Yet, had Stacks or his companion stared back toward the bushes, they would have seen a more potent sign of a being in the darkness. Two burning eyes, their brightness reflecting the glimmer of the light above the door, were following the sneaking men. Phantom eyes that seemed to float through the mist, they watched the progress of these stealthy spies.
“We’ll be all right here?” came Scully’s question, as the porch was reached.
“Sure,” was the whisper that came from Stacks. “Old Boswick will be up in his study — the little room that opens on the back yard—”
As he broke off his statement, Stacks chanced to glance back toward the driveway. He caught a momentary glimpse of a gliding shape along the ground; then attributed it to his imagination.
THE owner of that shadow was invisible. The tall form of a living being was skirting the edge of the porch even as Stacks spoke. Sharp ears had heard the reference to the little upstairs room. The phantom shape moved onward, unseen in the darkness.
A dim light glimmered from a small window on the second floor, at the back of the house. Beneath that window, a tall form emerged from the dampening darkness. Gloved hands pressed against the rough stone wall of the building.
A figure moved upward. The folds of a rain-soaked cloak flapped gently against the stones. A creature of the night was making its way to the window. Shortly afterward, a blackened hand appeared against the dim light, and noiselessly pushed the window sash upward.
The shadowy shape of a slouch hat was momentarily revealed by the vague illumination. A few seconds later, the head beneath the hat had moved to the side, and was no longer visible. The weird phantom of the night clung bat-like to the side of the house.
While Drew Westling, listening by the door of the study, overheard the conversation within the room, this eerie visitant of darkness was also learning what passed between Houston Boswick and Farland Tracy.
Silent, sinister, and unseen, The Shadow, man of darkness, had come to this secluded spot. The Shadow, mysterious personage who thwarted crime, was interested in the same discussion that had intrigued Drew Westling.
What was the purpose of The Shadow’s visit? Did danger lurk about this place? Did the presence of huddled watchers in the shrubbery mean that crime was brewing?
Shadows of the night had moved amidst the drizzling mist. One was a living shadow. Where plans and cross-purposes unfolded; where men of evil design maintained a secret vigil; there did The Shadow venture!
CHAPTER II
TALK OF WEALTH
Within a small, but finely furnished study, Houston Boswick and Farland Tracy faced each other across a mahogany desk, totally unaware that listeners were stationed at both door and window.
The two men formed an interesting contrast in the glow of the desk lamp. Farland Tracy, still in his forties, showed virility in every action. Firm-faced. square-jawed, and stalwart, he had a dynamic air combined with self-assurance. With it, his eyes expressed understanding and sympathetic feeling.
Houston Boswick, in opposition, was aged and weary. He was a man past sixty, and his thin face marked him as one who had lost all former initiative.
His eyes, alone, revealed his intellect. At times they were colorless; but at intervals they sparkled with quick purpose. Occasionally, they showed a distinct trace of innate shrewdness.
Those eyes were Tracy’s key. The lawyer watched them steadily and calmly, knowing that they alone could serve as an index to Houston Boswick’s true emotions.
“Tracy” — Boswick’s voice was pitifully thin — “I am an old man who has nothing left to live for.”
“Hardly old,” rejoined Tracy, in a quiet tone. “You have not yet reached the dividing line of threescore and ten.”
“I am nearing it,” asserted Boswick, with a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders, “and my life has been one of ceaseless labor. The accumulation of wealth is no sinecure, Tracy. I have made my share — more than my share, to be exact. I began almost in childhood. That is why I am nearing the end of life.”
“You have retired from business,” Tracy reminded him. “That should give you the opportunity to recuperate.”
“I retired,” interrupted Boswick, “purely because I could no longer continue. When an old horse can no longer stand in harness, his days are numbered.”
Farland Tracy had no reply. Houston Boswick could see the sympathy in his expression. The old man smiled wanly.
“Do not attempt to delude me, Tracy,” declared Boswick. “This last trip to Florida was for my health. Its purpose failed. The writing is on the wall. My physicians have told me that I may not have long to live. I am ready to die.”
“Why?” questioned Tracy incredulously.
“Because,” explained Boswick “life holds nothing in store for me. What is wealth when one can no longer work? That has been my creed, Tracy. I shall always adhere to it.
“All my business associates were older than myself. One by one they have dropped from sight. Death has accounted for most of them. Senility has seized the rest. For the past year, I have lived with only one hope.”
“Your son’s return.”
“Yes. Now, Tracy, that hope is assured.”
“You have heard from Carter?”
Houston Boswick nodded.
REAL elation appeared upon Farland Tracy’s countenance. The lawyer had often heard Houston Boswick speak of his absent son, Carter.
Years before, the younger Boswick had gone out to seek his own fortune. He had traveled in many parts of the world. Indirect reports had reached Houston Boswick that Carter was doing well. But not until now had the old man received direct news from Carter Boswick himself.
“Let me become reminiscent,” remarked Houston Boswick. “Tragedy entered my life some twenty-odd years ago. Directly following the death of my wife, my sister Stella — my only living relation — perished in a train wreck with her husband, Hugh Westling.
“I raised their boy with mine. My son, Carter, and my nephew, Drew Westling, were like brothers. The same age — but Carter was the stronger, and Drew the weaker. Realizing it, I favored Drew.”
“That was considerate,” observed Tracy.
“Too considerate,” corrected Houston Boswick. “Carter became obsessed with independence. Drew became a weakling, with no initiative. The result was that Carter went away, and Drew remained.
“Only a week ago, I received a letter from Montevideo. It was from Carter. A friend of mine had met him there, and had given him my Florida address. In that letter, Carter announced that he was coming home.”
“How soon?”
“He has already sailed. He is aboard the steamship Southern Star. He is coming by way of Havana, and will be here within two weeks.”
“Wonderful news!” exclaimed Tracy. “He will be glad to see you — and I know that he will receive a glorious welcome.”
“Hardly,” responded Boswick, in a wistful tone. “I shall not be here to greet him.”
“You will be—”
“Dead. Yes, Tracy, I shall be dead.”
The lawyer slapped his hand upon the table. He could not believe his ears. This statement seemed incredible — the absurd fancy of a failing mind.
“Dead,” repeated Houston Boswick quietly. “I feel the end of life approaching. It will be for the best, Tracy. I should not like Carter to see me as I am now. He should always remember me as I was when he went away — close to ten years ago.”
The lawyer settled back in resignation. He saw that it was no use to dispute the matter with the old man.
“That is why I have summoned you, Tracy,” resumed Houston Boswick. “You have been my lawyer since my old friend, Glade Rupert, passed away. Our friendship has been a matter of but a few years, but I feel that you have been most competent and kindly. Therefore, I am relying upon you now.”