“To-day, I remained there; and did not give up my inquiry until this afternoon. Then I returned to London. When I reached his excellency’s apartment, I was arrested.”
Ranworthy turned to the rajah.
“I had intended to discuss this matter with your excellency,” he declared, “because it involved factors that might indicate some plot against yourself. Particularly because I read of an attempted robbery at your hotel. My assumption was that I was drawn away to make the task an easier one.”
“You cannot avoid the issue, Ranworthy,” asserted Lewsham, annoyed by the secretary’s attempt to shift the subject. “Selbrock’s story carries logic. Yours does not. You held a key position. You could well be The Harvester.”
“You take me for a criminal?” scowled Ranworthy. “Ask his excellency if that is a just opinion. Had I chosen to become a thief, I could long ago have purloined the jewels which his excellency possessed.”
Lewsham pointed to the baubles that Canonby had thrown upon the desk.
“These stones are false,” declared the chief constable. “They were not worth stealing; and you knew that fact, Ranworthy.”
“I refer to the real gems,” persisted the secretary. “The ones that his excellency sold to Freres Francine, in Paris. I had access to those valuables. I could have stolen them while on the Continent. My escape would have been simpler in France. But I am not a criminal.”
“You restrained yourself,” put in Justin Craybaw, “because you saw an opportunity for double gain. You wanted the money that should have gone to Selbrock.”
“THAT is preposterous!” argued Ranworthy. His tone had steadied; his logic was shrewd. “I knew nothing of Selbrock’s options until after the Rajah of Delapore and I had arrived in London.”
“That is true,” recalled the rajah, suddenly. “We arrived in London in advance of Selbrock. There was no way in which Ranworthy could have produced those arrangements which involved Rudlow, Limited.
“Chief Lewsham, I must appeal to you in behalf of an innocent man. My trust in Ranworthy has not been destroyed. Were he The Harvester, he would not have passed the opportunity to steal my gems in Paris.
“True, I intended to convert the jewels into cash. I did that, however, in Paris — not in London; and when we brought the money with us to England, it remained in Ranworthy’s keeping. That would have been his final opportunity for criminal gain.
“My original intention was to invest the money in securities. This matter of the oil options, with the contracts which called for cash, was something in which Ranworthy had no hand. Ranworthy is honest; moreover, he is innocent.”
Ranworthy was encouraged by the rajah’s plea. Quickly, the secretary strengthened his position.
“Were I The Harvester,” he declared shrewdly, “and had I posed as Justin Craybaw, I would never have played the fool by returning to a trap. What would I have had to lose by flight? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!
“Suppose my story of a trip to Yarmouth had been a pretext. Suppose that I had gained nearly half a million, here at Tunbridge Wells. I would have let the search go on, in London and in Yarmouth. I would no longer have had need to serve as secretary to his excellency, the Rajah of Delapore.
“That makes my case stronger than Selbrock’s. He might have had reason to return to London; to face it out brazenly. Not I, however. If I am The Harvester, I am also a fool. Since The Harvester is no fool, I cannot be The Harvester.”
Ranworthy had drawn himself upward, to launch his statement with the skill of an orator. Harry Vincent saw The Shadow smile in satisfaction. Apparently, he had been ready to take Ranworthy’s part, but had found the task unnecessary.
Huge bewilderment gripped Harry Vincent. This sequel was contrary to his expectations. The rajah; then Selbrock; finally Ranworthy — all had presented clearing arguments. Was the accusation to be thrust back upon Lionel Selbrock?
BEFORE Harry could decide what was due to follow, the unexpected came. Ranworthy was speaking again. Confident that he had proven his own innocence, the secretary was paving the way to a new consideration. One that came swiftly.
“What is The Harvester?” cried Ranworthy. “I shall tell you. He is an opportunist! A criminal who has masked himself as a man of importance. One who has had access to large dealings. One who has covered himself and trusted to confusion among those who seek him.
“How and when he learned of the transactions at Rudlow, Limited, I cannot state. I only know that he must be a man who has little to lose and much to gain. One who would remain close by only if it should be essential to his purpose.”
“Which it might well be,” added The Shadow, during the sudden pause that followed Ranworthy’s words.
“You have spoken well, Ranworthy. You have stated facts which I, myself would have given, had you not done so. With this addition: The Harvester not only would remain close by. He has actually done so.”
The steady tones of The Shadow’s speech brought final impressiveness to the scene in Craybaw’s study.
His pause came as a challenge — as if he believed that the logic of his words would bring a prompt opinion from some other quarter.
Tense, breathless moments. Then the bombshell dropped. Justin Craybaw, his face regaining its ruddy color, was the man who rose and lifted an accusing finger.
“The Harvester is here!” pronounced Craybaw, solemnly. “Bold to the end, cunning as a fox, he has seen trapped men clear themselves from false blame. Ensnared at last, he has played his final card; his last stroke of daring by which he hopes to save himself.
“He has appeared in many disguises; but always has he failed to fully cover the measures that he has taken. At last I know him; he imprisoned Cuthbert and myself, after our abduction. I shall point him out; for he is here — the only man who could be The Harvester. Stand ready to seize him; for he may attempt flight.”
All eyes were upon Craybaw’s uplifted hand. It descended, leveling firmly as it pointed. Like the others, Harry Vincent turned to eye the direction of the accusing forefinger. A startled gasp came from Harry’s lips.
Justin Craybaw’s finger had stopped. His eyes were glaring straight toward the object of his accusation, squarely toward a silent personage who met his gaze unflinching. Those who followed the direction saw the immobile features of Lamont Cranston.
Only Harry Vincent realized the astounding circumstance. The person whom Craybaw termed The Harvester was The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXII. THE FINAL VERDICT
HARRY VINCENT’S brain was drumming. Grim doubt had seized him at this moment. Through his mind was passing a whirl of confusion that produced ill thoughts. No matter what the outcome, he saw trouble.
It was possible that The Shadow had met with evil; that The Harvester had donned the role of Lamont Cranston.
Yet that seemed incredible. Harry felt sure that such circumstance could not exist.
This was The Shadow, this visitor who wore the guise of Cranston. That fact, however, made the situation even more alarming to Harry. He knew The Shadow’s ways. To cope with such crooks as The Harvester, The Shadow, too, was forced to bury his identity.
To prove that he was not The Harvester would be a task. For The Shadow— as Harry well knew — had veiled his own whereabouts during the past night and day. Others had come through with alibis. The Shadow could not.
To Harry’s ears came fateful words. Justin Craybaw, looming above the desk, was pouring forth words that bespoke a righteous indignation. Past accusations forgotten, the managing director of Rudlow’s was summing a new theory that made all others fade.