Farland Tracy bowed quietly.
“First of all, resumed Boswick, “my son Carter must not know of my death until after his arrival in New York. You understand?”
Tracy nodded. The lawyer, to humor the old man, was accepting Houston Boswick’s death as a forgone matter of the immediate future.
“Then,” added Boswick, “you will arrange full discharge of my estate, according to the terms. The bulk to Carter, with the provision of a comfortable life income for Drew Westling.”
The old man paused speculatively. Then, with a sad air, he continued on a new theme.
“My nephew Drew, he stared, “is a waster. I have provided for him because he is my sister’s son. I have lost all confidence in Drew. I have not told him that I have heard from Carter. Drew knows that my health is failing. He will expect the full estate for himself. Indeed, it would be his, but for Carter.
“That is the reason, Tracy, why I have always minimized the amount of my possessions. People will be surprised, after my death, to learn that my estate is scarcely more than a round million. Only the heir — whether it he Carter or Drew — will learn, some time after my death, that ten times that sum is available!”
“You have made a great mistake,” declared Tracy seriously. “This secret of yours — the strange hiding of a vast sum of money — might lead to serious consequences. Some schemer might seek to learn the place of its deposit.”
“How can any one learn?” questioned Boswick, with a shrewd smile. “I, alone, have knowledge of the hiding place. My old lawyer, Rupert, told me that he thought the scheme was safe.”
“Even though he, like myself, was never informed of the spot where you had placed the money?”
“Rupert never knew,” smiled Boswick. “But he knew me when I was younger — at the time when I first evolved the plan of hidden wealth. He had more confidence in me than you have, Tracy. You have known me only since I became old.”
The lawyer nodded. He realized that Houston Boswick spoke the truth. Nevertheless, his expression still betrayed doubt, and old Boswick was aware of it.
“Secrets,” remarked Tracy, “have a way of leaking out. Your constant effort to minimize the size of your estate could certainly excite suspicion.”
“I believe it has,” declared Boswick quietly.
“You do?” questioned Tracy, in momentary alarm. “What cause have you to think so?”
“This house,” explained Houston Boswick, “was closed while I was away. Drew Westling was living at his club. Headley paid occasional visits here to see that all was well. Upon my return, to-day, I noticed that certain things had been disturbed. I questioned both Drew and Headley.”
“What did they say?”
“Drew claimed to know nothing about it. Nor did Headley, until I pointed out certain traces which he had not noticed. He became alarmed then, Tracy. He believed, with me, that this house had been entered and searched from top to bottom.”
“Hm-m-m,” mused Tracy. “Was anything missing?”
“Nothing,” responded Houston Boswick. “That shows that a definite purpose was at work. Some one was looking for something that could not be found.”
“You are sure that the marauders were not successful?’
“Positive. They would never discover my secret, Tracy, although it lies within this house. Only my heir — whether he be Carter or Drew — can gain the clew to my hidden wealth.”
FARLAND TRACY was thoughtful. Houston Boswick’s discovery surprised the lawyer; now, he was trying to find a plausible explanation for this mysterious occurrence. The old man divined the attorney’s thoughts.
“Do not worry, Tracy,” he said dryly. “I do not care to know the identity of the instigator. It could be Drew Westling; it could be Headley; it could be some one entirely unknown to me. As you say, I have been almost over-emphatic in my efforts to make it appear that my supply of worldly possessions has shrunk to exceedingly small proportions.
“But what do I care now? Carter is returning. He will receive my visible wealth. Let him find the unknown treasure, if he has the initiative. Should any thing happen to prevent Carter’s return, the task will belong to Drew Westling.”
Farland Tracy shook his head in stern disapproval. This strange method of handling vast resources seemed atrocious to the lawyer.
“Suppose,” he presumed, “that Carter — or Drew, for that matter — lacks the initiative. Then what will become of the wealth?”
“It will remain where it is,” smiled Houston Boswick weakly. “Why not? I shall have no use for it. My heir will not deserve it. But do not fear that consequence, Tracy. Simply proceed with the simple duties governing the affairs of my estate. The rest will take care of itself.”
The old man’s gaze became prophetic. Farland Tracy was amazed at the change which filled those sad gray eyes. He listened while Houston Boswick spoke in a far-away voice.
“Carter will return,” presaged the old man. “I am sure of it now. He will find the wealth that is rightfully his. Drew Westling will subsist upon the income that I have provided for him.
“I know this, Tracy. I know it as positively as I know that I shall be dead when Carter reaches New York. I have made my plans. They will succeed, no matter what may oppose them.”
The old man was leaning weakly on his desk. With one hand, he made a feeble motion to indicate that the interview was ended. Farland Tracy arose and grasped the hand. Concern showed in the lawyer’s face.
NEITHER Tracy nor Boswick heard the slight motion that occurred outside the study door. Drew Westling, hearing footsteps on the stairs, had moved quickly along the hall.
Now came a rap at the door, followed by the even voice of Headley, Boswick’s serving man. The old man pointed to the door; Farland Tracy gave the order to enter. In came Headley.
“Mr. Tracy’s car is here, sir,” announced the servant.
“Good night,” said Houston Boswick. “Remember, Tracy. Remember. I rely upon you.”
“I shall remember,” replied the lawyer.
Farland Tracy’s last view of Houston Boswick showed the old man collapsed upon the desk, with Headley bending over him in apprehension. Going downstairs alone, the lawyer began to believe the old man’s statement that his death was near.
There was no sign of Drew Westling on the gloomy first floor. Farland Tracy donned coat and hat, and left the house. He found Holland standing by the door of the sedan. Tracy hurried into the car to escape the drizzle. He ordered the chauffeur to drive him home.
Lurking figures came from the side portico after the automobile had gone. They reached the shrubbery and lingered there for several minutes. Then came a low voice in the darkness:
“All right, Scully. It’s all off for tonight. Slide along. I’ll take care of myself.”
“O. K., Stacks. I thought this waiting would be a lot of hooey.”
The figure of Scully moved along the shrub-fringed drive, and was swallowed by the darkened mist. Stacks still remained, as though expecting some signal from the house. Finally, he followed in his companion’s course.
A dim shape emerged from the shelter of the side portico. It was the same vague figure that had clung to the wall outside of Houston Boswick’s study window. Weird and phantom-like, it took up the trail of “Stacks.”
The Shadow was following the chief of the two watchers. Into the darkness he had gone, trailing a man whose purpose here had been one of evil. Silently, mysteriously, a being of darkness was hounding a minion of crime.
The light went out above the front porch of Houston Boswick’s home. The old mansion loomed dull and forlorn amid the swirling drizzle. Its inmates no longer concerned The Shadow this night. Hidden watchers had remained unsummoned. Their work still belonged to the future. Representatives of a plotter who had sent them here, they had retired.