“I expected to find Inspector Delka,” he stated. “He said that he might be here this afternoon.”
“You will probably find him at Rudlow’s,” returned the rajah. “I communicated with them, to-day, making final arrangements for my business. Delka was expected some time in the afternoon.”
“I shall proceed there. Very sorry, your excellency, to have disturbed you. I expected to make inquiry from your secretary.”
“Ranworthy is not here. He has gone out of London for the night. To Yarmouth, I believe.”
“Yarmouth? At this season?”
“It was not a pleasure trip,” smiled the rajah. “Word from some relative who is ill there.”
After leaving the rajah’s, The Shadow returned to his own abode near St. James Square. He consulted a Bradshaw and found that a through train left Liverpool Street Station for Yarmouth, shortly before five o’clock, via the London and Northeastern Railway.
That was the one which Ranworthy would probably take to reach his destination, on the east coast, at eight in the evening. But it did not explain his hasty departure, unless he had intended to do some shopping before train time.
There was not sufficient time to go to Liverpool Street, particularly because The Shadow had a telephone call to make in response to a message that awaited him. His call was to Harry Vincent.
From the agent, he learned of Lionel Selbrock’s departure, and of Harry’s theories on the same. That call concluded, The Shadow strolled from his quarters, hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to Threadneedle Street, where Rudlow, Limited, was located.
On the way, The Shadow considered the coincidental circumstances that had taken Lionel Selbrock and Jed Ranworthy from London. Each had received an urgent message; one from a friend, the other from a relative.
Selbrock had presumably departed for the northwest; Ranworthy for the northeast. But The Shadow had only Harry’s guess concerning Selbrock; and the rajah’s statement regarding Ranworthy. It was possible that Selbrock could have bluffed persons at the hotel; that Ranworthy could have deceived the rajah.
What was the connection between these occurrences? The thought brought a thin smile to The Shadow’s disguised lips. He was piecing the circumstances that had suddenly caused both himself and Harry Vincent to lose trace of persons whom they had been watching. The best way to find an answer was to study circumstances elsewhere. That was exactly what The Shadow intended to accomplish.
The ancient taxi was passing the Bank of England. The Shadow eyed the structure that housed England’s wealth, and the view made him think of The Harvester. Wealth was the supercrook’s stake. There might be opportunity for the hidden criminal to gain it, while the transactions of Rudlow, Limited, were in the making.
The taxi rolled along Threadneedle Street, to the north of the Lombard Street banking district. It came to a stop. The Shadow alighted and sought the offices of Rudlow, Limited. He was just in time to enter before the closing hour of five.
ANNOUNCING himself as Lamont Cranston, The Shadow was ushered into a quietly furnished room, where he found three men. One was Justin Craybaw, the managing director; the second, Sir Ernest Jennup. The third was a person whom The Shadow had not expected to find here: Sidney Lewsham, the chief constable of the C.I.D.
It was Craybaw who gave greeting.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cranston!” exclaimed the managing director. “Your arrival is most timely. We are about to set out for my country residence, near Tunbridge Wells. Can you accompany us?”
“You are going by train?” queried The Shadow.
“By motor,” replied Craybaw. “We shall travel in Sir Ernest’s phaeton. I should like to have you dine with us.”
“Agreed,” decided The Shadow. “With one proviso, however. I must be back in London quite early in the evening.”
“You may return by train,” said Craybaw. “I shall have my chauffeur, Cuthbert, carry you to the station in the coupe. The others will be staying late, since they expect Inspector Delka on the train which arrives at nine o’clock.”
“Very well.”
The group left Craybaw’s office. They went to the street and walked to a garage where Sir Ernest’s automobile was stationed. Sir Ernest took the wheel, with Craybaw beside him. The Shadow and Lewsham occupied the rear seat of the trim car.
“A quiet motor, this,” remarked Lewsham, leaning half from the car and eyeing the long hood. “Not a sound from underneath the bonnet, despite the high power of the vehicle.”
They were crossing a bridge that spanned the Thames. There, thick mist was spreading through the darkening gloom. Every indication marked the approach of a heavy fog. Lewsham looked upward, toward the smokiness that clustered the sky.
“We are in for a pea-souper,” prophesied the chief constable. “Fog so thick that one could cleave it with a knife!”
“I noticed those signs this morning,” put in Craybaw, from the front seat. “Even when I was coming up to town, riding past Waterloo into Charing Cross Station. You are correct, sir. The fog will prove dense tonight.”
Sir Ernest was silent at the wheel, piloting the long car southward toward the open road which led to Tunbridge Wells, some thirty-five miles from London. The Shadow, too, was silent. He was pondering upon a subject of deep concern.
Fog over London. A blanket of haze not unlike the smoke screen which The Harvester had created in regard to crime. Yet, with the coming of one fog, the other seemed to be clearing. Curious events were piecing themselves within The Shadow’s keen mind.
Unless previous circumstances were matters of pure chance, the answer to certain riddles would be forthcoming before this night was ended. To The Shadow, past events would control the future. Crime was clearing because the time was near when it would strike. By then, The Shadow hoped to hold the final key.
CHAPTER IX. SOUTH OF LONDON
JUSTIN CRAYBAW’S home was a pretentious country residence, situated close to Tunbridge Wells.
Past the suburban belt, it was almost a spot of rural England. The house, though large and modern, had all the isolation of a rustic abode, for it was surrounded by spacious grounds, with high hedges along the traveled roadway.
Long driveway formed entry to the grounds; and on the far side of the house was a conservatory that overlooked a secluded, rolling lawn. It was in this room where the four assembled after dinner, to smoke their cigars and to discuss the matter that was their chief concern.
“Chief Lewsham,” began Sir Ernest, “we are exceedingly alarmed by the activities of this rogue you term The Harvester. I, for one, was more than annoyed to learn that he impersonated myself. To me, that fact stands as a warning that we may expect to hear from him again.”
“His tool, Captain Darryat, was close to the Rajah of Delapore,” added Craybaw, seriously. “For that matter, The Harvester contacted with Lionel Selbrock also. Those facts show us that The Harvester may be planning a new and more potent game.”
Lewsham nodded slowly.
“I believe that you are right,” he decided. “The Harvester has not reaped sufficient spoils. A rogue of his ilk will never cease until he has gained a final triumph. He is as dangerous as ever.”
“Not quite,” put in The Shadow, in the easy tone of Cranston. “He is handicapped by his sacrifice of a chief lieutenant, Captain Darryat.”
“But he may have others,” objected Lewsham. “Some one could work in place of Darryat.”
“Hardly so,” stated The Shadow. “If The Harvester had possessed another competent lieutenant, he would not have played Darryat as his regular trump card.”
The statement impressed Lewsham. It was logical and it came as a ray of hope. The Shadow, however, was prompt to squelch the chief constable’s glee.