Harry came to a halt. He stood stock-still, for he could hear the other man breathing. They must be very close, and near the far wall of the cellar; for the man in the dark was no longer in motion.
Harry feared that he had been heard. He stood and listened. He heard slight noises, but could not tell what they were. Then came silence. Harry waited.
Even the noise of the man’s breathing had ceased; It was grimly tense, here in utter darkness. The man was almost within Harry’s grasp; yet he must wait until the unknown person made some action. He felt that the man was listening also.
Any moment, the stranger might leap upon him. Harry’s only hope depended upon two factors: first, that the stranger had not detected his presence; second, that the man in the dark did not care to reveal his identity.
A sudden thought occurred to Harry Vincent.
Sooner or later, he must encounter the man who menaced the house of Blair Windsor. Why not force the issue now? An encounter here in the darkness of the cellar would be unknown to all save Harry and his opponent.
The young man reached in his pocket, and brought out a flashlight. He pointed it directly toward the spot where the hidden person stood, and pressed the button.
The bright ray revealed a corner of the cellar, which was arranged with shelves. But that was all it showed.
The man whom Harry Vincent had followed had completely disappeared!
It was impossible for him to have doubled on his tracks. The position in which Harry stood was a commanding one. In the darkness he had unknowingly forced the other man into a corner. Yet the person had escaped!
Sweeping the broad beam of the light before him, Harry made a tour of the large cellar. He learned the full arrangement of the place, but he found no one there.
He went upstairs softly. Bert Crull was no longer in the living room. Some one entered. It was Vernon, who had just come downstairs. The old servant looked at Vincent quizzically.
“Where is Mr. Windsor?” questioned Harry.
“He and Mr. Buckman came in, sir,” replied Vernon. “He told me to lock up.”
“Oh!” Harry’s exclamation showed surprise. “Is every one in the house?”
“Yes, sir. They have all come upstairs. I thought that you had come up, also. Mr. Windsor said that you had left them on the porch, and had come in.”
“I did!” exclaimed Harry. “But I didn’t hear them come in. I was just going out to rejoin them. Since they are already upstairs, I shall retire also.”
In his room, Harry Vincent wondered. Had his imagination been at work, during that episode in the cellar?
No. He felt sure that he had followed some person. Yet if he had, the amazing disappearance of that person seemed incredible.
Quick thoughts came to his groping mind. There was only one man who disappeared like that — and that man was The Shadow!
Harry had received no messages from New York. Could it be that The Shadow himself was at Brookdale, haunting the home of Blair Windsor like a spectre that one could glimpse but could not follow?
Harry Vincent was still bewildered when he fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIV
SPOTTER PAYS A VISIT
The denizens of New York’s underworld prowl while others sleep. At the very time when Harry Vincent was retiring, in peaceful Brookdale, a little stoop-shouldered man was sidling along an obscure street in Manhattan.
It was nearly twenty-four hours since Spotter had talked with Steve Cronin. The murderer had disappeared from town, and Maloney’s crew of killers had cleared out at the same time.
Only Spotter remained. No one connected him with the death of Reds Mackin.
All evening, Spotter had frequented his usual haunts. He had been to the Black Ship, the Pink Rat, and other notorious dives of the underworld.
Those who had seen him had not suspected that he had any purpose in his mind. That was Spotter’s way. Cunning and secretive, the eagle-eyed crook conducted his affairs without interference.
Tonight he had slipped out of the Pink Rat, and had chosen a course through narrow side streets that had assured him that no one was following him.
Spotter was always cautious that way. He had sure methods of slipping out of sight. Even though no one might be following him, he used his precautions.
Spotter chuckled as he sneaked along. Crooks and police were alike to him. They never had the goods on Spotter. When he had work to do, he did it suddenly and unexpectedly.
No one could suspect his present purpose; yet he left nothing to chance.
There was only one man, Spotter decided, who could ever trail him. That man was The Shadow — and now The Shadow was dead. The Shadow had been a menace; now the menace was removed.
The little man disappeared along a narrow alley. He dropped into a dark nook and waited. If any one was on his trail, the pursuer would come down the alley and betray himself. But no one came.
Spotter chuckled softly. He emerged from the darkness, went along the deserted street, and turned into the side door of a building on the corner.
Over the corner entrance hung three battered golden balls. But Spotter chose a side entrance that led to the rooms above the pawnshop.
There was a second door, with a bell button beside it. Spotter rang. The latch clicked, and the little man entered. The door closed behind him as he mounted the stairs.
A man was waiting at the head of the stairway, where a dim light shone. He scanned Spotter, recognized him, and took him into a small room. The shades of this apartment were drawn.
“I didn’t expect you this early, Spotter,” said the man. “You’ll have to wait a little while.”
“All right, Doc,” replied Spotter.
The man whom Spotter was visiting was “Doc” Birch, the proprietor of the pawnshop. Doc Birch was a careful man in his dealings. He conducted a legitimate business and seldom received stolen goods.
He was a gaunt man, well along in years, who surveyed Spotter through large, thick spectacles.
“It’s O.K. for you to wait, Spotter,” said Birch, “but there’s no one else that I’d trust.”
“Don’t blame you, Doc.”
“You know I’m working through a couple of the boys, but while they’re all right, I don’t go too strong with them. They’re liable to blab or to get in trouble. It would spoil my game.”
“You gotta watch out, Doc. It ain’t wise to have too many in the know.”
“I agree with you, Spotter. But I always try to unload the phony bills as soon as they come in. The sooner you shove out queer money, the better.
“I’d like to depend on you alone. It would be safer in a way; but if I did I’d have to keep the stuff here in the house. That would make it more dangerous in the long run.”
“I thought you did keep it here.”
“Well” — Birch hesitated before making his admission — “I might as well tell you the real dope, Spotter. I buy the goods outright, cash in advance. I don’t know where it comes from myself.”
“You don’t?” Spotter asked in amazement.
“No,” replied Birch. “I tell the messenger how much I want and when. How I got into the racket is my own business; no use in going into that. But I play the game straight.
“The fellow will show up any time now. He brings ten thousand in queer bills — but they’re the best imitation I’ve ever seen — and I give him real money for it.”
Spotter did not ask regarding the terms on which Doc Birch worked in paying for the counterfeit bills that came from the unknown source.
“You’re taking out two grand to-night,” remarked Birch. “The others will come at different times, to get theirs. Then I’m clear.