THE servant’s face hardened. Wellington stared from Humphrey’s form to Warren Barringer. His lips tightened, and Wellington broke forth in accusation.
“You have killed him!” he exclaimed. “You — you murderer! He — he told me to be here. He was afraid of you! But I thought that he was safe!”
With a sudden rage, the servant precipitated himself into the room and clutched at Warren Barringer. The young man flung Wellington to one side, and as he thrust back the servant’s attack, uttered his own defiant challenge.
“You know the truth!” cried Warren. “You — and Jasper Delthern! He is the murderer, and you know it!”
The two locked in struggle. Warren, young and powerful, hurled back the servant, whom he believed to be a traitor. But Wellington was not lacking in strength. The servant fought with a fury that could only come from actual belief that he was battling with the man who had slain his present master.
In the course of their grapple, the fighters jounced against the door and knocked it shut. They swerved across the room, struck the desk, and staggered on. Humphrey Delthern’s body teetered lazily back and forth as the desk was shaken by the conflict.
Sudden chance favored Wellington. As the pair plunged toward the wall, Warren tripped, twisted, and struck his head against the paneling. He grunted as his teeth clicked. He lost his hold upon his adversary.
With a mighty effort, Wellington flung Warren to the floor. Half groggy, the young man rolled to his knees and held up his hands as protection when he saw Wellington towering toward him.
The servant, his face filled with rage, was preparing for a powerful lunge. Warren, despite his swimming head, was ready to receive it. Then, as when Warren had faced Humphrey Delthern, blackness intervened.
This time a slight click impressed itself upon Warren’s brain as the lights suddenly went out. Momentary darkness; then came a muffled roar and a tongue of fire flashed within the room. The report dulled away. Something landed heavily upon the floor in front of Warren Barringer. The young man groped forward. The lights came on again.
Warren found himself staring at the prostrate form of Wellington. The servant, in falling, had twisted on his side. A gaping wound showed in his breast. A revolver lay on the floor beside him.
Half dazed, Warren reached for the weapon. He desisted as his swimming brain made him falter. He stared groggily about the room.
Again, the murderer had come and gone. Swiftly had he entered; swiftly had he left. Picking his target as he extinguished the light, he had slain Wellington as effectively as he had done away with Humphrey Delthern.
The same thoughts as before came drumming through Warren’s brain.
Death! Menace! Need for flight!
That was final. The young man rose to his feet. He moved to the door and opened it. He went unsteadily along the hall; he caught the rail at the head of the stairs, and descended.
The lower hallway was as silent and as gloomy as before. The dull lights of the living room seemed ominous; the closed doors of the great reception hall seemed to be hiding eyes that were accusing, in spite of Warren’s sense of innocence.
Out through the front door, down the flagstone walk. Warren reached the sidewalk, and breathed deeply of the cooling air. His wits came back to him with amazing swiftness. He walked quickly down the avenue.
ONE block from Delthern Manor, Warren spied a taxicab parked beside the curb. The door was open. The young man saw the driver standing at the front of the car, gazing in the opposite direction. For a moment, Warren hesitated; then, on sudden impulse, he stepped into the cab.
The noise caused the driver to turn. He came toward the door as Warren closed it. Calming his voice, Warren ordered the man to take him to the railroad station. The driver clambered to the wheel, and shouted through the open window as he drove along.
“Were you the fellow that was in this cab before?” he questioned. “The guy that gave me the money?”
“Yes,” answered Warren,
“Didn’t see you get out,” explained the driver. “What’s the matter? Weren’t the folks at home?”
“No,” Warren replied.
The driver made no further comment. He sped along a side street toward the broad avenue that led to the depot. Warren, settled back upon the seat, was thinking clearly now. He was planning the next phase of action.
Crime upon crime. Warren Barringer had witnessed double murder in the second-story study at Delthern Manor. He was sure that the killer was Jasper Delthern; but the burden of proof would be his own!
CHAPTER XIV
A VISITOR VANISHES
WARREN BARRINGER had been fortunate in his flight. The shot in the study had been muffled. Its report had not reached the outside grounds of Delthern Manor. Furthermore, the old house was in an isolated spot.
Yet Warren had not escaped unseen. As he had come from the old gate in front of the mansion, a pair of approaching eyes had spied him from the darkness.
Strange eyes! They were the only visible portions of the person who bore them. Hardly had Warren Barringer left by the arch before those eyes were staring in the direction of the mansion, piercing the darkness as they looked toward the gray walls of Delthern Manor.
A soft swish sounded above the flagstone walk. The door of the great house opened softly. It closed. A shadowy shape glided across the floor of the lower hallway. It ascended the stairs, and followed the corridor. It stopped before the open door of the room where death had struck.
Keen eyes surveyed the scene. Intuitive ears listened. Then came the swish of a cloak. The sinister form of The Shadow loomed within the room of death. A solemn, whispered laugh drifted through the close atmosphere of the room.
Gliding across the room, The Shadow studied the body of Humphrey Delthern. His eyes turned to the form of Wellington. They noted the gleaming revolver on the floor. A gloved hand lifted the weapon and replaced it.
Seating himself at the desk, The Shadow, close beside the ghastly body of Humphrey Delthern, began to open and close the drawers. He found nothing of consequence. But his keen eyes noted one significant fact. In every drawer except one, the small collection of papers and envelopes were in perfect order.
Standing again, The Shadow visualized the scene of death. He studied Humphrey Delthern’s chair. He examined the space on the opposite side of the desk. He moved to the hall, and turned the rays of a tiny flashlight upon the floor.
The entrance of Warren Barringer; the death of Humphrey Delthern; the intervention of Wellington; these were events that The Shadow was reconstructing. Again, a low laugh echoed from his lips. Its strange tone denoted a tinge of regret that his arrival had been delayed.
Warren Barringer’s precipitous haste; Clark Brosset’s efforts to mislead Lamont Cranston; these were factors over which the murderer had had no control, yet they had proven to be important elements in crime. Because of those factors, The Shadow had arrived too late to prevent these killings.
Keen ears were listening now. Footsteps sounded vaguely from the floor below. A woman’s voice was calling up the stairs.
“Wellington!” Marcia Wardrop was summoning the servant. “Wellington!”
The call faded. A gasp came from below. Hurrying footsteps announced Marcia’s departure. The girl had sensed that something was amiss. Alone in the house, she had lost her nerve. She had rushed out of the old mansion to summon help.
THE SHADOW calmly returned to the room of death. His eyes looked toward the door. A laugh resounded from hidden lips. The Shadow’s tall form moved across the room, and blackened itself against the paneled wall. It slowly crept along the surface, skirting the edge of the rug beyond the spots where the bodies lay.