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“They are at the depot, sir.”

“Very well. I shall call you when I am ready to start.”

Inside business thrummed on within the walls of the Founders Trust Company. Employees completed their work and departed. It was after six o’clock when Rowley, the watchman, admitted Kerry, Tobias Hildreth’s chauffeur. Kerry went directly to the president’s office. Hildreth summoned Zellwood; then ordered Kerry to bring a pair of large suitcases that were in his office.

Rowley gave them good-night as they passed through the outer door. The steel barrier clanked behind them. Hildreth opened the door of his limousine so that Kerry could put the bags inside. It was dusk on the street; a uniformed policeman strolled up through the gloom.

“And how goes it, Mr. Hildreth?” greeted the officer.

“Very well, Lucas,” responded Hildreth. “Here as usual, to see me out, aren’t you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you manage it? I don’t always leave at the same time, you know.”

“Well, Mr. Hildreth, you’d have to patrol a beat yourself to understand. I come to sort of know what’s going on all along the line. Just make it my business to be the places I ought to be. When I ought to be there.”

“And you ought to be here when I come out?”

“Sure, sir. There’s been stick-up men in this precinct. I figure they’d as soon try to stop a bank president as any one else.”

“Good logic, Lucas. Well, good-night. I shall see you here to-morrow afternoon.”

The men entered the limousine. The big car rolled away. A taxi pulled out from the curb, half a block away, and followed. Lucas eyed the cab suspiciously; then decided that its appearance was a mere coincidence. The cop resumed his beat.

TWENTY minutes later, the limousine stopped in the taxi entrance of the Pennsylvania Station. It was still followed by the cab. As Zellwood alighted from Hildreth’s limousine, a lone passenger stepped from the taxi. When the limousine pulled away, this watcher followed Rudolph Zellwood.

The lights within the concourse showed Zellwood’s nervous face as the man went to get his bags from the check room. Those same lights showed the features of the person who was trailing the cashier. It was Lamont Cranston.

From Harry Vincent, The Shadow had learned that Wally Wilking had talked with Rudolph Zellwood. In the guise of Cranston, The Shadow had taken up Zellwood’s trail. The Shadow watched Zellwood turn over his bags to a porter; then lead the way to a gate marked Southern Limited.

The gate was not yet open. It lacked twenty minutes to train time. Yet by the gate, The Shadow spied two other men: one was a wise-faced, shrewd-eyed fellow whom The Shadow knew as Greaser Bowden; the other was Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s own agent.

Swiftly, the tall form of Lamont Cranston moved back toward the concourse. There, The Shadow entered a telephone booth. Two minutes later, he reappeared and strolled toward the street.

At three minutes before seven, a young man arrived at the train gate. He came in a hurry, carrying a light bag. It was Harry Vincent. Cliff Marsland saw him, but gave no greeting. Rudolph Zellwood had already descended to his train. Harry followed in the same direction.

The gate clanged. Greaser Bowden, standing some distance away, strolled off in satisfaction. Cliff, inconspicuous in the shadow of a gate, took up the racketeer’s trail. Both, individually, were satisfied.

Greaser Bowden had obviously come to make sure that Zellwood took the Southern Limited. Cliff had been on watch to see that no suspicious characters were also on the train. Cliff was sure that none were there.

Yet The Shadow had played doubly sure. He had just had time to summon Harry, through Burbank, and thus dispatch an agent to keep watch on Zellwood. Cliff Marsland was needed in New York; The Shadow knew that he would report later through Burbank.

Trails had converged. From Sigby Rund to Greaser Bowden; from Wally Wilking to Rudolph Zellwood.

Then Zellwood, watched by Bowden. What was the purpose behind these manifestations?

To learn, The Shadow had sent an agent along each trail. Past crimes— that concerned the Garaucan bonds — had led up to the present. Future crime was in the making. This The Shadow knew; and The Shadow was prepared.

CHAPTER VIII. DEATH RIDES BY RAIL

TEN o’clock found the Southern Limited past Wilmington, on its way to Baltimore. Harry Vincent was seated in the club car, smoking a cigar and reading a magazine. Rudolph Zellwood was in the same car nervously puffing at a cigarette. Harry was watching him.

Zellwood’s nervousness appeared to be that of a man who had some secret apprehension. Yet the bank cashier did not appear to be worried by fear of secret watchers. It seemed rather that some secret was preying on his mind, for he was much occupied with his own thoughts.

Harry had tested the fellow. When Zellwood had gone into the diner, shortly after the train started, Harry had followed him. Harry had deluded the conductor into thinking that they were together; thus he had been seated opposite Zellwood.

During the meal, Harry had struck up a slight acquaintance with the man. He had learned that Zellwood was going to spend a vacation in North Carolina. Though Harry had not asked Zellwood in what car he was traveling, he knew that the man must be in 3 D, for that car, alone, was shunted off the train at Washington.

Zellwood had finished dinner before Harry. He had not been in the club car when Harry arrived there, but he had shown up later. Harry had made no effort to continue the acquaintance. He was wondering right now how he was to do a neat job of following his man; for he had unwisely told Zellwood that he was going further south.

There seemed but one course: namely, to wait until after Zellwood had gone back to his car. Then Harry could arrange for accommodations in 3 D. On the morrow, he would have to keep out of Zellwood’s sight. That seemed the only feasible plan.

The club car was well filled. Among the passengers were two men who had gotten on at Wilmington.

They were seated at one of the tables, playing cards. Their bags were on the seat beside them. Harry decided that they must be going to Baltimore or Washington.

AT Philadelphia, Harry had received a telegram. Its message, referring to sales reports, had been enlightening. The telegram meant that no one had followed Zellwood from New York; that Harry’s instructions were simply to keep watch on him. There might be danger to Zellwood — or from him — that, of course, was understood. But there had, at time of departure, been no indication that others were concerned.

The two men at the card table were cagey fellows. Harry had recognized that fact; but no more. He did not know that one of them was watching Zellwood. This was the man whose back was toward the engine. Every time the fellow played his hand, he looked up at his companion. This enabled him to see back to the spot where Zellwood was seated. Yet the action was natural enough to escape Harry’s detection.

Between them, the two were conducting a low conversation, covered by the rumble of the train. Harry, a dozen feet away, did not catch their words.

“He ought to go back before Baltimore, Jake,” remarked the man who was facing forward.

“Yeah,” growled the one who was watching Zellwood. “But he ain’t made a move yet, Ox. Well — there’s an hour to go.”

“What’re you goin’ to do about the tickets?”

“What is there to do? We’ve got ‘em to Washington, ain’t we?”

“Sure. But this mug is on the Carolina car—3 D. That’s what Dobey told us. We ought to be takin’ berths there, oughtn’t we? If we don’t, the porter may put up a squawk.”

“Not him. I’ve got a way to fix the porter. Leave it to me, Ox. Say — the mug looks like he’s goin’ back. Sit tight. I’ll tell you when to move.”