This finding did not disconcert the man in black. Instead, it speeded the cursory search that he made within the room. After a brief inspection, The Shadow departed and glided along a series of corridors until he reached another cabin. There he entered.
When the same door opened a few minutes later, a tall, gray-haired man stepped out. He wore a benign expression upon his elderly face, and he walked with the aid of a cane. In mild-mannered fashion, he made his way to the smoking room.
A group of men were playing cards at a table. Among them was Tobias Waddell. David Tholbin, newly arrived, was watching, with his hands in the pockets of his coat. The benign gentleman who had just arrived hobbled up beside Tholbin, and looked at the game.
Tholbin smiled at the curiosity reflected on the face of the old gentleman; Evidently this kindly old soul knew nothing of the game of poker. Tholbin forgot the man beside him.
The old gentleman’s cane was rising from the floor. Unnoticeably, he crooked the curved handle in his coat pocket. His right hand moved toward Tholbin’s pocket. Long, slender fingers extracted a piece of paper.
It was the radiogram which Tholbin had so recently read. That smooth-working hand unfolded the sheet of paper without a telltale sound. The old gentleman’s gaze dropped. His shrewd eyes read the message as the hand drew it almost in front of his body.
Then his gaze was once more on the players. The creeping fingers folded the sheet, replaced it in Tholbin’s pocket, and regained their hold upon the cane.
Time passed rapidly by. Tholbin walked away and sat on a couch. The old gentleman grew tired watching the game of which he appeared to know so little, and retired to a chair. There he rested and apparently went to sleep.
No one thought to wake him, and he slept on, as peacefully as if he had been in his cabin. The players kept at their game, while Tholbin smoked innumerable cigarettes. At last the sallow-faced young man became restless. He arose, glanced thoughtfully at his attire, and left the smoking room.
Shortly afterward, the old gentleman awoke with a start. He glanced at the clock and seemed to note with alarm that it was almost five. Finding his cane, he limped from the smoking room in a great hurry.
He entered the same cabin which he had left. That was the last of the old gentleman. When the same door reopened, a black-clad figure stepped silently into the hall.
The Shadow was again trailing David Tholbin!
CHAPTER XVIII. THE BATTLE AT SEA
TOBIAS WADDELL arose from his seat at the poker table. He had lost heavily tonight, and he was annoyed. Money meant little to the millionaire, but he enjoyed the glory of winning.
“Time for some sleep,” he growled. “Daylight is coming. The cards always get worse after dawn.”
The other players arose also. All seemed tired, and this break was sufficient to conclude the game.
Seeing that the party was ended, Waddell dropped into a chair for a momentary rest. The others sat down to chat for a few brief minutes.
“The game is over, gentlemen?”
The question was asked by a man who had just entered the smoking room from a side door. Had this individual arrived a short while earlier, he would have come under the immediate surveillance of the old gentleman with the cane. The new arrival was Ivan Motkin.
“Yes,” said Waddell, in a friendly tone, “we have just finished. Perhaps some of the others would like to continue—”
“I seldom play cards,” interposed Motkin. “It would be a good habit for me, as I am sometimes troubled with insomnia. I found it difficult to sleep tonight. I have been strolling on the deck.”
“Sleep,” observed Waddell, “is one of my indulgences, day or night. Sometimes, during rough voyages, I have found sleep difficult at sea. But on this trip, with the fine stateroom that I have, it is most enjoyable.”
“You engaged a good stateroom?” questioned one of the other men.
“Two excellent staterooms,” responded Waddell. “Adjoining rooms; one for myself and one for my daughter. Young Tholbin — a friend of mine — made the arrangements. He made only one mistake. Through some oversight, he found it necessary to put a large trunk in the inner room. It is a nuisance there.”
“Why didn’t it go in the hold?”
“It isn’t part of my baggage,” replied Waddell. “It’s something he picked up in Paris. Some bargain, I suppose. He must prize it highly. He invariably inquires about it when he sees me.”
“That is odd,” observed Motkin, in a smooth tone. “What does this precious trunk contain?”
“Tholbin isn’t trying to smuggle it in,” said Waddell with a laugh. “Taking that white elephant past the customs would be like” — he paused and sought an example — “well, like trying to steal the Russian crown jewels.
“No, I suppose it’s just some piece of luggage that he liked and bought. It’s fitted with the greatest lot of locks you ever saw. It looks very nice, I must admit, but not in a stateroom.”
Waddell arose and said good night. Motkin glanced at one of the men who had been in the poker game.
The man nodded slightly. He, too, arose and strolled from the smoking room. Motkin followed shortly afterward.
ON the deck, Motkin encountered the man whom he had signaled. The two spoke in low, guarded tones.
“That may be it,” said Motkin, in Russian. “Do you know the number of his stateroom?”
“Yes,” replied the man. “It’s 7-D.”
“Go there. Enter. I shall send Solinski. You make some excuse to speak with Waddell. Be ready to act.
The others will follow.”
The two men separated. Motkin’s underling made his way to Waddell’s cabin. There, he knocked upon the door. Waddell opened it and looked at his visitor with some surprise.
“Just passing by, Mr. Waddell,” said the arrival. “Stopped to say good night.”
The millionaire gazed suspiciously at the stranger. The two had been companions at the poker table.
Waddell knew the man’s name was Baldridge. That was all. He wondered why this chance visitor had stopped with no apparent purpose.
Studying Baldridge, Waddell received a bad impression. The man had a foreign look. He appeared to be an adventurer. Waddell had encountered other individuals of his type. They were the class who tried to prey upon wealthy Americans.
“Very kind of you,” remarked Waddell testily. “Well, good night.”
Baldridge gave no sign of leaving. Instead, he gazed curiously about the stateroom.
“You are right, Mr. Waddell,” he said. “This is an excellent stateroom. By the way — where is that white elephant of which you were speaking?”
“In the other stateroom,” snapped Waddell. “My daughter is sleeping in there. Good night, Baldridge.”
The millionaire’s glance was angry as he opened the door of the cabin. Baldridge held his ground.
Waddell pressed his hand against the fellow’s shoulder. Motkin’s henchman did not budge.
“I should like to see that trunk,” he said coldly.
“Get out!” cried Waddell, now thoroughly enraged by the man’s actions.
Instead of obeying, the man pulled a revolver from his pocket. He thrust it toward Waddell, expecting to intimidate the old man. The action drove Waddell into a sudden fury. He gripped the man’s wrist, turning his hand away. With a wild fling, he hurled Baldridge to the floor.
Despite his age, Tobias Waddell was a fighter. He was heavy and portly, but could use his weight to unusual advantage. He sprawled his opponent upon the floor, and began to drive his fists against the other’s head. Baldridge had dropped the gun. Waddell suddenly seized it and clambered to his feet.