“None,” replied Darryat, “but I hold doubts regarding the particular stock that was in the possession of Wadkins. I scrutinized it rather closely. It appeared to be a forgery.”
The tea cup clattered as Dobbingsworth set it heavily upon the desk. The old solicitor clucked hopelessly. Darryat leaned forward.
“Wadkins has abandoned his office at Caulding Court,” he informed. “Fortunately, I learned that you had dealt with him. That is why I came promptly to these chambers.”
“This is a case for Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Dobbingsworth, in an outraged tone. “It is, indeed! I shall inform headquarters at once!”
He reached for an antiquated telephone. Darryat stopped him.
“ONE moment, sir,” objected Darryat, smoothly. “Would it not be best to consult your client, prior to taking such a step?”
“What purpose would that serve?” demanded Dobbingsworth. “If my client has been swindled—”
“I have no proof of that,” interposed Darryat. “I have stated merely that the stock which Wadkins showed me appeared to be spurious. In order to venture a proper opinion, I should have to examine the stock that you purchased from Wadkins.”
As he spoke, Darryat eyed a large, old-fashioned safe at the rear of Dobbingsworth’s office. The solicitor was not watching Darryat at the time. Instead, Dobbingsworth was shaking his head in most dejected fashion.
“I have delivered the stock,” he affirmed. “My client was here, awaiting my return. I cannot show it to you.”
“But what of your client?” queried Darryat. “Could we not arrange an appointment with him?”
“He has gone from London for the day. To Kew Gardens, I believe.”
“Will he return this evening?”
“Yes. But I have to depart for Sheffield, to attend to a matter which concerns another client.”
“Perhaps if you gave me a letter of introduction—”
“To my client?”
Darryat nodded.
“Zounds!” exclaimed Dobbingsworth, pounding the desk with his scrawny fist. “That, indeed, is a timely suggestion! But I can do better, sir. Remain seated, while I call a messenger.”
Dobbingsworth picked up the telephone and put in a call. That completed, he took a large quill pen and began to transcribe a message. Darryat noted the long, old-fashioned penmanship that had characterized the letter that he had seen on Harry Vincent’s desk.
A boy appeared at the office door. He was attired in the uniform and round hat that symbolized the London messengers. The solicitor handed him the envelope containing the finished letter. He added the fee that was required. The boy left.
“My client’s name,” informed Dobbingsworth, “is Lamont Cranston. He is a wealthy American. He resides at the old Manor Club.”
“Near St. James Square?” queried Darryat, “close by Haymarket?”
“That is the location of the new club,” replied Dobbingsworth, with a shake of his head. “The old Manor Club is closer to Piccadilly. It is a club no longer; it has some name which I have forgotten, although I have the actual address. It is a bachelor’s apartment; very exclusive—”
“I recall the place. Known as the Moravia, is it not?”
“That is the name. Quite stupid of me to forget it. Very well, captain. I have written Mr. Cranston to receive you. You will find him there at nine o’clock this evening. I should like to have you discuss the subject of those securities with him in person. If he chooses to communicate with Scotland Yard, he may do so.”
“An excellent suggestion. My thanks to you, sir.”
“I owe the thanks, captain.”
The old solicitor shook hands and Captain Darryat departed.
WHEN Darryat had gone, Cyril Dobbingsworth sat at his desk, sipping tea, staring out toward the direction of the Temple.
There had been definite significance in the visit of Captain Darryat; points which the smooth swindler had not amplified in his discourse with the solicitor. Darryat had stated that he had visited Wadkins; he had also added that the man had closed his office. Sure proof that Darryat had not come directly to Dobbingsworth’s office.
A smile showed upon the withered features of the old solicitor. That expression proved that Dobbingsworth understood the facts. Then, from crackly lips came the soft tones of a whispered laugh — the same that H. B. Wadkins had delivered earlier in the day.
Cyril Dobbingsworth, like H. B. Wadkins, was The Shadow! From one assumed personality, he had gone to another. He had left Caulding Court ahead of Captain Darryat that he might be here at the Cheshire Legal Chambers before the swindler could possibly arrive.
Darryat had been totally deceived. He had never suspected a link between Wadkins and Dobbingsworth; much less that the two could possibly be the same. He had been suspicious of Wadkins; he had been lulled by Dobbingsworth. Believing that one had fled and that the other was going out of town, Darryat would have no qualms about calling on Lamont Cranston.
There, again, he would be due to meet The Shadow. For the personality of Lamont Cranston was one that The Shadow used frequently. To-day, he had dropped the guise of Phineas Twambley altogether.
After a brief appearance as Wadkins, then as Dobbingsworth, he would be Cranston and would keep that assumed identity. Except for one brief interval, long enough to put in a call to Scotland Yard.
With that call, The Shadow would announce himself as Phineas Twambley, in order to bring Eric Delka to the trail. This evening, he would tell the investigator that he had chanced to see a man answering the description of Dabley, alias Bildon, in the neighborhood of the Moravia Apartments, near St. James Square.
For The Shadow knew that he had hooked more than a little fish. The same bait that had caught Captain Darryat would snag another — and a larger— personage of crime. The lure of sixty thousand dollars, in sound silver securities, would bring more than a lone lieutenant.
Captain Darryat’s visit to the residence of Lamont Cranston would be but the forerunner to another arrival. The Harvester, himself, would follow. Tonight, the supercrook was destined to meet The Shadow!
CHAPTER V. THE COUNTERTHRUST
AT precisely ten minutes before nine, Captain Richard Darryat strolled from the subdued glow of St. James Street and arrived at the entrance of the Moravia Apartments. The evening was mild and mellow; Darryat, fashionably attired, looked like a usual habitue of this section where exclusive clubs flourish.
Ascending the steps of the Moravia, Darryat was impressed by the fact that the place had changed but little since the days when it had housed the old Manor Club. The same exclusive atmosphere pervaded the squatty, stone-fronted structure. It was necessary to ring the bell in order to gain admittance.
A uniformed attendant answered Darryat’s ring. He asked for the visitor’s card. Darryat proffered it. The flunky bowed and conducted Darryat through a mammoth hallway, to an automatic elevator.
“Mr. Cranston awaits your arrival, sir,” stated the attendant. “His apartment is on the third floor. Its letter is D. Are you acquainted with this type of lift, sir?”
“Quite,” returned Darryat, studying the buttons of the automatic elevator. “I shall proceed to the third floor.”
Hardly had the door of the elevator closed before a man emerged from the darkness of a side room. It was Eric Delka; he had seen Darryat’s entry. Tensely, the investigator gave instructions to the flunky.
“That is the man,” whispered Delka. “Remember: From this minute on, you are to signal if any stranger seeks admittance.”
The servant bowed his understanding. He went his way along the hall, while Delka returned to the hiding-place. There he spoke to men who were stationed with him.