A gruesome, yellow countenance was directing its fiendish gaze toward the moving car. Slowly rising, the gloating figure turned its head to stare at the driver of the coupe.
The car shot ahead; the lights were gone; but in a dull glow that stretched from the illuminated windows of Barton Schofield’s mansion, Harry could still see the outline of the insidious creature.
Silently, Harry watched. This was a dilemma. He had two duties now; to watch Hartnett; to spy upon this nocturnal visitor. Had he not seen the huddled figure, Harry would have traveled in the lawyer’s wake.
Now, with what appeared to be an insidious enemy still in view, Harry decided to remain. He must be here to guide The Shadow. Westley Hartnett? Harry Vincent felt qualms; then decided that the lawyer would surely be safe. Hartnett had gone; but the menacing creature had not. Danger, Harry felt, was here.
He thought of Barton Schofield, and kept close vigil on the bush where the figure still crouched. If the creature started toward the house, a warning might prove necessary. Minutes passed while Harry watched. Fifteen; twenty.
Straining his eyes, Harry suddenly detected that the monster was in motion. The figure became a long shape that sprang in apelike fashion as it left the bush. Bounding across the lawn, skirting the side of the house, it disappeared in blackness.
Was this the time for action? Harry hesitated. He waited a few minutes more, hoping that the creature might reappear. Then, in alarm, he turned to enter the house. Something gripped his arm; Harry repressed a startled gasp as he turned to face two glowing eyes that shone from the darkness which enshrouded this veranda.
The Shadow!
SELDOM did Harry meet his mysterious master. This incident was a flashback to the night when Harry had entered The Shadow’s service. Then, a black figure had emerged from darkness to grip Harry just as the young man was about to take a suicidal leap from a bridge.
A deluge of memories swept through Harry’s excited mind; they ended when he heard a single word uttered — a command which came in the sinister whisper of The Shadow.
“Report!”
In a hushed tone, Harry quickly told what he had seen. The Shadow answered in another single word:
“Remain!”
With that, the black-garbed phantom was gone. So swift and silent was the departure, that Harry could not imagine what direction The Shadow had taken.
It was several minutes before Harry Vincent again felt the firm grasp upon his arm. This time, without turning, he heard the whispered instructions of The Shadow.
“Your hat. Your coat. Drive your car to the lane beyond the lawn. Park without lights, beneath a tree.”
Again, the figure of The Shadow faded away. Harry went back into the house, obtained his hat and coat, and told the servant to inform Miss Schofield that he had been forced to leave to keep an unexpected appointment.
He hurried to his coupe, and drove to the appointed spot. Hardly had he parked his car and extinguished the lights before the door of the coupe had opened, and a firm hand was drawing him from the car.
Reaching the fringe of the lawn, Harry heard the voice of The Shadow close beside his ear. The master of darkness was pointing out a special window that showed plainly against the gray stone of the house — a blackened spot that Harry quickly distinguished.
“Barton Schofield’s room,” carried The Shadow’s uncanny whisper. “I was there. All is well at present. The window is the only way of entrance. The door beyond is locked. Keep watch for any intruder. Act if necessary.”
The words ended almost in a tone of mockery. Strange, whispered echoes remained in Harry’s ear.
Before the sibilant sounds had faded, The Shadow was gone.
A car pulled away from a spot farther up the lane. Harry knew the meaning. The Shadow had departed on some mission. Perhaps he was going to cover Westley Hartnett while Harry remained on guard here.
Minutes went by; still Harry watched. No sign occurred. Between the time when Harry had last seen it, and the moment when The Shadow had arrived, that evil creature with the yellow face had made a quick and untraceable departure.
The Shadow, now, was gone. Harry Vincent remained upon his lonely vigil.
Yellow face! What menace did it carry? Was it the countenance of some superfiend that threatened the lives of helpless men?
Harry sensed that the demonish being might still be here, ready to attack a weary old man, asleep in an upstairs room of the mansion.
He, Harry Vincent, was the only person who could protect Barton Schofield from the threat, should it appear again. That window would be easily accessible to the springing, apish figure that Harry had seen upon the lawn.
Keyed to the importance of his duty, Harry Vincent waited, his hand upon the cold steel of an automatic which rested in the pocket of his overcoat.
One car had driven from the drive, just after the departure of The Shadow. Another left; other guests departed a few minutes later. Harry Vincent remained on watch.
CHAPTER IX. AT THE UNION CLUB
WHILE strange episodes were taking place at Barton Schofield’s mansion, Hugo Urvin had reached the Union Club in Manhattan. The young man felt a keen satisfaction as he entered the portals of this exclusive meeting place.
His second visit to Chinatown had been made last night. There, in the Buddhist shrine, he had delivered his envelope. In return, he had received a wrapped gift from Chon Look.
The package had contained five bank notes wrapped around a souvenir tray made of brass. This time, however, the bills were of double value — one hundred dollars each. Between the peeled sheets of the wrapping paper, Urvin had discovered another message.
More money! That seemed to be the promise. For tonight, Urvin had another mission to perform in the service of Kwa. He had left Schofield’s early in the evening, in order to reach the Union Club in time.
Strolling through the lounge room, Urvin spied the man whom he sought. This was Blaine Goodall, president of the Huxley Corporation. The Union Club was the place where Goodall could most frequently be found. He lived at the club, and seldom left it except to go to his office.
Affecting a prosperous air, Urvin sat down beside Goodall and began a friendly conversation. The corporation president seemed rather annoyed; nevertheless, he joined in the chat.
Urvin, seeking to emphasize the fact that he was now well supplied with funds, began to question Goodall regarding the advantages of living at the Union Club.
“I like it here,” declared Goodall. “You would probably find it an excellent place to live.”
“Which floor are you on?” questioned Urvin, in a casual tone.
“The fifth,” asserted Goodall. “Room 550. I have never changed it since I came here. In fact, tonight will be the first time that I have been away in six months.”
“Tonight?” echoed Urvin. “You are going out of town?”
“Yes,” declared Goodall. “I expect to leave at midnight. I am driving down to Trenton.”
“Rather late,” remarked Urvin.
“I am waiting for a friend,” returned Goodall. “Conrad Beecham is going with me. He cannot get here until midnight. If he were not going along, I would start now.”
“Trenton,” observed Urvin. “You take the Lincoln Highway, as usual, I suppose?”
“No,” answered Goodall, “I prefer to cut across country. There is less traffic.”
Goodall pulled an envelope from his pocket. He traced a route upon it, then tossed the envelope toward a wastebasket. The piece of paper fluttered and fell short, dropping between the chair and the basket.