“I might be. Who is offering it?”
“A friend of mine in Toronto.” Wadkins was rising, crablike, to hold a hunched position as he spoke.
“See my secretary when you leave. Ask him to give you the Toronto prospectus. It may interest you.”
Darryat nodded. Rising, he shook hands with Wadkins and walked to the outer office. Wadkins followed him and spoke to the young man who served as secretary.
“Find the Toronto prospectus, Vincent,” ordered the bearded Canadian. “Let Captain Darryat have it. Good-by, captain.”
Returning to the inner office, H. B. Wadkins closed the heavy door. Stepping to the desk, he picked up a flat suitcase and opened it. His body straightened, as a soft, whispered laugh issued from his bearded lips. With quick, deft hands, he whisked away his heavy black wig and detached the bushy beard from his chin.
The laugh — the action; both were revelations of identity. The so-called Captain Darryat, whatever his impressions, had failed to guess the true personality that had lain behind that disguise.
H. B. Wadkins was The Shadow!
PACKING his discarded disguise, The Shadow donned hat and coat. His countenance, calm and masklike, was one that Darryat would not have recognized. Nevertheless, The Shadow was taking no chances on an immediate meeting with his recent visitor. There was a rear door to the inner office.
Opening it, The Shadow threaded his way through a narrow passage that led him to another street.
Meanwhile, in the outer office, the secretary was looking for the Toronto prospectus. In so doing, he was playing a game that bluffed Captain Darryat. For Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had his own work to accomplish. He was rummaging through boxes at the bottom of a closet, giving Darryat a chance to look about the office in the meantime.
Upon Harry’s desk was an envelope, one that had been brought by messenger. From it projected a letter. Sliding his body between the desk and the closet, Darryat slid the folded paper from the envelope.
He opened it and quickly read the message.
The letter bore the printed heading: “Cyril Dobbingsworth, Solicitor,” with an address that Darryat recognized. Dobbingsworth’s office was located at the Cheshire Legal Chambers, near Chancery Lane, close to the Temple.
The message, itself, fitted with the story that Darryat had heard. Dobbingsworth had been prepared to buy the silver mine stock for a wealthy client; his note was an announcement of an early call which he intended to make on H. B. Wadkins.
Darryat slid the paper back into the envelope, just as Harry Vincent turned about. The Shadow’s agent had the prospectus that Darryat wanted. It was merely a printed folder from Toronto. Darryat scanned the pages, nodded and thrust the prospectus in his pocket. Turning about, he strode out through Caulding Court.
Upon the desk lay the telltale envelope. Harry Vincent had placed it at an exact angle; the projecting message emerging just one inch. Darryat, in replacing it, had not only edged the paper further in; he had also moved the envelope. Harry knew that the bait had been taken.
The Shadow had not only drawn The Harvester’s advance man to a given spot; he had also supplied him with a lead to follow. The advertisement in the Times had served a purpose that Scotland Yard had not guessed. It was The Shadow’s move to reach The Harvester!
CHAPTER IV. THE GAME DEEPENS
Soon after Captain Darryat’s departure, Harry Vincent went out to luncheon. He took the front door that led through the court. On his way, Harry made careful observations. From these, he was certain that Darryat had not remained in the vicinity.
When he returned, nearly an hour later, Harry again made sure that Darryat was not about. The double checkup was sufficient. Should Darryat return to find that H. B. Wadkins had gone, he would suspect nothing; for a time interval had occurred wherein Wadkins could have left through the court.
After lingering for an hour in the office, Harry proceeded to close up. He packed various papers in a suitcase; he prepared a small sign that bore the word “Closed.” Attaching this notice to the door, The Shadow’s agent made his departure. Again, no signs of Darryat. Harry’s work was finished.
About half an hour after Harry’s final exit, Captain Darryat swaggered along the street that led to Caulding Court. Peering in from the archway, The Harvester’s lieutenant eyed the door with the number H 2. He saw Harry’s sign and approached. A chuckle came from Darryat when he read the notice.
H. B. Wadkins had cleared out. That fact fitted perfectly with Darryat’s plans. After a brief inspection, the tanned man strolled from Caulding Court. Then, of a sudden, he performed a surprising action.
Forgetting his swagger, Darryat whisked about and dived into a convenient doorway. A strained, hunted look appeared upon his features; his sharp eyes narrowed as he watched a man who approached alone.
The arrival was Eric Delka.
Darryat had recognized the Scotland Yard investigator; and he had been quick enough to slide from Delka’s sight. He saw Delka enter Caulding Court; then, satisfied that the investigator was alone, Darryat became bold and stole to the archway.
Peering through, he saw Delka reading the sign on door H 2. He caught a shrug of Delka’s shoulder.
Then Darryat slid out to the street and returned to his previous hiding-place. He watched Delka reappear and walk away.
Obviously, Delka had also read the advertisement in the Times and had decided to make a visit to the office of H. B. Wadkins. The bird that Delka sought had flown; and Darryat was sure that Wadkins would not be back. Nevertheless, the chance visit of Delka had produced a definite influence upon Darryat’s plans.
Darryat had his own game to further, in the service of The Harvester. He did not intend to alter it; but he did plan to use new precautions — something that he would not have considered had he failed to catch that brief view of Delka.
SOON afterward, Darryat was walking briskly across the vast asphalt spaces of Trafalgar Square.
Reaching The Strand, he followed that important thoroughfare until it changed its name and became Fleet Street. There, Darryat sought Chancery Lane and finally located the Cheshire Legal Chambers.
Entering, he discovered a closed door that bore the name of Cyril Dobbingsworth. Darryat rapped. A querulous voice ordered him to enter.
Inside a little office, Darryat came face to face with Cyril Dobbingsworth. The solicitor was an ancient, stoop-shouldered old fellow, who was sipping tea and nibbling biscuits at a decrepit desk. Stacks of law books were all about; the walls were adorned with faded portraits of famous British jurists.
Dobbingsworth apparently fancied himself as a traditional London barrister. Darryat, however, classed him immediately as a weather-beaten fossil.
“Your name, sir?”
Dobbingsworth’s crackled query brought a smile to Darryat’s lips. The pretended captain extended his card.
While Dobbingsworth was studying it, apparently puzzled, Darryat sat down and stated his business.
“I have come, sir,” he stated, “to inform you of a hoax which has been perpetrated against a client of yours.”
“A hoax?”
“Yes. In regard to a Montana silver mine.”
Dobbingsworth blinked. Darryat could see scrawny hands shake as the tea cup jogged in the solicitor’s fingers. Dobbingsworth tried to splutter, but words failed him.
“I, too, have met H. B. Wadkins,” purred Darryat, in a voice that befitted Scotland Yard’s description of him. “He offered me the stock that remained. I wisely refrained from buying it.”
“Why so?” queried Dobbingsworth, anxiously, as he pushed back a shock of gray hair from above his withered face. “I have been assured that the Topoco Mine is a sound one. Have you evidence, sir, to the contrary?”