Dave nodded.
Farrow pulled a check book from his pocket. He brought out a fountain pen and wrote a check, which he handed to his companion.
“Two hundred, Dave,” announced the ex-convict. “I have plenty in this New York bank. I can establish credit when I arrive where I’m going.”
Dave fished out a roll of bills, extracted the amount that his chief required, and gave it to Farrow in exchange for the check.
“Say, boss” — Dave’s tone was one of wonder — “the way you work beats me. You keep fellows like me out of the jug — then you go and get shoved in stir yourself. As soon as you’re out, you start away on something else—”
“That’s my business, Dave,” snapped Farrow. “In the meantime, stay here and await instructions — unless I return. There’s work to be done here in New York, but I’ve always preferred the smaller cities.”
Dave nodded soberly. There was approval in his manner. Despite the hardness of his countenance, Dave had an honest air which Farrow seemed to note. The ex-convict laughed. He thrust out his hand for a parting shake.
“I’m going aboard the train, Dave,” he said. “The sleeper opens at ten o’clock, and I’ll be leaving it early in the morning. Thanks for the way you’ve handled matters here.”
“That’s all right, boss.”
The Shadow was moving from the anteroom. The door had closed behind him before Dave, picking up one of the suitcases, was leading the way toward the hall. The two men went down in the elevator while The Shadow watched from the obscurity of a side passage. A few minutes later, Dave returned. The Shadow saw him enter his apartment.
A soft laugh sounded as The Shadow glided toward the stairs. The Shadow had trailed; he had heard. That was sufficient. So far as The Shadow was concerned, Slade Farrow had announced his exact destination.
The midnight train — the necessity of leaving the sleeper early in the morning — these were all the facts that The Shadow required. Six hours out of New York, that midnight train connected with the D & O Limited, a flyer that reached Southfield early in the afternoon.
Slade Farrow was on his way to make use of the secret that he had gained from Ferris Legrand!
CHAPTER IV
IN SOUTHFIELD
AT one thirty the next afternoon, the D & O Limited was pounding its course along a one-track line that wound upward through steep hills. Slade Farrow, immaculately dressed, was seated in a Pullman car, staring from the window.
Up ahead, he could see the locomotive as it swung a sharp curve to the left. He heard the shrill blasts from the whistle that signified the train was approaching a grade crossing. Farrow stared with interest, for he could see nothing but woods upon the left side of the roadbed.
Then, with surprising suddenness, the locomotive reached an iron trestle that crossed a precipitous gorge. As the train straightened, Slade Farrow looked straight downward. Slowly, the cars of the limited crossed the structural bridge. Two hundred feet below were huge rocks that marked the sides of a tiny, winding stream.
As Farrow’s car passed the trestle, the watching man saw the grade crossing. A paved road came on a curve from the thick woods at the left.
Evidently this highway paralleled the railroad until it neared the gorge; then it crossed and kept along the side of the deep abyss.
Farrow’s assumption was correct. The road came in view later. The train increased speed with curves and grade behind it. The road stayed parallel for a few miles, then dipped down into a smaller depression and passed beneath a bridge over which the train was rolling.
“Southfield, sah!”
Farrow arose at the porter’s statement. He went to the front of the car, where he found his grips waiting in the vestibule. The train was clicking into station yards. It was rolling past grade crossings in the little city which nestled among surrounding hills.
Farrow was one of the few passengers who alighted. He found himself on the platform of a well-built station where a main street crossed the tracks of the D & O Railway. Traffic was waiting for the limited to leave. A cabby sauntered up as he saw Farrow with the bags.
“Cab, sir?”
“All right. Drive me to the Southfield House.”
THE hotel was but a few blocks from the station. Slade Farrow arrived there. His bags were carried in, and he went up to the desk to register.
As the clerk was assigning a room to the new guest, a clean-cut young man strolled into the lobby. Slade Farrow did not see him. The same young chap had been at the station. He had walked in this direction while Farrow was entering the cab.
Passing the desk, the young man glanced at the register. He saw Farrow’s name; also the room number — 309. The young man smiled. The single elevator had gone up. When it came down, the young chap entered it and rode up to the third floor. He entered Room 301.
This keen observer was Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow. He had come to Southfield for the express purpose of awaiting Slade Farrow’s arrival. Informed by telegraph that Farrow was due on the D & O Limited, Harry had been at the depot to spot the ex-convict.
Leaving his door a trifle ajar, Harry Vincent sat down in a chair. From his vantage point, he could see the door of Farrow’s room.
About fifteen minutes after Harry had stationed himself, the door of Room 309 opened and Slade Farrow came out. Harry arose and also made his exit.
The two went down on the elevator. Farrow walked from the lobby. Harry lounged about for a few minutes, then strolled out. He saw Farrow crossing the street half a block away. Keeping the man in view, Harry followed. He watched Farrow stop at an old brick house which had been converted into an office building. He saw the man enter.
Harry Vincent smiled. It was not difficult to guess where Farrow had gone. The door through which the man had entered opened on a flight of steps. The second story offices — the only ones which were occupied — were those of Norton Granger, a prominent young Southfield attorney. Satisfied, Harry went back to the hotel to await Farrow’s return.
ON the second floor of the office building, Slade Farrow had entered a large room where a stenographer was seated at a desk. In a pleasant tone, the ex-convict inquired for Mr. Granger. The girl took his card, entered the front office, and returned.
“You may go in,” she said.
Slade Farrow entered. He found himself facing a young, quiet-faced man who sat at the opposite side of a large desk. Norton Granger was serious of demeanor. Despite his youth, he had the appearance of a capable attorney.
Granger’s eyes were keen as he observed his visitor. In Slade Farrow, he saw a man who appeared both respectable and wealthy. There was nothing of the crook in Farrow’s expression. That had left him when he had dropped the part of Sam Fulwell.
“Mr. Farrow?” inquired Granger.
“Yes,” rejoined the visitor. “From New York. I have arrived in town today, and I have business here in which you may be able to aid me.”
Norton Granger folded his hands and waited.
“I am in the clothing business,” stated Farrow. “Wholesale and retail. I have money, and it is my desire to open an enterprise of my own. I have decided that it would be best to locate in a territory served by a single city.”
“Such as Southfield.”
“Exactly. I believe that I could do well here, provided that I could begin by buying out some small but established business. Inasmuch as this will involve legal matters, I decided that my first step should be to retain an attorney.”
“I can serve you in that capacity, Mr. Farrow.”
“Excellent. I have an account in a New York bank which I shall transfer here to Southfield. I want to establish myself as soon as possible; and also I intend to open a few branch stores in some of the smaller towns in this locality.”