“Sh-h!” The girl’s hand was placed upon his cheek, and a finger pressed against his lips, The touch seemed caressing. “Ask no questions, now. Later — perhaps.”
He could visualize the girl’s lips, as they whispered, close to his ear.
“I must go. Wait here. Make no noise. Do not leave until I return.”
The hand left his face. Harry stood motionless for a moment. Then he reached toward the girl. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He did not want her to leave.
But his hands encountered nothingness. As he moved forward, Harry reached the section of moving wall through which they had come.
It was solid now, some secret spring had locked it noiselessly. He was alone — a prisoner — in the pitch-dark compartment.
The mysterious girl had gone!
CHAPTER VIII
ANOTHER VISITOR
STANLEY BERGER finished his laborious writing. Before him lay two sheets of paper, filled with carefully inscribed words. The young man’s eyes did not see what he had written; they were upon the final word of his message.
Then he looked at the blank space at the bottom of the second page. His fixed stare saw something there — a spot of deep crimson that seemed to hold limitless depths.
It was the vision of The Shadow’s fire opal, which still impressed Berger’s dominated mind.
The young man sighed in relief as he affixed his signature below the message. He folded the two sheets of paper, and placed them in the envelope which he had addressed.
The envelope was stamped. Berger sealed it, and arose slowly from his chair.
It was all like a dream to Stanley Berger. His mind had been feverish and excited from the remembrance of the crime which he had committed.
The shock that had resulted from his meeting with the man in black; the soothing words that had been spoken to him; the mystic glow of the large fire opal — all these had caused his brain to yield. He had reached a hypnotic state, and was carrying out the suggestions that had been given to him.
Berger walked slowly toward the door of his apartment. There was a mail chute in the hall. That was his destination. The letter seemed to burn his hand. Until it was safely on its way, he could feel no relief.
He opened the door; then stood stock-still. His path was blocked by a dark-clad figure, a form which Stanley Berger scarcely saw, yet could not pass.
The man who barred his way wore a red mask over his face. He extended two hands that were clad with thin red gloves. Slowly, but firmly, he pushed Stanley Berger back into the apartment.
The young man spoke, as though dreaming. His voice was thoughtful, and mechanical.
“I must mail this letter.”
The man with the red mask looked keenly toward him. A red-gloved hand took the envelope from Berger’s grasp.
“I shall mail the letter.”
The masked man placed the envelope in his pocket as he spoke. Then he touched Berger’s forehead with the fingers of one crimson glove. The pressure of his hand turned the young man’s head from side to side.
“Wake up!”
With these words, the masked man struck Berger’s forehead with his knuckles. Berger shook his head, and blinked his eyes. He gazed about him, in bewilderment; then stared at the man who stood before him.
“The Red Envoy!” he exclaimed.
The masked man nodded, and pointed to the chair by the table.
“Sit down,” he commanded.
THE Red Envoy stood before him, his gloved hands resting upon the edge of the table. He seemed to be awaiting a statement.
“Why have you come to see me?” questioned Berger.
“To learn your story,” said the Red Envoy quietly. His voice was firm and deliberate. It carried no threat, yet Stanley Berger shuddered.
“I killed Graham,” said Berger moodily. “I killed him. I was afraid he would find out that I had taken his letters. I received the white card. I thought that my work was finished.
“I did not expect you to come here. I–I thought that none of us could see the Red Envoy.”
“Your case is unusual,” replied the masked man. “You acted effectively, but hastily. You are not suspected. But sometimes minds crack under imaginary strain.”
“I have been worried,” admitted Berger.
“I thought so,” replied the Red Envoy. “I learned that you were going to the theater to-night. When a man seeks entertainment, alone, he is often trying to forget something. So I came here, to await your return.
“Why did you leave the theater early?”
“I was worried,” said Berger. “I came away after the first act.”
“After the first act?” There was a sharpness in the Red Envoy’s question. “Where have you been since?”
“Here.”
“You came directly here?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been here, then?”
“Only a few minutes.”
Glancing toward his visitor, Stanley Berger saw a thin, faint smile appear upon the lips beneath the mask.
“What time do you think it is?”
“Nearly ten o’clock,” was Berger’s reply to the question.
“It is after eleven,” said the Red Envoy quietly.
Stanley Berger ran his hand through his hair.
“Perhaps I have been dozing,” he said doubtfully. “It seems as though I have been dreaming.”
“What have you dreamed?”
“I can’t remember.” Berger closed his eyes thoughtfully. “Perhaps I imagined it — a man, all in black, who spoke to me. He seemed like — like a shadow. He came from there!”
Opening his eyes, Stanley Berger pointed to the dark spot beside the bookcase.
Moving across the room, the Red Envoy pressed the wall switch, to give more illumination than that provided by the table lamp. Berger blinked in the brightness.
“A man in black,” he murmured.
“What did he say to you?”
“I can’t remember. I was afraid of him, at first. Then his words seemed to quiet me.
“I remember a spot of deep red light — like a strange glowing gem” — Berger closed his eyes — “I can see it now. It shines like the embers of a fire.”
“What did you do then?”
Berger reopened his eyes.
“It seems as though I wrote a letter,” he said. “I don’t remember what I wrote. I did it very slowly. It was important.
“Then I went to mail it” — he rubbed his forehead doubtfully — “I think I mailed it. I must have done so. No! I gave it to some one to mail for me!”
“To whom did you address the letter?”
“I don’t know.”
The Red Envoy drew the envelope from his pocket. He read the address aloud.
“Harry Vincent, Metrolite Hotel,” he repeated. “Was that the man to whom you sent the letter?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Berger. “I had forgotten. I remember now.”
“Who is Harry Vincent?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are sure?”
“Positive. I never heard of him before. I don’t know why I should have written him a letter.”
The Red Envoy opened the envelope. He scanned the two pages, while Berger sat at the table, thinking.
“Is this your writing?”
Berger took the letter in response to the question. He nodded in acknowledgment.
“Read it,” said the Red Envoy. “You wrote it. You signed it. Read it.”
BERGER’S eyes ran along the carefully written lines. Before he had reached the end of the first page, his hands were shaking and his lips were twitching.
As he looked at the second page, and saw the signature at the bottom, he flung the letter to the floor, with a gasp of terror. Placing his hands to his forehead, he moaned in anguish.
“You have told everything,” said the Red Envoy quietly.
“Why did I do it?” questioned Berger pleadingly. “Tell me why. I must be insane!”