“Go in the waiting room, then,” she said. “I won’t take your name until I have notified Mister Bishop that an applicant is here. He’s busy now. You’ll have to wait a while.”
Paget entered the room. The door closed automatically behind him. He heard a click as though a latch had locked.
The room was small. It had no windows. There was simply a closed door opposite the entrance through which Paget had come.
The room was furnished with a table and several chairs. It was lighted by a large lamp in the corner.
Paget noted that several advertising devices were displayed on the table. One attracted his attention. It was a glass frame with gray backing, mounted on a pedestal.
Evidently Paget knew what he was expected to do. He acted immediately. He went to the lamp. He turned out the lights and sat in a chair. After a short pause, he spoke.
“Silence,” he said, softly.
A light appeared in the gray frame. There, in gleaming letters, was the word “Seven.” It stood as a silent reply to his password.
“Five,” said Paget.
The word “seven” disappeared. In its place came the word “one”.
Paget, as the fifth member of the secret group, was in communication with the chief of the organization.
Every word that the clubman uttered was transmitted to some other place — how distant, Paget did not know — where a hand controlled the switch that made the answering words appear.
“I require the immediate aid of the Faithful Fifty,” said Paget, his low voice disguised and scarcely audible in the darkness.
The word “one” disappeared from the frame. In its place came the word “proceed,” which formed letter by letter.
“One of my agents,” said Paget, slowly, “is in danger. He has been of assistance in our work. It was through him that the enterprise began. Some one is seeking to trace his movements.”
Paget paused. The word “proceed” remained in the frame.
“My agent’s name” — Paget smiled in the darkness — “is Rodney Paget. He has been staying at Wilbur Blake’s home. He reports that some one has been watching him. He believes that this enemy has also entered his apartment. Because he is being watched, he has left Blake’s house.”
The light went out. Now letters formed in the frame, spelling first one word, then another, to form a complete sentence. Paget watched it closely, until it became entirely blank.
“Who — is — watching — him—” were the words.
“A person called The Shadow,” said Paget. “He is a man of mystery. He appears only at night—”
He stopped his sentence as new words began to form in the frame.
“We — know — of — The — Shadow—” was the message of Number One.
“Ah!” Paget spoke almost without thinking. “Do you know his identity?”
“No,” came the illuminated reply.
“How may he be eliminated?”
“Where — is — Paget—” came the next words.
“He stays at the Merrimac Club,” answered Paget. “He is there during the day and the evening.”
“Where — does — he — live—” The illuminated words flashed with weird precision.
Paget gave the location of his apartment, in a low, careful voice.
“He — will — find — orders — there—” announced the flashing panel.
Paget could think of nothing else to say. He sat in the darkness, awaiting a further command. None came.
Suddenly the lamp in the corner became illuminated and Paget was momentarily surprised to find himself in the illuminated room. There was a click at the entrance. The door had unlocked.
A few minutes later the stenographer entered.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Mister Bishop cannot see you to-day. You may come back to-morrow and give your name then.”
PAGET left the room. His eyes sparkled with admiration as he rode down the elevator — pure admiration of the system employed by the Silent Seven.
There, in a darkened room, he had conversed with Number One — a man who might be miles away. He knew that both doors must have been locked during the conference, and that the room was absolutely sound-proof.
It was nearly five o’clock when Paget arrived at his apartment. He had been there only a few minutes when a note was pushed under his door. He opened the envelope. The message read: Leave the club at ten o’clock tonight. Come to the Perry Warehouse on Sixty-eighth Street near Tenth Avenue. Enter side door and go upstairs. V.
Paget memorized the simple instructions. He tore up the note and tossed the fragments in the wastebasket.
He donned a tuxedo; then sat in an easy-chair and thoughtfully puffed a cigarette through the ivory holder. His hand went to the watch pocket of his trousers, where he had placed the scarab ring.
He was attempting to visualize the plans of Number One. He rejected the theory that he might be under the surveillance of the Silent Seven. As Number Five of that organization, he had been unchallenged at the meeting.
He thoroughly believed that the mysterious man known as The Shadow was a free agent who was threatening his plans.
The note had come from Number One whoever he might be. It assumed, of course, that Paget had been informed to watch for it by Number Five.
The signature, V., was a clever touch, as it showed the author knew that Paget’s chief was Number Five, V being the Roman numeral for five. At the same time, any one finding the note would suppose V. to be the initial of the writer.
Paget knew that a trap was in readiness at the Perry Warehouse. He felt confident that it was laid to ensnare The Shadow, should the man in black track him there.
If, by some chance, The Shadow had discovered the note, or might enter the apartment and find it in the wastebasket, he would be lured by his knowledge, without the necessity of trailing Rodney Paget.
It was after six o’clock. The clubman left his apartment. He came suddenly from the front door of the building. He stood there while he lighted a cigarette.
From the corner of his eye, he detected a man lounging across the street. He divined the purpose of the watcher. In his report, he had stated that The Shadow might possibly have entered his apartment. He felt sure that the inconspicuous observer had been stationed there by the Silent Seven.
A chance thought came to Paget’s mind as he rode away in a taxicab. It brought a smile to his lips.
There was a certain humor in this situation; that the Seven were giving him their cooperation. For there were facts concerning his connection with the Silent Seven that were known to Rodney Paget alone.
Glancing back, the clubman made sure that no one was following his cab. He was satisfied that The Shadow was not on his trail.
“After dark,” murmured Paget, to himself. “After dark — then — The Shadow. Tonight — that will mark the end.”
Unseen forces were at work. A mighty criminal organization was ready for an emergency. The Silent Seven did not fear the law. The victims that they doomed never escaped their verdict. Soon, another victim would be added to their list of crimes!
CHAPTER XV. THE TRAP
Two men stood across the street from the Merrimac Club. They were holding a low conversation. Their faces were turned toward the building by which they stood, yet they seemed keenly observant of all who passed them.
“Ten o’clock, Harry,” said one of the men.
The other nodded.
“We may have to wait until midnight, Clyde,” he replied. “He stays late, sometimes.”
“Yes,” confirmed Clyde, “and then he usually goes home. Still, I’m glad we’re on the job again.”
“Why?”
“Because The Sha—” Clyde Burke caught his words—”because we went off duty the night after we lost Paget in the restaurant. I’m glad to be on again. We’re not going to slip this time.”