He moved carefully along a path which his feet could feel, but which his eyes could not distinguish in the darkness. Next, he reached a road, and followed it.
The night was cloudy, but there was sufficient starlight for him to find his way along. Harry was fortunate in choosing the right direction; for after half a mile he came to a highway.
He saw a wooden gate which opened between two stone walls. A tin sign had been tacked to the top rail, and projected above the wooden bar. With difficulty, Harry managed to perch himself upon the gate, which, he found, was fortunately steady.
Harry worked his wrists along the edge of the tin sign. The surface was not sharp enough to gain results, but the projecting corner, Harry noticed, was somewhat pointed.
After a long, tedious process, he managed to sever the rope that bound his wrists. He stretched his arms, and rubbed his wrists. He picked up his coat, which he had dropped on the ground.
None of his money had been taken from his wallet. The stranger had evidently gone through it, looking for cards of identification. But Harry carried none.
His licenses were in the car; and his coupe — when he had last seen it — was in Blair Windsor’s large garage.
As Harry walked along the road, a car approached. It was not likely that it belonged to the man who had captured him, especially as it was coming from behind. Harry waved his hand. The driver stopped. Hold-ups were not feared in this part of the country.
“Will you give me a lift into town?” asked Harry.
“Sure thing,” replied the man in the car.
They rode along in silence. The stranger asked no questions, and Harry was too wise to inquire where he was.
After a ten-mile ride, they came to a fair-sized town. A hotel stood at the main corner.
“This is all right,” said Harry. “Thanks for the ride.”
He entered the hotel, and discovered that he was in Burmont, a town some twenty miles from the village of Brookdale. It was late in the evening, Harry was tired. He registered at the hotel.
The old-fashioned room seemed luxurious after the miserable shack in which he had spent two nights. Harry decided not to notify any one where he was until the next day. Then he could go back to Brookdale.
Would it be wise to tell what had happened? What excuse should he make for his absence?
These were perplexing questions. Harry decided that they could best be answered after a good night’s rest. The morning would be the time for action.
Then he would have an opportunity to communicate with The Shadow.
CHAPTER XXII
BURBANK GOES ON DUTY
Lamont Cranston’s valet knocked at the door of his master’s room.
“Is that you, Richards?” came the voice of the millionaire.
“Yes, sir,” replied the valet.
“Come in, then.”
Richards entered.
“It’s past noon, sir,” he said. “Mr. Burbank is here.”
Lamont Cranston rose leisurely, and yawned.
“I’m getting to be a late sleeper, Richards,” he said. “I wasn’t always this way, was I?”
“No, sir. Only occasionally, sir. I don’t entirely remember, sir.”
Lamont Cranston smiled. Richards was most noncommittal. It was his duty to be so. He never remarked on any eccentricities which his master displayed.
This matter of Burbank, for instance.
Richards had expressed no surprise whatever at Lamont Cranston’s sudden awakening of interest in the wireless station upstairs. Yesterday he had been instructed to call Burbank, the man who occasionally assisted the millionaire in his radio experiments. Now Burbank was here.
“Send him up,” ordered Cranston.
Burbank, a quiet-faced man, entered the millionaire’s room.
“I’m going into New York this afternoon,” explained Cranston. “That’s why I sent for you, Burbank. There may be a message.”
The silent man nodded.
“I’ve expected to hear from Vincent for several days,” continued the millionaire. “I sent him certain messages — not from here, however — and he has not replied to them. I expect him to report.”
Again the nod.
“There are no instructions to be sent back to him,” said Cranston, “except this simple statement: Tell him to tune in at nine o’clock, as usual. That is all. But be sure to take down any word that he sends. I shall call you in the evening. Give me the information at that time.”
The wireless operator went upstairs. The millionaire attired himself, and went down for breakfast. It was nearly two o’clock when he appeared in the tower room where Burbank was located.
“Nothing yet,” said the wireless operator.
The millionaire did not reply. He seemed deep in thought. He began to study different radio apparatus that he had installed in this laboratory.
There were remarkable devices here. Burbank understood some of them; but the millionaire alone was familiar with all of the equipment.
At three o’clock, Lamont Cranston left the laboratory. He went to his own room, and began to mark a schedule of activities for the afternoon.
“Jason’s at four o’clock,” he murmured. “Four-thirty will be time enough. Fellows never leaves his office until five-thirty. Dinner at six — at the club. Radio station at nine.”
He paused, considering the items which he had arranged in column form. A vague smile appeared on his face. He took a pencil, and inserted a single line.
“Loo Look’s at eight o’clock,” were the words.
Lamont Cranston shook his head.
“Only fifteen minutes there,” he said softly. “There’s no good reason to go — it can wait. But Tiger Bronson wants it. Why not give him a chance?”
He let the notation stand. Then he rang the bell for Richards.
“Tell Stanley to bring the car,” ordered the millionaire, when the valet appeared. “I want to get to town soon after four o’clock.”
“Very good, sir.”
The millionaire paid one final visit to the wireless room before he left. No message had been received from Vincent. So Lamont Cranston entered his luxurious limousine, and was driven to the city.
Shortly before six o’clock, Lamont Cranston appeared at the exclusive Cobalt Club. He put in a call for his home, and talked to Burbank. No message had been received.
“Never mind,” he told the wireless operator. “I can wait until nearly nine o’clock. If you receive any word, put it down in tabloid form, so you can give me the details quickly. I can fix a reply in less than ten minutes.”
“Very good,” said Burbank.
Had he known that the reply — no matter how important it might be — was to go over the air, artfully concealed in a radio program, Burbank would have marveled at the amazing ability of Lamont Cranston. But Burbank knew nothing of the means of communication which his chief intended to use.
Dinner at the Cobalt Club was an interesting affair for Lamont Cranston. He sat down at the table with wealthy friends, who were accustomed to dine from six thirty until well after eight.
But on this occasion, the globe-trotter warned his companions that he must leave them by seven thirty, in order to keep an important appointment.
One of the diners brought up the subject of recent criminal activities. The news of the gang war in Tiger Bronson’s home had not found space in the newspapers. It was merely a rumor. One of the men had heard of it.
“We know very little about what goes on in the underworld,” remarked a millionaire named Berkeley, with a serious expression on his face. “There are characters there whose power is tremendous — personages of whom we seldom hear. Take, for instance, The Shadow.”