“Within a few days, his description will be public property. For the present, we choose to wait; in hope that the man may reveal himself. Should new chances for quick swindling reach The Harvester’s notice, he might send his lieutenants to sound them out.”
THE acting chief arose and bowed to The Shadow, as indication that his interview with Phineas Twambley was concluded. It was apparent that Lewsham wished to confer with Delka, regarding information that the investigator had brought back from New York. The Shadow knew that such facts could not be vitally important; otherwise, Delka would have made an effort to have him remain.
Instead, Delka offered to have some one accompany the visitor to the Hotel Savoy. Chuckling in Twambley’s senile fashion, The Shadow shook his head.
“I shall hail a taxicab,” he declared. “I doubt that I am in personal danger, gentlemen. Certainly no scoundrels will be about in the vicinity of Scotland Yard.”
A few minutes later, the stooped figure of Phineas Twambley stepped aboard an antiquated taxi that stopped for him upon the embankment. The lights of Westminster Bridge were twinkling; other, myriad lights were glowing as the ancient vehicle rattled its way toward the Hotel Savoy. But The Shadow had no thoughts of the great metropolis about him.
A soft laugh issued from the disguised lips of Phineas Twambley, while long, tightening fingers gripped the head of the huge cane. The Shadow’s laugh was prophetic. He had learned facts that might influence the immediate future.
For The Shadow had already devised a plan whereby he might gain a trail to The Harvester. Should luck aid his coming effort, he would have opportunity to deal with that murderous supercrook while Scotland Yard stood idle.
CHAPTER III. OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS
TWO days after the arrival of The Shadow and Eric Delka, an unusual advertisement appeared in the classified columns of the London Times. The announcement was printed under the heading “Personal” and read as follows:
SILVER MINE: Wealthy American is willing to dispose of his shares in prosperous Montana silver mine. Prefers transaction involving one purchaser only. Apply to H. B. Wadkins, representative, Suite H 2, Caulding Court, S. W. 1.
When Eric Delka entered the office of his acting chief, Sidney Lewsham thrust a copy of the Times across the desk. A blue-pencil mark encircled that single paragraph, of all the advertisements that covered the front page. Delka nodded slowly as he read the silver mine offer.
“It sounds like The Harvester,” said Delka. “But it is not in keeping with his technique.”
“Quite true,” returned Lewsham, sourly. “That is the only trouble, Eric. I can not believe that The Harvester would become so bold as to openly flaunt his activities before our faces.”
“A ‘sucker’ game,” remarked Delka. “That is what they would term it in the States. This chap Wadkins, whoever he may be, is out to trap some unsuspecting investor.”
“Yet he is working blindly,” mused Lewsham, “like a spider in the center of a web. I doubt that The Harvester would strive in such fashion, Eric. I can fancy him taking advantage of this announcement, once it had appeared. Yet I cannot picture him inserting the advertisement.”
“Suppose I call there this morning,” suggested Delka. “A chat with Mr. H. B. Wadkins might prove enlightening.”
“Not too hasty, Eric.” Lewsham shook his head. “Wait until the day is more advanced. Make your visit shortly before tea time. He might suspect an early caller.”
Reluctantly, Delka came to agreement with his chief. Somehow, Delka had a hunch that an early visit to Caulding Court might be preferable to a late one.
In that opinion, Delka happened to be correct. Had he gone immediately from Scotland Yard to Caulding Court, he would have obtained a prompt result.
EXACTLY half an hour after Delka had held his conference with Lewsham, a man of military bearing arrived at an arched entryway that bore the sign “Caulding Court.”
The arrival was attired in well-fitted tweeds; he was swinging a light cane as he paused to study the obscure entrance. Tanned complexion, with light hair and sharp, blue eyes — Eric Delka would have recognized the man upon the instant. The arrival was Thomas Dabley, alias Humphrey Bildon, chief lieutenant of The Harvester.
Passing through the archway, the tweed-clad man surveyed various doorways that were grouped about the inner court. He chose the one that was marked H 2. Warily, he entered, to find a young man seated in a small anteroom that apparently served as outer office.
“Mr. Wadkins?” queried the light-haired visitor.
“No, sir,” replied the young man. His gaze was a frank one. “I am secretary to Mr. Wadkins. He is in his private office. Whom shall I announce?”
“Here is my card.” The visitor extended the pasteboard. “I am Captain Richard Darryat, formerly of the Australian-New Zealand Army Corps. Announce my name to Mr. Wadkins.”
The visitor smiled as the secretary entered an inner office. The alias of Darryat suited him better than either Bildon or Dabley, for he looked the part of an Anzac officer. Seating himself, Darryat inserted a cigarette in a long holder. Scarcely had he applied a match before the secretary returned.
“Mr. Wadkins will see you, Captain Darryat.”
Darryat entered the inner office. Behind the table, he saw a hunched, bearded man, whose hair formed a heavy, black shock. Shrewd, dark eyes peered from the bushy countenance. Half rising, H. B. Wadkins thrust his arm across the desk and shook hands with Captain Darryat.
“From Australia, eh?” chuckled Wadkins, his voice a harsh one. “Well, captain, perhaps you know something about silver mines yourself?”
“I do,” replied Darryat, with a slight smile. “As much as most Americans.”
“Wrong, captain,” Wadkins grinned through his heavy beard. “I am a Canadian. Spent a lot of time, though, in the States. That’s how I became interested in Montana silver. I hail from Vancouver. Hadn’t been in London long before an old partner of mine wrote me and sent along his shares in the Topoco Mine. Told me to sell out — so I did.”
“Do you mean that you no longer have shares to offer?”
“That’s about it, captain. They were snapped up pronto, all except a few thousand dollars’ worth. Here is what I have left.”
WADKINS drew a batch of stock certificates from a desk drawer and showed them to Darryat. The fake captain’s eyes lighted. Darryat knew mining stocks. He had recognized the Topoco name.
“Seven thousand dollars’ worth, to be exact,” remarked Wadkins. “Sixty-seven thousand was what I had for a starter. One customer took sixty thousand, cash and carry.”
“Who was he, might I ask?”
Darryat’s question was casual; but it brought a shrewd look from Wadkins. Then the bearded man shook his head.
“I don’t even know the chap’s name,” he declared. “He dealt through a solicitor, who arrived here bright and early. Sorry, but I can’t state the name of the solicitor. All I can do is offer you the seven thousand dollars’ worth of remaining shares.”
“Hardly enough,” mused Darryat. “I, too, represent a prosperous client. I suppose you have no other offerings, Mr. Wadkins?”
“None at all. If I fail to sell these, I shall purchase them myself. I intend to leave London shortly; in fact, I may close the office after to-day, should I make no sale.”
“And if you make a sale—”
“I shall close the office, anyway. By the way, captain, would you be interested in a large purchase of some Canadian gold mine stock?”