“The Harvester, gentlemen, is a man close to this game. One who left London yesterday; who has hoaxed us with false pretensions. I can name him; it is your task to capture him. The Harvester is Lionel Selbrock!”
Almost with the rajah’s words, the door swung open. Turning, those in the room saw two men upon the threshold. One was a member of the C.I.D. — Burleigh — while the other was the very person whom the rajah had just denounced. Lionel Selbrock, pale and staring, had arrived to hear the accusation.
He was Burleigh’s prisoner; for the Scotland Yard man was holding a revolver muzzle against Selbrock’s back. No more dramatic entry could have been arranged. The very circumstances were an echo of the rajah’s words; they stood as proof of Selbrock’s guilt.
To Harry Vincent, the answer was plain. Selbrock was The Harvester. Yet when Harry glanced toward The Shadow, something made him wonder. There was a smile upon the lips of Lamont Cranston; one that meant to wait for further judgment.
Did The Shadow believe Selbrock innocent? Or was his cryptic smile an indication that he expected the man to confess guilt? Harry could not answer. Yet he was sure that The Shadow must know all.
CHAPTER XX. TWO PLEAS ARE HEARD
“WHERE did you trap Selbrock?”
The query came from Sidney Lewsham. It was addressed to Burleigh as the C.I.D. man pushed the prisoner to a convenient chair. Burleigh answered, watching Selbrock as he spoke.
“At the Addingham,” he said. “How he slipped in there, I can’t guess. We were watching every terminus.”
Selbrock heard the statement. He leaned back and delivered a guffaw. He followed by looking straight toward Lewsham.
“Don’t let this chap excuse his own inefficiency,” he said, with a gesture toward Burleigh. “We have debated that point all the way out here. He swears that he had every terminus covered. He is wrong. If his men had been properly placed at Euston Station, they would have arrested me when I arrived aboard the Royal Scot.”
Burleigh looked troubled. Selbrock grinned.
“The Royal Scot drew in ahead of schedule,” he remarked. “I understand that it does so quite frequently. We covered the three hundred miles from Carlisle in less than five hours and a half. We departed from Carlisle at ten minutes after twelve. We reached Euston Station at half past five.”
“Is this correct, Burleigh?” demanded Lewsham. “Were your men negligent in meeting the Royal Scot at Euston?”
“They may have been,” admitted Burleigh, in a sulky tone, “but I doubt it, sir. If this chap came from the Royal Scot, he must have dashed from the gate in a great hurry.”
“I was aboard one of the front carriages,” assured Selbrock, promptly. “That is probably why I escaped observation. But I did not rush from the gate.”
“What time did Selbrock reach the Addingham?” quizzed Lewsham.
“Not until half past seven,” replied Burleigh. “That was when we apprehended him.”
“I was dining in the meantime,” put in Selbrock. “I tell you, I have been hoaxed. Badly hoaxed! Look at this telegram that I received yesterday. Wait— Burleigh has it.”
“Here it is, sir,” informed Burleigh. “The slip was in Selbrock’s pocket.”
Lewsham received the paper. The Shadow, standing near by, could read the message. It was signed “Dorcus” and it called for Selbrock to meet him at Abbey Town, by the earliest train possible.
“Who is Dorcus?” questioned Lewsham.
“An old schoolmate,” returned Selbrock. “We were friends at Rugby. I have not seen him for years. Inquired everywhere for him. Then came this telegram, which I received yesterday. That is why I took the four o’clock afternoon express to Carlisle.”
Harry Vincent looked toward The Shadow. He saw the latter’s smile. Selbrock was claiming that he had taken the very train which Harry had picked from the pages of his Bradshaw.
“THREE hundred miles north to Carlisle,” resumed Selbrock, “arriving there at ten-fifty. I had just time to catch the last local for Abbey Town, at ten minutes past eleven. Twelve miles to Abbey Town; I reached there at eleven thirty-eight.”
“And met Dorcus?” queried Lewsham.
“No,” responded Selbrock, sourly. “That was the catch to it. Dorcus was not there at Abbey Town station. Some one had spoofed me. I stood there, gawking, upon the platform of the station. The last train had gone down to Carlisle. No one was about.
“Any one will attest my statement when I say that a provincial town becomes quiescent after nightfall. The passing of the last train is heard by no one; for all are asleep. There was I in Abbey Town, with no place to spend the night.
“My only opportunity was to walk five miles to the end of the line at Silloth, where I knew that I should find a hotel; for Silloth is close to the shore of Solway Firth. I arrived there after midnight; so I slept amid the west coast breezes. The hotel register at Silloth will testify to the fact that I was there.”
Lewsham nodded doubtingly. Selbrock became indignant.
“I have been hoaxed, I tell you!” he exclaimed. “When I left Silloth by the morning down train, I did not reach Carlisle until half past eleven.”
“You slept too late for the early train?”
“Yes. I dispatched a telegram from Carlisle. Then I took the Royal Scot at ten minutes past noon. It was the logical train, under the circumstances. Rudlow, Limited, must have received my telegram. I addressed it to Justin Craybaw.”
“The telegram was received,” admitted Lewsham, “but Craybaw was not at Rudlow’s to make it public. Our question, therefore, is whether or not you actually dispatched the message from Carlisle.”
“I was in Carlisle—”
“A burden of proof lies upon you.”
Selbrock came to his feet, his face savage. Burleigh stood ready with revolver, in case the accused man made trouble. Selbrock stormed his challenge at Lewsham.
“Your blind stupidity is the cause of this!” he exclaimed. “If the men you sent from Scotland Yard had been on the job at Euston, they would have met me at half past five! That would have supported my alibi! Burleigh has admitted negligence. The burden lies upon you. Prove that I was in Carlisle!
“Send to the town of Silloth. Find my signature upon the hotel register there. Examine those ticket stubs that Burleigh took from my pocket along with that spoofing telegram. They prove that I traveled up to London, aboard the Royal Scot.
“Call the Wildersham Cafe, in Piccadilly. Ask for Lester, the head waiter. He will say that I arrived there at six; that I talked with him while I dined.”
IT was the Rajah of Delapore who answered Selbrock’s outburst. He had passed the accusation along to the man from Mesopotamia; hence the Hindu potentate took it upon himself to attack Selbrock’s rebuttal.
“Lies, all these,” denounced the rajah, in his well-toned voice. “The Harvester has tools everywhere. It is no use, Selbrock. Some one was in Silloth, to inscribe your name there. That same person must have sent the telegram from Carlisle. Lester, the head waiter at the Wildersham, may be in your pay. It would be wise to apprehend him also. You are The Harvester, Selbrock. Your game was to gain my quarter million—”
“Absurd!” interposed Selbrock. “My Mesopotamian oil options were worth two hundred thousand pounds alone. Why, when I had such a fortune coming to me, would I have risked a career of crime?”
“The options may be false—”
“False? They satisfied you.”
The rajah had no reply. Lewsham introduced a nod.
“Quite correct,” he said. “The oil options have been thoroughly investigated.”