It was there that Parker Noyes joined them. The lawyer, grave and gray-haired, was a man of important bearing. Both he and Cranston listened to Waddell’s talk, but their eyes were not directed toward the speaker.
Cranston, his clear eyes covering the whole scene, watched Frederick Froman as a footman entered and delivered a message to the blond-haired man. Froman went from the room, evidently to answer a telephone call.
Cranston’s gaze shifted to Marcus Holtmann. Noyes, however, was observing another individual. He was intent upon David Tholbin, who was still engaged in ardent conversation with Betty Waddell.
Froman returned. Cranston glanced at his watch. It showed ten minutes of eleven. Cranston turned to Waddell.
“The telephone?” he questioned. “I have just recalled that I must call the Cobalt Club—”
The millionaire summoned the footman. Then, rising, Waddell conducted Cranston to the door of the room, and indicated the direction. He instructed the servant to show Mr. Cranston the way. A few minutes later, Cranston was alone in a small room, speaking into the mouthpiece of a desk telephone.
“Ready, Burbank?” he questioned.
Evidently the reply was an affirmative one, for Cranston continued with instructions.
“Belmar Hotel, eleven thirty,” he declared. “Midnight train, Grand Central Station, destination Chicago. Marsland to cover at hotel as ordered. Vincent to cover at station as ordered.”
Lamont Cranston hung up the receiver. He stood motionless in the center of the room, his tall figure producing a mammoth shadow. Then the splotch of blackness dwindled as he advanced to the door. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston was again seated beside Tobias Waddell.
JUST before eleven, Marcus Holtmann came over to say good-by to Tobias Waddell. He shook hands with Cranston and Noyes; then made his departure.
No one seemed to express a noticeable interest in Holtmann’s leaving. The man had stated that he must leave before eleven; hence his departure was brisk and businesslike. Lamont Cranston observed that fact. He turned his attention to the remaining guests.
Parker Noyes was still chatting with Tobias Waddell. Frederick Froman was seated in a corner, alone, contentedly puffing a panatella. David Tholbin, apparently oblivious to everything, was engaged in earnest conversation with the millionaire’s daughter.
A few minutes before half past eleven, Tholbin approached Waddell to announce that he was going in to New York. The millionaire received him rather gruffly, but Tholbin ignored the fact. Lamont Cranston, however, spoke cordially:
“My car will be here shortly,” he said. “I should be pleased to take you in to New York—”
“Thanks,” returned Tholbin. “I have my own car outside. Always drive in and out, you know.”
With that, he turned and headed for the hall. Cranston watched him, then turned his head to see Frederick Froman standing close by. The light-haired man had approached while Tholbin was saying good-by to Waddell.
“You are leaving soon, Mr. Cranston?” Froman’s question came in a quiet, even voice.
“Yes,” replied Cranston.
“I should appreciate the same invitation,” declared Froman. “I do not have my car here tonight.”
“I shall be glad to accommodate you,” responded Cranston.
Almost immediately after he had spoken, the footman entered the room to announce that Mr. Cranston’s car had arrived. Cranston shook hands with Waddell and turned questioningly to Parker Noyes.
“You are going into the city?” he asked.
“No,” replied the attorney. “Mr. Waddell has asked me to remain here overnight. Business, you know—”
“I understand.”
Cranston shook hands with both Waddell and Noyes. Accompanied by Froman, he went to the porte-cochere.
The chauffeur must have seen him, for the big limousine pulled up from the driveway. As its headlights spotted the men by the door, Cranston’s shadow formed a long, weirdly changing shape upon the drive.
Froman, chancing to glance downward, was fascinated by the strange, vague streak of blackness.
Then the limousine was beside them. All traces of the oddly shaped shadow had vanished. The two men entered the door of the car. Soon the lights of Waddell’s home were obscured by the huge hedges that surrounded the millionaire’s estate.
Little was said as the limousine rolled Manhattanward. Froman told Cranston his destination — an address in upper Manhattan — and Stanley was instructed to drive there.
There was something ominous in the silence that hung within the luxurious limousine. Only the luminous spots of cigar tips showed that the two men were awake, each concerned with his own thoughts.
Though both were introspective, and neither gained an inkling of the other’s notions, it was more than a coincidence that both should have been thinking of one man.
For Lamont Cranston and Frederick Froman, though differing in plans and purposes, were concentrating deeply upon the activities of a single individual who had been a guest at the home of Tobias Waddell.
They were thinking of Marcus Holtmann, the man who had just returned from Russia.
CHAPTER II. ONE MAN MISSING
THE car drew up in front of an old house on a side street. Frederick Froman glanced at his watch as he alighted.
“Half past twelve,” he remarked. “We made excellent time coming in from Waddell’s place. Thank you very much for the ride, Mr. Cranston.”
“You are quite welcome,” was the reply.
“I should like to have you visit me sometime,” added Froman. “This is my mansion” — he smiled as he indicated the somber house beside which the car was stopped — “and although it is modest in appearance, I can assure you that the hospitality is extended with the best of will.”
Lamont Cranston bowed, and extended his hand. Froman strode up the steps of the old brick-faced house, a three-story building of a former era.
Cranston noted that Froman rang the bell. The door was opened, yielding a flood of light, just as the limousine pulled away at Cranston’s order.
By the time the car had reached the nearest avenue, Cranston gave an order through the speaking tube that led to the chauffeur’s seat.
“You are going in the wrong direction, Stanley,” he said. “Turn back and go down the street again, then to Twenty-third Street.”
Passing the house into which Froman had gone, the silent observer in the rear seat of the limousine noted that there were lights in the windows of an upstairs room. Evidently, Froman had gone there immediately upon his arrival.
The car swung southward. It reached Twenty-third Street. Stanley, at the wheel, heard Cranston’s quiet voice telling him to stop. The chauffeur obeyed. Cranston alighted.
“Take the car to the Cobalt Club,” was Cranston’s order. “Wait for me there.”
Stanley nodded and drove away. Cranston remained standing on the curb, watching the departing limousine. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he raised the lapels of his coat and drew the garment closely about his body. With a short, soft laugh, Cranston turned and stepped away from the street.
His black-clad form was swallowed instantly by the gloomy shroud of a blank-walled building. In that spot, away from the glare of the nearest street lamp, Cranston’s action was both amazing and mysterious.
A wayfarer who had noted the tall figure standing by the curb stood gaping in astonishment at the disappearance.
Where Cranston had been, no living person remained. The blackness of night had opened like a curtain to admit a mysterious entrant. The only trace of Cranston’s presence was a gliding blotch that slid along the dim-white pavement.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!
In a twinkling, the calm-faced millionaire had transformed himself into Manhattan’s man of mystery!