“I want you to meet Mr. Vincent,” said the girl. “He is a new friend of mine. I met him through Lamont Cranston.”
Hartnett raised his eyebrows as he heard these words. Lamont Cranston, globe-trotting millionaire, was a man highly recognized by New York society; and any friend of his would be quickly invited and welcomed to an affair of this sort.
Westley Hartnett shook hands with a clean-cut young chap, and began a conversation. The lawyer usually took little interest in the young men who came to Maxine Schofield’s parties, but Harry Vincent impressed him as one of a highly intelligent type.
“You are a friend of Lamont Cranston?” questioned the lawyer.
“Yes,” replied the young man. “In fact, we were lunching together at the Ritz when he introduced me to Miss Schofield.”
“Quite a character,” remarked Hartnett. “Cranston is a most unusual man. He travels everywhere — coming and going as he chooses. In fact, I thought that he was abroad at present. The last I heard, he had set out to hunt elephants in Africa.”
“I have known Cranston for a long while,” returned Harry. “He has a way of talking about his travels that completely disregards the time element. He told me one story about Tibet that might have happened a month ago, or thirty years ago. He did not specify.”
“I have met Cranston at the Cobalt Club,” nodded Hartnett. “I have heard him tell of his travels, and have noted the very peculiarity of which you speak.”
The two men were strolling away from the large room as they talked. Hartnett, interested in the conversation, did not realize that his companion was urging him to another spot.
Suddenly finding that they had left the range of the dancers, Hartnett suggested that they occupy the sun porch, and enjoy a smoke. Harry agreed.
The middle-aged lawyer and his young friend became involved in various discussions as they puffed at their perfectos in the seclusion of the porch. Time drifted rapidly, and Hartnett continued to enjoy the new companionship.
He wondered why Harry Vincent, a man who seemed practical-minded, had bothered to come to so trivial a function as the party which was now in progress.
Westley Hartnett would have been amazed had he known the answer. Harry Vincent was here for one special purpose. That was to watch Westley Hartnett.
HARRY VINCENT was an agent of that remarkable personage known as The Shadow. He had been introduced to Maxine Schofield, so that he could act as secret protector to either the lawyer or the old banker.
In a sense, Harry’s duty was thus a double one, but he had been instructed to concentrate upon Hartnett unless some event should render Schofield more important.
Harry’s introduction to Maxine Schofield had been well contrived. The personality of Lamont Cranston, globe-trotting millionaire, who kept a permanent home in New Jersey, was one which The Shadow himself frequently adopted. Thus, The Shadow, as Cranston, had invited Harry to lunch at the Ritz — where Maxine Schofield always had her noontime meal.
Yet Harry, himself, did not know that it was his mysterious chief who had carried through the actual introduction. He knew that there must be some connection between Cranston and The Shadow, but he had accepted the famous millionaire purely as another confidential agent — not as The Shadow himself.
Tonight, Harry intended to remain at this mansion until Westley Hartnett made his departure. Then he was to follow the lawyer, unless something should command him to remain. The Shadow had placed reliance in Harry Vincent’s judgment.
The talk turned to legal matters. Smoothly, Harry gained Hartnett’s interest so effectively that the lawyer expressed a desire to meet him frequently. This was important progress for Harry Vincent. It meant that he would be able to keep close watch from now on.
“Stop in and see me,” urged Hartnett. “Any time — at the office or the apartment. I’m batching it while my wife is away. There’s plenty of room if you want to stay overnight. Frankly” — Hartnett smiled as he puffed his cigar — “it is unusual to meet someone of your intelligence at one of these parties. I am a man with few friends; and I like to further worthwhile acquaintances.
“Now, there” — Hartnett pointed through the door toward a young man who was donning his hat and coat, about to leave — “is one whom I distinctly do not like. He is typical of the idling, worthless class of social parasites.”
Hugo Urvin was the one whom the lawyer indicated. Maxine Schofield was saying good night to the parting guest. Turning, the girl observed the pair upon the sun porch.
“I wondered what became of you,” exclaimed Maxine. “I don’t mind Mr. Hartnett running away, because he doesn’t like to dance. But I can’t excuse you, Mr. Vincent. Come alone — you will have this dance with me.”
Harry nodded to Hartnett and went with the girl to join the other guests. At the end of the dance, he managed to return to the sun porch. As he neared the open door, he noted Hartnett drowsily holding his cigar. Then Harry stopped suddenly.
BEYOND the lawyer, peering through the pane of an unshaded window, was the most hideous face that Harry Vincent had ever seen. Glaring, gloating, with bulging eyes and extended teeth, it was the countenance of a terrible fiend.
A face of evil, it hung there like an insidious menace, a mass of grotesque yellow that seemed too horrible to be a human visage!
Harry Vincent waited, making no move to betray his arrival. While he watched, the face melted away as it withdrew into the outer darkness. Then Harry walked boldly into the sun porch. His appearance aroused Hartnett from his reverie.
“Hello, Vincent,” said the lawyer. “I was half asleep. Think I’ll have to be running into the city. Finish the cigar first, I guess. Sit down; sit down.”
“I’ll be back,” remarked Harry. “I have a telephone call to make. I’ll see you before you leave, Mr. Hartnett.”
Harry found the telephone beside an obscure hall closet. He called a number, and a low voice responded.
“Burbank speaking.”
It was the voice of The Shadow’s secret contact man. Burbank was always available to active agents such as Harry. Burbank, alone, held direct communication with The Shadow.
“Someone watching Hartnett,” informed Harry, as he glanced about to make sure that no listeners were close by. “Yellow face — like a Chinaman — through the sun-porch window.”
“Stand by for return call.”
Harry hung up the receiver and waited. Several minutes went by. The bell began to ring, and Harry pounced upon the receiver so quickly that he was sure no one else could have heard the call.
“Vincent speaking,” he informed.
“Burbank,” came the quiet reply. “Hold Hartnett. Watch for the yellow face. Trace it if possible.”
Harry hung up. He knew what this meant. The Shadow would be here with all possible speed. By keeping Hartnett for a while, all would be well.
But when Harry reached the sun porch, he found that the lawyer was no longer there. During the interim of Harry’s absence, Hartnett had evidently decided to start into the city.
HURRYING past the dance room, Harry reached the front door and stepped out onto a veranda. There was a long walk to a curving drive; at the end, Harry saw a coupe just about to pull away.
Hartnett’s car!
Orders were to hold Hartnett; that could not be done now. The only course was to follow the lawyer into the city.
Harry’s own coupe was out in the same drive. But as the young man watched the moving vehicle, his eyes suddenly noticed a bush that was just within the glare of Hartnett’s headlights.
Crouched behind the clump of shrubbery, discernible by Harry, but concealed from Hartnett’s view, was a grotesque figure that was watching the departure of the lawyer. As the rays of light revealed the ugly shape, Harry saw the same face that he had observed at the sun-porch window.