He was being drawn upward, despite his most valiant efforts — upward into the mass of coppery leaves.
Branches crackled as the detective’s helpless form pressed among them. Merrick’s head swung sidewise, downward — his bulging eyes caught one last glimpse of the brownish sward below. Then that last view ended. Calvin Merrick’s eyes were fixed with death.
SILENCE and gloom reigned over the spot where the detective had last stood. Searching through this grove, Calvin Merrick had learned the cause of Walter Pearson’s disappearance — had but learned it through his own experience. The end of the detective’s quest marked the end of his own life.
A second victim had fallen prey to the insidious influence that existed in this weird environment. Not one trace remained as evidence. Some superhuman force had acted to deal swift doom with its fast-approaching clutch of death. Unseen, unknown, striking from an invisible hiding place, a fierce, relentless agency had done its terrible work. A warning sound — scarcely audible; a grip — so mighty that no man could withstand it; the crackling of branches and the breaking of the victim’s bones — then the silence of doom prevailed.
Within the huge umbra of the interlaced beeches, the unnatural twilight continued, despite the brilliancy of the summer afternoon. Out on the Sound, boats were moving gaily. Inland, on the links, men were playing golf. Surrounded by carefree fellow men, Calvin Merrick had encountered relentless fate.
The disappearance of the detective, like that of Walter Pearson, was still a mystery; yet its occurrence did not pass unnoticed. One man, whose eagle gaze was fixed upon the grove, inferred that some disaster had taken place within the widespread beeches.
Lamont Cranston, on an upper fairway, commanded an angled view that enabled him to see all the land sides of the grove. His eyes watched the thirteenth fairway, they gazed toward Harvey Chittenden’s estate of Lower Beechview and at regular intervals they were focused upon the spot where Merrick should have come forth on his journey to the clubhouse.
Ending his round of golf, Lamont Cranston rested on the clubhouse veranda. For a full hour he had maintained close vigil upon that distant acreage of woods. He had seen Calvin Merrick enter; he had not seen the man emerge.
Afternoon was waning; soon twilight crept over the placid scene. Two hours and a half had passed since Calvin Merrick had gone into the grove of doom. Then did Lamont Cranston cease his watch. He entered the dining room and ordered dinner. He spoke to the attendant.
“I am arranging to stay here at the club,” said Cranston. “Tell the clerk to have a room assigned to me.
IN the evening, when soft moonlight spread its glow above the burnished beeches, Lamont Cranston again stood upon the veranda. The glow of his cigar tip seemed to mark his thoughts. At last the finished stump fizzed through the air. Cranston went indoors and upstairs to his room.
There, from a suitcase which he had brought with him, the calm-faced man took forth two garments. One was a long black cloak, the other a slouch hat.
Donning these clothes, Cranston took on a strange, sinister appearance. His figure no longer possessed a human bearing. It was a form that might well have been conjured from another world.
White hands emerged from the folds of the cloak. Upon one finger of the left hand glistened a shining, mysterious gem of ever-changing hues. It was a rare fire opal, or girasol — the single jewel that symbolized The Shadow.
Black gloves slipped over the long, slender hands. Two automatics came into view, to be buried beneath the folds of the cloak. A hand invisibly extinguished the single light in the room. Completely obscured by darkness, the tall figure in black glided to the hallway and down the stairs.
A few minutes later, an almost imperceptible swish sounded as the cloaked being crossed the veranda.
People were there; but none saw the mystic personage in their midst. A patch of black flitted across the moon-bathed grass. It was like the shadow of a passing cloud unnoticed, despite the fact that the sky was cloudless.
That phantom shape glided on, down toward the mysterious grove.
A strange personage was at work tonight. A being of invisibility was setting forth to follow the course that had taken two men to their doom.
Beside the thirteenth green, the flitting shape merged with the blackness beneath the fringe of overhanging beeches. No eye could have noted that absorption, no ear could have heard the slightest sound.
Lamont Cranston, guest at the Beechview Club, was temporarily absent. He had vanished, but a new presence had arrived. The Shadow, figure of darkness, had ventured forth into impenetrable gloom to seek the answer to the mystery that lay within the grove of beeches!
Where two men had dared by day and died, a single being was advancing through the thickness of night.
The Shadow knew no fear!
Could he elude the clutch of death?
CHAPTER VI. SPECTERS OF THE NIGHT
IT was some time after midnight when Mildred Chittenden awoke from a troubled sleep. The house was strangely calm and still. Its silence was disturbing. The girl found herself wondering what had caused this sudden awakening.
During the past few nights, Mildred had been afflicted with terrifying dreams; vague nightmares that left only worried memory after the awakening. Tonight, in this quiet room, she sought to recall those dreams, but her mind was chaotic.
Listening, Mildred conjured up fanciful thoughts of unexplainable noises. These thoughts became dominating. The room was an oppressive place that seemed to hold her prisoner. The moonlight, floating in through the open window, offered solace. In a frantic effort to escape the overpowering fantasies that swept her brain, Mildred decided to go outdoors, where realities would surely overcome imagination.
Donning a dressing gown and slippers, the girl softly stole from her room and crept through the darkness of the upstairs hall. She detected a sound not far away. It seemed to come from Harvey’s room. Going close to the door, Mildred could hear the slight noise of slow, padded footfalls.
Harvey was evidently awake; if so, he would be in a disagreeable humor. To disturb him would be a mistake. Thus reasoning, Mildred turned to the stairs and descended to the first floor. Holding her fright in abeyance, she opened the front door and reached the porch.
Here, the moonlit lawn was alluring. Softly, so that she could not possibly be heard by anyone in the house, Mildred went down the steps and straight toward the placid Sound, which formed a huge pool of unrippled water. There was an obscure bench among the rocks — a spot from which Mildred had frequently looked out upon the Sound — and it was there that the girl went now.
Here, with her dark gown wrapped closely about her, Mildred reclined so motionless that no one would have detected her presence even at close range. The sight of the water made the girl restful. She fell into a drowse; then suddenly, awakened to view her surroundings in surprise.
Mildred’s head was resting upon the arm of the bench. She peered through the slats at the back, looking toward the lawn and the house beyond. All was as quiet as before. The girl’s eyes wandered; they turned directly toward the grove of beeches, a blackish mass that seemed to infringe upon the edge of lawn like some grim monster of darkness.
Spectral fantasies returned. The girl’s thoughts turned to a vivid scene in a tragedy that she had witnessed long before — in which the witches of Macbeth had raised an apparition to speak to the Scottish chief:
“—Until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall come—”