working in the heart of the underworld, Cliff would seek information that might bring the trail to Hoot Shelling.
The bluish light went out. A weird laugh rose in the solid darkness. Its crescendo ended; followed by shuddering echoes. Then came silence. The sanctum was empty.
Dealing with men of evil, The Shadow had scented the approach of new crime. Hoot Shelling was to be his quarry. The Shadow knew the criminal as a crook of prowess; one who had engaged in crafty, undercover methods.
Yet even with his insight into ways of crime, The Shadow had gained no foreknowledge of the amazing events in which Hoot Shelling was to play a part.
CHAPTER III. OUT OF THE PAST
IT was the next afternoon. A gaunt, gray-haired man was seated in a little office, reading an evening newspaper. One column carried a lengthy story of a police raid: the fray that had resulted in the death of four bank robbers. But this story did not interest him.
The gray-haired man was studying another column giving the account of an estate that had been settled.
Blinking perplexedly through his heavy, tortoise-shell spectacles, he was learning that the estate of Tobias Dolger had come to less than fifty thousand dollars.
A knock at the door. The gray-haired man looked up. He laid the newspaper aside and issued a summons to enter. The door opened and two young men stepped into the room. The visitors looked much alike, and the man in the chair blinked as he surveyed them.
Both were tall and well-built. Each had aristocratic features. A high-bridged nose, brown eyes and black hair — the description answered one as well as the other. The sole difference lay in the ages of the pair.
One man appeared to be in his thirties; the other not more than twenty-five.
“You are Philip Lyken?”
The question came from the elder of the two visitors. The gray-haired man stared dumfounded. The voice, like the features, seemed an echo from the past. Finding himself, Lyken nodded as he arose from his chair.
“I am Perry Dolger,” announced the older visitor. “A grandson of Tobias Dolger. Allow me to introduce my cousin, Zane Dolger.”
“My word!” exclaimed Lyken. “I knew the two of you the moment that you came in. That is, I recognized you, but I could not believe my eyes. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. Oddly, I was just this minute reading about your grandfather’s estate.”
“A matter which we have come to discuss with you, Mr. Lyken,” responded Perry Dolger, with a slight smile.
“To discuss with me?” Lyken stared suddenly as he heard the statement. “You mean your grandfather’s estate — the amount of it—”
“Exactly,” put in Zane Dolger, in a tone that resembled his cousin’s. “We inquired for you in the store downstairs. The clerk sent us up here. You have guessed it, Mr. Lyken. We are interested in our grandfather’s estate.”
“But — but” — Lyken paused — “I don’t quite understand. I am a jeweler — not a lawyer. I knew your grandfather only as a customer.”
“Let me explain,” stated Perry Dolger. “Be seated, Mr. Lyken. After I have told the story, perhaps you will agree that you can aid us.”
THE jeweler took his chair by the desk and clasped both hands across one knee. He seemed perplexed, yet his blinking eyes looked troubled as well.
“We two,” declared Perry Dolger, “are grandsons of Tobias Dolger. We are the only heirs to his estate — and our legacy, Mr. Lyken, should amount to a few millions. Do you agree?”
“Why yes,” admitted Lyken. “But the newspaper—”
“The newspaper says that the estate does not exceed fifty thousand dollars. It includes the old brownstone house in which our grandfather lived. The house in which we are now residing, my cousin Zane and myself. But it is due to our residence there, Mr. Lyken, that we feel sure our estate should amount to more than a trifling fifty thousand.”
“How so?”
“Because we have searched through the house. By chance, we uncovered a secret room; in it, an old desk. In a drawer, my cousin Zane found the rough draft of a letter that our grandfather had written. The letter is incomplete; but it states—”
Perry Dolger paused to bring a sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and read this statement:
“Unless I should make a new proviso concerning my estate, the same to be done by will and testament, the secret of the wealth will rest with those to whom I choose to give the rings. It will be their duty to see that the funds are properly divided.”
“Go on,” said Lyken, cautiously.
“That is all,” stated Perry.
“I see.” Lyken nodded in owlish fashion. “So, since I happened to be a jeweler, you decided that I must know something about rings. I do; but not about the rings you mention.”
“The signet rings?” questioned Perry.
“Signet rings?” echoed Lyken. “My word! You said nothing about signet rings. I know nothing, I tell you!”
“Unfortunately,” responded Perry, with a smile, “you do. Perhaps I should say it is fortunate that you do. Here, Mr. Lyken” — he drew an envelope from his pocket — “is a letter that we found in the old desk. It was written by yourself, to our grandfather, Tobias Dolger. It states that the four signet rings are ready for delivery.”
Philip Lyken sank back in his chair. His hands trembled. He chewed at his lips and blinked in dismay. His voice quavered a bit as he spoke.
“I know nothing,” persisted Lyken. “Nothing, gentlemen, nothing whatever about—”
“You mean,” interposed Perry, “that you do not care to speak. Come, Lyken. Some one has paid you to preserve silence. Am I right?”