In fact, several ragged blocks had already dropped. Using one of these for his flashlight, The Shadow set his charts upon the other. As calmly as if in his sanctum, he completed his calculations and comparisons.
He located the exact spot where he was; from the contours on the topographical map, he estimated that he was near the surface of the ground, far distant from the sheathed doors of the Chalice mine.
The Shadow returned down the chunky slope. He went back into the level that he had uncovered. He stopped when he came to the one slope that he had not investigated. This led to the left, as The Shadow now was facing. It was straight.
Marking both his own chart and the map, The Shadow took the downgrade. A good clear shaft, one that made footing easy, The Shadow needed his light only at intervals. He was counting paces as he went, the flashlight blinking into the depths.
The shaft leveled. The Shadow paused. Then he continued straight ahead. The floor of the shaft began to rise. Another calculation; then, with light blinking intermittently, The Shadow followed upward. Ahead loomed a smooth surface — either the end of the passage, or a turn.
The Shadow’s light blinked out. His form moved on through darkness. The Shadow stopped; he flashed his light upon the paper diagram and made another notation. His work was finished.
Two hours had elapsed during The Shadow’s strange investigation of the depths. With his calculations, he had learned every detail of the burrowed tunnels that he had reached from the entrance of the Chalice mine.
At one point, The Shadow had paused to change the battery in his tiny torch. The new battery was showing signs of feebleness. The Shadow extinguished it entirely. Evidently he did not need it, now that he had acquired knowledge of these tunnels.
A strange laugh rippled from The Shadow’s lips. It was eerie in that tomblike passage. Though whispered, it traveled far. Its mockery was picked up by hewn walls. Echoes crept back from distant spots — ghoulish, quivering reverberations that remained prolonged.
Then silence. The Shadow’s movements were inaudible. Master of darkness, be had become familiar with these depths. His unfollowed trail had ended as mysteriously as if the walls themselves had swallowed him.
CHAPTER XI. PLOTTERS BY NIGHT
WHILE The Shadow had been engaged in his strange expedition, Harry Vincent and Rex Brodford had not been idle. The two young men had chugged their way to the gully that marked the edge of the Quest mine property. They had moored the motorboat and found the blazed trail to the shack.
Stowing their luggage, they had decided to return to the lake. In course of discussion, both had agreed that it would be more pleasant to spend the night at Laspar’s lodge. They could then start their first day’s search from the water’s edge.
The trek up to the shack had been a rocky one. Their return progress had been slow. With the boat ride, and two miles of hike up the hill and two miles down again, they had consumed considerable time.
Added to this was a half hour that they had spent at the shack. The entire procedure had required more than two hours and a half.
Seated on the shore beside the motorboat, Rex and Harry lighted their pipes and began to talk about the night’s work. Rippleless, the blackened water of Lake Chalice lay before them. Under a cloudy sky, they could scarcely discern the point where Laspar’s lodge stood.
The air was warm and sullen. The water lay Styxlike in its inkiness. The adventurers were like lost souls, waiting for Charon’s barge to take them to some nether shore.
Something in the gloom aroused Rex Brodford.
“Vincent,” declared the young man, seriously, “we’d be dubs to call this a night. We’re betwixt and between, if you get the idea.”
“Elucidate,” laughed Harry.
“We’ve left the shack,” resumed Rex, “and we’d be crazier than we are if we went back to it. But at the same time, we told Laspar we intended to stay there.”
“We intimated that we would.”
“Well, there are no lights showing on the point. He has given us up for the night, and a pair of fine wahoos we’d be if we barged in at this late hour.”
“So therefore, we should camp here.”
“No. The shack is the best bet, provided that we can kid ourselves into thinking we had a reason for coming back here to the lake.”
“A reason? How about a ride in the motorboat?”
“A mode of transportation. I want a purpose. I have one, if you’re game.”
“A trip to Old Absalom’s isle?”
“You’ve guessed it.”
HARRY pondered. The adventure appealed to him. But Harry held some concern about the advisability of such a step. He felt that it would be better to first contact The Shadow.
While Harry considered, Rex broke the chain of thought.
“Come along,” he scoffed. “We ought to find out something about this bearded hermit before we start hunting for the mine shaft. Let’s look in on him, at his native habitat. He’s part of the fauna of Lake Chalice.”
“It might not be wise,” began Harry.
“Why not?” Rex’s query carried a note of suspicion. “I thought you were with me a hundred per cent, Vincent.”
“I am,” acknowledged Harry. He saw need of an excuse for his reluctance. “I’m not worrying about Old Absalom. What I don’t like is the motorboat.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“You can hear it anywhere on Lake Chalice. If we chugged down by that island, the hermit would be out with a howitzer, waiting to sink us.”
“No other objection?”
“None.”
Rex chuckled. “How about that old rowboat we saw on the shore?” he queried. “The flat-bottomed scow that somebody turned turtle. We can use that. Come along we’ll get it.”
Rex arose. Harry was forced to follow. He had no present excuse for dallying. He hoped only that they would find a leaky boat, with no oars.
But Harry was doomed to disappointment. After blundering through underbrush, they came upon the boat. Rex thumped it and found it solid; then stumbled upon the oars projecting from beneath the inverted gunwales.
“Loop oarlocks,” he commented, as he shook one of the oars. “All ready to go. Come along — we’ll launch this beauty and begin our voyage.”
ONE hour later, the boat was gliding close to the lee of Old Absalom’s island. Rex was at the oars; Harry was seated in the stern, watching the boat’s course.
Progress had been slower than anticipated. The trip had begun with creaking oarlocks, which Harry had protested. As a result, they had stopped at the motorboat for an oil can.
Generous squirts of lubricant had banished the noise. Rex was a competent oarsman; and he had added skill rather than speed. Half a mile from the isle, he had muffled his strokes entirely. The approach was one of stealth.
The boat grounded on sand. Rex clambered ashore. Harry followed, and they drew the boat up among the bushes. Skirting the shore of the little islet, the two men looked for signs of a path. They did this in darkness, not caring to risk a flashlight.
Harry stumbled against a large object. It turned out to be a skiff — the boat that the hermit evidently used.
Pressing among the bushes, Harry used a flashlight on the ground. The rays showed what appeared to be a path.
The investigators prowled their way toward the center of the island. They saw a glimmer. Edging away from the path, they came to the side of a crude cabin. A glow from a grimy window proved that someone was at home.
“Listen!” Harry whispered the warning. “Voices — in the cabin!”
“We can make it to the window,” returned Rex.