The strange visitor stepped down from the entrance. The bottom of the gown seemed to slide in front of him, so that no foot was visible. The whole effect was both weird and surprising.
The dread figure advanced slowly and Harry instinctively shifted his position. He did not like the appearance of this unexpected arrival.
The man in the robe stopped a few feet in front of Harry. The cloth front of his cowl had two narrow slits through which he was peering; but Harry could not detect the eyes behind it. He calmly met the gaze of the unseen eyes, and waited for the visitor to speak.
“Who are you?” came a low voice. The sinister tones were chilling. Harry did not reply.
“Who are you?” The question was repeated.
Harry remained silent.
“Are you The Shadow?”
The question was unexpected. Harry felt a sudden tenseness. He restrained himself and made no response.
“Why did you follow Rodney Paget?”
Harry leaned his head against the glass in back of him and looked boldly at his questioner.
“What do you know about Rodney Paget?”
Harry felt more at ease. His policy of silence was bringing new questions. He was resolved to outwit his inquisitor. By saying nothing, he revealed nothing. He wondered what would happen next.
THE man whose face was hidden by the cowl made no threatening motion. He continued to look at Harry, as though seeking to overpower him by the strength of his invisible eyes.
Harry felt that the game was turning in his favor, for the moment. He smiled and tried to regard his inquisitor with an attitude of ridicule.
“You have heard my questions,” said the man in the robe. “Do you choose to answer them?”
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well.” The voice was harsh in the gloom of the room. “You have answered nothing. You have denied nothing. Your identity is suspected. It will soon be learned, despite your efforts to conceal it.
“If you choose to speak, you have a chance for life. If you do not speak, the verdict will surely be—”
The speaker paused. Harry felt a slight shudder as he waited for the next word.
“Death!”
The verdict was uttered in a hideous tone. The word seemed to echo from the walls of the room.
“Death!”
Had Harry heard the word again, or was his imagination at work. As he looked at the form before him, he could think of nothing but that emphatic verdict. Silence filled the room.
Harry felt a strange desire to blurt out answers to the questions. He restrained himself with difficulty. The inquisitor seemed to divine his emotions.
“The choice is yours,” came the slow, modulated voice. “At present you have decided to say nothing. Later, you may change your desire. When you are ready, you may knock upon the door — and you will have your opportunity.
“But be sure” — the words carried an insidious warning — “that you are ready to answer all that may be asked! You will have but one opportunity. Should you resort to deception, your last chance will be lost!”
The words impressed Harry. At the same time, they gave him hope. They increased his determination to maintain silence for the present.
“One last warning,” came the voice. “When you decide to speak — and you will decide to do so — be sure that you do not delay too long. I may not be ready at the moment which you choose. You must allow sufficient time.”
The border of the dark gown swept the floor as the inquisitor turned. With stately stride he went to the doorway. His form seemed to heighten as he reached the step. There he turned again, and his solemn voice carried an awe-inspiring tone as it came to Harry’s ears.
“Remember,” were the words, “you have your choice. You may answer all questions if you choose. Otherwise — death!”
As the final verdict was uttered, the steel door descended. It obscured the figure of the man in the robe.
The inquisitor was gone. Harry Vincent was again alone!
OUTSIDE the room, the man in the dark gown confronted another figure as sinister as himself. His companion was a veritable giant — a man whose grim, white face seemed deathlike in the gloom of a dimly-lighted passage.
This man was dressed in black. His features were sullen and determined. His eyes were dull and expressionless. He was a brute type, possessed of tremendous strength, but who seemed governed by a willingness to obey one master.
He was a modern survival of the medieval executioners who dwelt in obscurity, abhorred by the neighbors, and who only faced the public when called upon to wield the ax of death.
“Bron,” said the man in the robe, “remain here until the end. Do not leave this post.”
The grim-visaged executioner bowed his head in acknowledgment of the instructions.
“Should he signal,” continued the man in the robe, “send word to me. If I do not respond, let the death go on.”
Again a nod was the answer.
“The death will begin soon,” said the man who had questioned Harry Vincent. “Wait ten minutes. Then proceed.”
The executioner nodded.
“As for the other,” said the man in the robe, “pay no attention to him. We have provided for his wants. I shall visit him when necessary.”
The man in the robe extended his hand. Upon one finger was the strangely carved beetle — a duplicate of Rodney Paget’s scarab ring. Bron bowed.
“The sign,” he said in a sepulchral voice.
The man in the robe formed the number seven — the fingers and thumb of the right hand extended; two fingers showing from the left. Bron replied with one open hand and one clenched fist — the sign of the Fifty.
The inquisitor turned and walked a few paces. He stopped at a blank wall. He pressed his hands against the sides of the passage. A sheet of metal arose, revealing the faint outline of a spiral stairway.
The man in the robe went through the opening; the barrier closed behind him. He ascended the stairway and came to another barrier. Another sheet of metal rose when he pressed the hidden catch. He stepped into a small room that was lighted by a bright lamp.
There was a table in the center of the room. Upon it rested a peculiar instrument with a large lettered keyboard.
THE man in the robe sat at the table and carefully noted the time on a watch that lay there. He threw back his cowl and revealed a firm, well-featured face.
He was a man past middle age, and his countenance bore an air of judicial sternness. It was intelligent, yet unyielding.
He pressed an unlettered key at the side of the board and waited. Five minutes passed. Then a low voice filled the room. It sounded like a voice over the radio. Its tones were clear and distinct.
“Faithful,” came the voice.
Skilled hands pressed the keyboard, spelling the word “fifty.”
“B — three,” said the voice.
The hands spelled the word “one.”
“The man in the hospital is not yet identified,” came the voice. “He will be followed when discharged.”
“What — about — Blake—” the words were spelled letter by letter as the hands ran over the keyboard.
“We are watching from a distance. The presence of the night watchman makes it difficult. We have looked for an intruder, but have seen none. We have avoided suspicion as ordered.”
“Instructions—” spelled the hands.
“Ready,” responded the voice.
“Note — to — Paget — telling — him — to — keep — hidden—”
“Noted,” was the verbal reply.
“Post — men — of — the — Fifty — in — his — apartment—”
“Noted.”
“Guard — both ends — of — arcade — constantly—”
“Noted.”