“They have,” added Justin Craybaw, from behind the desk. “Yes, the options are quite in order. As a matter of fact” — he paused, seriously — “Rudlow, Limited, is still responsible to you for purchase. Unless we declare a bankruptcy” — he turned to Sir Ernest— “we shall have to buy those oil holdings at the price established.”
“So that is why you have come here!” stormed Sir Ernest, convinced that Selbrock must be The Harvester. “Your bold game is to mulct us of another fortune!”
“You are wrong,” rejoined Selbrock. “Unless the Rajah of Delapore has committed himself to purchase, I shall reclaim the oil options.”
“Then we owe the rajah a quarter million!” exclaimed Blessingwood. “I signed his receipt! He is the one who can demand money. He must be The Harvester!”
Selbrock grinned as he gazed toward the rajah. Luck had turned the tide. The burden was tossed back upon the man who had passed it. That, however, produced a lull, for the rajah had already cleared himself. Sidney Lewsham called for silence.
“One thing is certain,” decided the chief constable. “Your trip to Carlisle, Selbrock — or your claim to such a journey — is part of The Harvester’s scheme. If you are The Harvester, the situation fits. A confederate could have sent you the telegram yesterday. He could have sent that wire this noon, the one which The Harvester received when pretending himself to be Justin Craybaw.
“Assuming you to be The Harvester, Selbrock, I can see purpose in both telegrams. Assuming that you are not The Harvester, I can see no purpose. If any one can cause me to change this position, I shall harken gladly. Otherwise, I shall arrest you as The Harvester.”
“And let the crook make good his escape?” demanded Selbrock. “One more mistake on your part—”
He paused, as a voice intervened. The Shadow had stepped forward. He was picking up the telegram, studying it in Cranston’s leisurely fashion.
Lewsham produced the other wire. Harry Vincent watched. Apparently, The Shadow had some defense for Selbrock.
“THE HARVESTER’S scheme, yes,” assured The Shadow. “But one that he would never employ as an alibi. A freak trip to Carlisle; then to Abbey Town, dependent upon a telegram from a friend that cannot be produced. It is too flimsy, Chief Lewsham.
“Let us assume that Selbrock is not The Harvester. Why, then, did the master criminal induce him to leave London? Particularly with this telegram, which close inspection shows to be doubtful?” The Shadow passed both messages to Lewsham, who compared them. Each was marked as being from Carlisle; but the one which Selbrock had received did not quite match the one that he swore he had dispatched to-day. There were minor differences. Lewsham’s eyes narrowed as he studied them.
“I can answer the questions,” assured The Shadow, quietly. “The Harvester realized that he could not incriminate Selbrock. Hence such a step was not his initial purpose. He merely desired to remove Selbrock to London; and with good reason.
“The Harvester knew that funds were coming to the offices of Rudlow, Limited — funds that Selbrock could claim by merely signing over the options. The Harvester wanted to hold those funds until the rajah arrived with another supply of wealth. Then he would have access — as Craybaw — to both.
“There was one step necessary; namely, to send Lionel Selbrock so far from London that he could not return until late to-day. The very schedule that Selbrock had given us is proof that such was the purpose.
The Harvester arranged that Selbrock would not reach London until nearly five o’clock — too late to reach the offices of Rudlow, Limited, before the closing hour. Too late, in any event, to arrive before the double wealth was stolen.”
The logic of The Shadow’s quiet tone was impressive. Listeners nodded in spite of themselves. The Shadow added a final clincher.
“Had The Harvester felt that he could throw the blame on Selbrock,” he added, “he would have hoaxed him further — to some place in Scotland. But The Harvester knew that Selbrock could stand the test. To accuse Selbrock is a folly, which is merely lengthening the short space of time which still belongs to The Harvester.
“For I assure you that the master criminal can be unmasked. Once his name is known, with his true identity, he can be taken. Cold logic should make his name apparent—”
“Jed Ranworthy!”
THE exclamation came from Justin Craybaw, who rose from behind his desk. Sir Ernest Jennup also sprang to his feet. Sidney Lewsham gave a quick nod. He turned to the Rajah of Delapore.
“Your secretary!” exclaimed Lewsham. “We are seeking him, your excellency. Can you help us?”
“He said that he was going to Yarmouth,” replied the rajah, slowly. “He was to return tonight. If only I had known; if I had but suspected—”
Some one was rapping at the door. Delka opened it. An outside man was there, with new information:
“Layton is here. He has bagged the bounder whom he was set to trap.”
“Jed Ranworthy?”
“Yes. Layton is bringing him into the house.”
Footsteps followed the announcement. All gazed expectantly toward the door. They were not disappointed. Layton and another Scotland Yard man arrived, a prisoner between them. The man whom they had captured was nervous in his manner, blinking his dark, beady eyes.
There was no doubt as to the prisoner’s identity. That long-nosed, sallow face beneath the sleek black hair, characterized a countenance that was quickly recognized. Hard upon The Shadow’s statement; immediately after Justin Craybaw’s declaration of Ranworthy’s name, the secretary had been brought before this board of inquisition.
Again, Harry Vincent discerned a firm smile upon the masklike lips that were The Shadow’s. This time, Harry was convinced that the game had found its end. The Harvester was here within this very room.
Under the master quizzing of The Shadow, The Harvester’s machinations would be revealed.
But Harry Vincent did not realize the strange, cross-current of events that was to ensue before the game was finally completed. Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW’S TURN
JED RANWORTHY stood before the tribunal which had sought his presence. Flanked by Scotland Yard men, he heard the outpour of accusations. Nervously, the sallow secretary twitched, while he waited for a chance to speak. When it came, Ranworthy could not have claimed ignorance of the charges against him. Everything had been said.
“You were close to the Rajah of Delapore.” The final summary came from Lewsham. “You could have been the one who brought Captain Darryat to the rajah’s attention. Through Darryat, you met Selbrock, although your knowledge of his options may have begun previously.
“You came in contact with Justin Craybaw and had every opportunity to examine his affairs. You met Sir Ernest Jennup, which would have enabled you to impersonate him that night at the Moravia. This business is your doing, Ranworthy. Yet we shall allow you opportunity to speak.”
Ranworthy licked his manila-hued lips.
“I admit my position,” he declared, in a voice which quivered despite his attempt at smoothness.
“Nevertheless, I am not The Harvester. Some one is plotting to destroy me. My case is like Selbrock’s.”
“No similarity whatever,” interjected Lewsham. “Selbrock was duped. You were not.”
Lewsham looked toward The Shadow as he spoke, as if seeking corroboration from a keen brain like Cranston’s. The Shadow made no statement. He was waiting to hear Ranworthy out.
“Quite like Selbrock’s,” insisted Ranworthy. “I, too, was duped— by a telephone call which I thought was from Yarmouth. I believed that I was summoned here to visit a sick relative. I made inquiry at Yarmouth last night, with no success.