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“Old Twambley had good eyesight,” commented Delka, in a tone of approval. “It’s lucky he saw that chap standing outside here this afternoon. He guessed correctly when he thought, it was Dabley, alias Bildon.”

“Which name is the rogue using tonight?” came the query.

“Neither,” returned Delka, studying the card. The flunky had given it to him. “He is employing a new alias. He calls himself Captain Richard Darryat. He is bound for Apartment D, on the third floor, to meet a gentleman named Cranston.”

“Shall we follow?”

“No.” Delka chuckled. “We shall remain here for a short while. Where Darryat appears, The Harvester will follow. It is best to bide our time.”

THERE was reason for Delka’s chuckle. For the first time, the investigator had learned that a man named Lamont Cranston was residing at the Moravia; that it was he upon whom Darryat was calling. Delka remembered the name of Cranston from the past. He knew that there was some connection between Cranston and The Shadow.

Not for one moment did Delka suppose that Cranston and The Shadow were one. The Shadow’s brief appearance in the role of Phineas Twambley had thrown Delka from the track.

Delka thought of Cranston as an adventurous American millionaire; one well qualified to take care of himself in emergency. He believed that The Shadow occasionally shunted desperate characters in Cranston’s direction, after due warning to the millionaire. Hence Darryat, alone, did not strike Delka as a threat.

A ring of the doorbell caused Delka to peer out into the hall. He saw the flunky admit a wan, droopy-faced man who nodded and went to the lift. The attendant returned to answer another ring at the door. This time, he admitted a stoop-shouldered man who was carrying a large cane and wearing a heavy overcoat.

Delka caught sight of a face that was conspicuous because of a brown Vandyke beard. The flunky conducted the new visitor to the lift, and pressed the button for its descent. The man with the Vandyke entered and went upward.

The attendant started back toward the door, making a motion with his hand. Delka sneaked out and intercepted him. The flunky spoke.

“Thought I’d better report, sir,” he stated, solemnly. The first gentleman to enter was Mr. Rufus Holmes, who lodges in Apartment A on the fourth floor. The second was Sir Ernest Jennup.”

“He resides here?” queried Delka.

“No, sir,” was the reply, “but he calls occasionally, upon the Honorable Raymond Fellow, whose apartment is on the second floor. I deemed that it would be quite right to admit Sir Ernest without question. The Honorable Mr. Fellow is at present in his apartment.”

“Quite all right,” agreed Delka. “Carry on.”

With that, the investigator returned to the side room while the servant took his place near the outer door.

MEANWHILE, Captain Darryat had gained a cordial reception at Apartment D, on the third floor. His knock had gained him a prompt admittance. He had come face to face with a tall, hawk-faced occupant who was attired in dressing gown.

His host had announced himself as Lamont Cranston. Richard Darryat had accepted the invitation to lay aside his coat, hat and walking stick. He had accepted an expensive panetela which Cranston proffered him.

Both men were seated and were smoking their thin cigars. Cranston, though an American, seemed to have acquired the reserve of a Britisher, for his opening conversation was stilted and formal.

Darryat, eyeing him closely, was impressed by a keenness which persisted despite Cranston’s languor.

Somehow, Cranston reminded him of some one whom he had met before; Darryat could not recall whom. He did not grasp the truth: namely, that this personage who now passed as Cranston had been both Wadkins and Dobbingsworth. Such was the capability of The Shadow’s disguises.

“So Dobbingsworth sent you here,” remarked The Shadow, in a calm, leisurely tone that fitted the guise of Cranston. “His note indicated that you wished to speak to me regarding the Montana silver stock. Do I understand, captain, that you wish to buy some shares?”

“I would like to invest in Topoco Mines,” nodded Darryat. “From any one who has such securities.”

“Unfortunately,” declared The Shadow, “my holdings are not for sale.”

“I doubt that I would buy them if they were,” returned Darryat. “That is why I have come here, Mr. Cranston.”

The Shadow feigned a puzzled expression. Darryat shook his head dubiously and leaned forward in his chair.

“To be frank, Mr. Cranston,” he stated, “I have ventured here on a sad errand. It is my painful duty to inform you that your mining stock is spurious.”

The Shadow stared, apparently startled.

“You understand, of course,” added Darryat, “that such is my opinion. I saw the remaining shares that Wadkins had to offer. I have learned, for a fact, that Wadkins has left London.”

“His office is closed?”

“Yes. Under the pretext that his work is finished. His work, however, was illegitimate. If you would let me glance at that stock, Mr. Cranston—”

“Certainly.”

Reaching to a heavy table, The Shadow pulled open a drawer and produced the stock in question. He handed the bundle to Darryat. The pretended captain gave it close scrutiny; then shook his head.

“I doubt the stock’s authenticity,” he declared. “Quite sorry, old chap, but I am familiar with this sort of thing. However, I do not wish you to go upon my opinion alone. I hope to help you; and I took the liberty of inviting a friend here for that purpose.”

“A friend?” queried The Shadow.

“Yes,” nodded Darryat. “Sir Ernest Jennup, the well-known banker. Of course you have heard of him; he has offices on Lombard Street.”

“I have met him,” recalled The Shadow. “A stoop-shouldered man, past middle age, with a Vandyke beard and—”

“You have described him precisely.” Darryat glanced at his watch. “Since Sir Ernest should be here, shortly, I left word with the doorkeeper to invite him up here immediately upon his arrival.”

“Of course. I shall be glad to hear Sir Ernest’s opinion. A chat with him will be quite in order.”

“He will probably suggest that you place the securities in his custody, that he may have them examined by experts who are competent at detecting forgeries.”

“An excellent suggestion.”

Hardly had Darryat spoken before a rap sounded at the door. The fake captain spoke in an eager whisper.

“It is Sir Ernest!”

THE SHADOW arose leisurely and strolled toward the door to answer the knock. Before he was halfway there, the rap was repeated — this time in sharp rat-tat fashion, two strokes at a time.

As The Shadow advanced, a sudden hiss came from behind him. He turned to stare at Darryat. The crook had brought a revolver from his pocket.

Darryat was leveling the weapon with his right hand, while his left clutched the mining stock. In harsh whisper, Darryat delivered a command.

“Stop where you are!”

The Shadow paused; his hands half lifted, his face showing perplexed concern. Approaching, Darryat sneered.

“The game is up, Cranston,” he stated. “That man outside the door is not Sir Ernest Jennup. He is a gentleman whom Scotland Yard has chosen to call The Harvester. He is the chief whom I serve.”

The Shadow’s face registered bewilderment. Hands rising further, he was backing to the wall beside the door.

“We came here to make you our dupe,” jeered Darryat. “We would easily have succeeded. However, this afternoon I chanced to spy a Scotland Yard investigator: one, Eric Delka. I informed The Harvester. He said to be ready for emergency.”

“That second rap, delivered in double, repeated fashion, is my chief’s signal. It means that Scotland Yard has meddled. We cannot risk the time that we would need to properly induce you to turn over your securities.”