“You, Cranston, are the one who entered unforeseen,” denounced Craybaw. “It was at your apartment that Captain Darryat was slain. Some tool of yours masqueraded as Sir Ernest, to add strength to your claims. But you were The Harvester!
“You disposed of Darryat, whom you no longer needed, for he had blundered and made the game unsafe. As a man who had been threatened, you took up the work yourself. You gained close contact with every one concerned.”
“Right!” exclaimed Sidney Lewsham. Then, turning about: “Remember, Delka, how Cranston went with you to visit Selbrock and the rajah?”
Delka was weak. He could not even nod. He had trusted Lamont Cranston, believing him to be identified with The Shadow.
“Last night you came here!” roared Craybaw. “You saw your way clear to deal a cunning stroke! You started back to London; but you did not go there. Instead, you called your henchmen. You waylaid me, with Cuthbert, upon the road to Hayward’s Heath!
“You, alone, knew that I was bound there. Returning, you took my place. That masklike face of yours” — Craybaw leaned forward to eye The Shadow closely — “is one well suited to disguise.
“And yet you failed.” Craybaw’s face was fixed in a grim smile. “Trapped in this terrain, you were forced to emergency measures, once you had finished your impersonation of myself. Boldly, you walked into this house, pretending that you had been on a walking trip past Tunbridge Wells.
“You are The Harvester. I defy you to deny it! You remained unseen, unheard of, from the time that you left this house. Forced to disappear that you might pass yourself as me. Tonight, bold to the finish, you have stood by in hope that others would be denounced. All have proven alibis — except yourself.”
Pausing, Craybaw wagged his finger with finality.
“There,” he asserted, firmly, “stands The Harvester!”
SCOTLAND YARD men closed in, covering The Shadow with their revolvers. Sidney Lewsham, inspired by one last possibility, turned to Harry Vincent.
“When did Cranston call you?” asked the chief constable.
“At midnight,” replied Harry, “from Charing Cross.”
“That call was from here,” accused Craybaw. He turned to Sir Ernest. “At what hour did you and the others retire?”
“At half past eleven,” replied Sir Ernest. “Am I not correct, Chief Lewsham?”
“You are.” Lewsham turned to Delka. “Inspector, this man Cranston is The Harvester. All doubt is ended.”
Delka arose. He knew that it would be his duty to remove the prisoner to Scotland Yard.
“Wait.”
The Shadow spoke quietly, despite the four gun muzzles that were jabbing his ribs, beside the knapsack which he still wore. The firmness of his tone brought a pause.
“I am not The Harvester.” The Shadow spoke directly to Lewsham. “I demand the right to furnish my proof to the contrary.”
“Later. At headquarters.”
“The proof lies here.”
Lewsham looked startled. Then, with challenge, he ordered:
“Produce it.”
The Shadow turned to Justin Craybaw.
“Before your abduction,” he told the managing director, “we entered this study. That was prior to my departure for High Brooms, in the car with Cuthbert. Do you remember it?”
“Certainly,” acknowledged Craybaw.
Sir Ernest and Lewsham nodded their corroboration.
“While we were here alone,” affirmed The Shadow, seriously, “I gave you a sealed envelope. I asked you to keep it for me, Craybaw. You opened the safe” — The Shadow nodded toward the corner — “and placed the envelope somewhere therein.”
“This is outrageous!” ejaculated Craybaw, to Lewsham. “This rogue gave me no envelope!”
“You said something about a filing box,” recalled The Shadow. “I think that you said you would place the envelope in it. This matter is important. Surely, Craybaw, you have not forgotten the envelope?”
Craybaw spluttered. The Shadow turned to appeal to Lewsham. The chief constable, anxious to end the matter, put a demand to Craybaw.
“Have you a filing box in the safe?” he asked.
“Of course!” returned Craybaw. “Every safe of this type has filing boxes supplied with it. There are several in my safe.”
“Then one must hold the envelope,” assured The Shadow. “You locked the safe afterward, Craybaw.”
“Let us settle this,” decided Lewsham. “Open the safe, Craybaw. We shall examine the filing boxes.”
CRAYBAW arose reluctantly. He went to the corner, motioned others away and turned the combination of the safe. The steel door opened. Craybaw picked out filing boxes and handed them to Lewsham.
Standing in front of the opened safe, he awaited the return of the boxes. His lips showed assurance that none would contain the envelope.
The Shadow was watching Sidney Lewsham. He spoke when the chief constable was examining the papers in one filing box. Lewsham’s fingers were upon an envelope.
“That is the envelope,” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “Open it, Chief Lewsham. Read the message within it.”
Craybaw stepped forward indignantly. He stared at The Shadow, then eyed the envelope.
“Another hoax,” he snorted. “Do not be tricked, Chief Lewsham. This man Cranston — The Harvester — did not give me that envelope.”
The Shadow had turned his eyes toward Delka. The Scotland Yard inspector noted a singular keenness in the gaze.
“Look in the safe,” suggested The Shadow. “Examine those packages in the back corner at the bottom—”
Delka hesitated; then realizing that he was not needed to cover the prisoner, he stepped toward the safe.
Justin Craybaw had caught the words; he spun about to make a protest. Lewsham, meanwhile, had ripped open the envelope and was reading the first lines of an unfolded paper.
“Away from there, Delka—”
As Craybaw cried the words, Lewsham sprang to his feet. Paper in left hand, he whipped out a revolver with his right. He covered Craybaw point blank.
“Proceed, Delka!” snapped Lewsham. “Craybaw, stand as you are!”
Delka had gained the packages. Loose paper wrapping fell away. The investigator’s eyes were popping as crisp bank notes tumbled from their stacks.
“The money!” gasped Delka. “All of it! The Harvester’s swag! Here, in the safe—”
“Where Craybaw placed it,” added The Shadow, “while you and Sir Ernest were in the living room.”
Lewsham had barked a new command. Scotland Yard men turned their revolvers toward Craybaw. The Shadow stepped away, no longer covered. As his men closed in on Justin Craybaw, Lewsham passed the paper to Sir Ernest, who read its words aloud.
“‘Justin Craybaw is The Harvester,’” read Sir Ernest. “‘His game is to feign his own abduction. He and his chauffeur will be seized; but he will return. Tomorrow, he will leave his office, carrying funds that are in his keeping.’
“‘He will reveal himself after his return, pretending that he is an impostor. He will take to flight, carrying a bag of worthless papers. He will be found, a prisoner, to prove his innocence.’
“‘His spoils, which he will trust to himself alone, will be found within this safe. The money will prove that Justin Craybaw is The Harvester.’”
SIR ERNEST dropped the paper. He stared incredulously at The Shadow.
“How did you guess this?” he queried. “Why did you not inform us of this ruse, last night?”
“It was guesswork,” replied The Shadow, “inspired by my observation of Craybaw and his anxiety to set out for Hayward’s Heath.”
“Then you were not positive?”
“Not quite. I chose to leave the envelope for future reference. I could not condemn a man until his guilt was proven.”