FOR several minutes Lukens gazed up and down the street, seeking some trace of the vanished stranger.
His efforts unavailing, the physician returned into the house. As he went up the stairs, Oscar appeared.
“Oh!” exclaimed the servant. “I heard you. I wondered who was coming in.”
“I just went downstairs with our visitor. Did he tell you his name, Oscar?”
“Who?”
“The man who was here. The man in the black cloak.”
“I saw no man, sir.”
“What! Didn’t you let him in a half hour ago?”
“No, sir. I have been asleep since ten o’clock.”
Doctor Lukens gasped.
“Was the front door locked?” he questioned.
“Certainly, doctor,” replied Oscar. “I always lock it — and bolt it, sir.”
“It’s unlocked now,” said the physician grimly. “I was outside a moment ago.”
Oscar hurried downstairs to lock the front door. Doctor Lukens, his head bowed in thought, went into the room where Henry Marchand had died. He slumped into the chair before the desk.
It all seemed unreal. For a minute the physician believed that he had been the victim of hallucinations produced by the mental effort he had undergone in his study of the code.
Then his fingers fumbled in his vest pocket, and he brought out the card which the man in black had given him — the card which bore the telephone number to be called in an emergency.
Doctor Lukens smiled. Here was tangible evidence. This was a clew by which he might trace his visitor and learn the man’s identity.
Convinced of the reality of the situation, Doctor Lukens pondered deeply over the information which the man had given him. The logic of the stranger’s arguments had created a profound impression in the physician’s mind.
“It is true,” murmured Doctor Lukens. “True that my old friend Henry was murdered. This man has revealed the fact. Whoever he is — whatever he may be — he is ready to trace the murderer. I shall aid him as he wishes!”
The physician stared at the wall as his mind reverted to the mysterious man who had come to see him.
“Who can he be?” asked Doctor Lukens. “Where did he come from? Where did he go? It is unaccountable.” The physician pictured himself standing outside the front door, staring through the darkness.
“Strange!” he exclaimed. “He vanished as he appeared — like a living shadow!”
CHAPTER VI. THE SCARAB RING
THE next morning Doctor George Lukens went to his home. Upon leaving Marchand’s house, he called Harvey Willis and told the young secretary that he intended to return and stay in the old brownstone mansion.
The physician explained that he was about to take a vacation, and that he would like to be present to go over Marchand’s effects — a duty which Willis had expected to perform.
When he reached his own residence, the doctor called the offices of the telephone company. He brought out the card that the stranger had given him and requested that the number be traced. He was told to await a report.
During the interim, Doctor Lukens packed his suitcase. In going through a bureau drawer, he came upon an object that brought back unhappy memories.
It was a gold ring upon which was mounted an Egyptian scarab. It was not an article of great value, and Doctor Lukens had almost forgotten it. The ring had been given to him several months before by Henry Marchand.
“This ring,” the old man had said, “is the only article of jewelry that I have ever worn. I do not want to wear it now. I do not want to deposit it with the gems that belonged to my wife, for it is not a part of that collection.
“Somehow I value this odd ring, and I am afraid to keep it because I might lose it. You never lose anything, George.
“Fear of losing this ring has become a mania with me. If you have it, I know it will be safe. If I never ask for it again, keep it as a memento.”
Doctor Lukens had been well acquainted with his patient’s mental quirks. He had taken the ring and had placed it in this drawer, which he always kept locked.
The physician had no fear of theft or burglary. He had doubted the importance of the ring; in fact, he had believed that Henry Marchand would forget all about it.
Now the scarab ring seemed precious to Doctor Lukens. The ring was a souvenir of his dead friend.
Tears dimmed the physician’s eyes as he examined the ring and looked at the green beetle mounted on the gold.
He glanced at the inside of the ring and noted a series of tiny scratches. He was about to study them more closely when the phone rang. Doctor Lukens slipped the ring on his finger and answered the call.
THE telephone company reported that the number he had requested was a pay-station booth in the Grand Central Station. Doctor Lukens gasped; then he laughed as he hung up the receiver.
A moment later his mirth changed to serious thought. He called another number. A man’s voice answered.
“Barlow,” said the physician, “are you busy this afternoon and this evening?”
“No, sir,” came the reply.
“I have a job for you. Go to the Grand Central Station. Look over the telephone booths — in an indifferent manner, you understand. Find one that bears this number” — the physician referred to the card and gave the number — “and station yourself near at hand. Notify me if you see any one loitering about that booth.
“If the phone rings — about nine o’clock this evening — see who answers it. Call me promptly at Mister Marchand’s home.”
“Very well, sir.”
The physician rubbed his hands in satisfaction. He completed the packing of his suitcase. He felt that he was entering an unusual game, and that new and interesting developments would come. He left his apartment, called a cab, and rode to Marchand’s house.
There he discovered a visitor — Rodney Paget. The suave, immaculately clad clubman was with Harvey Willis in the room where Henry Marchand had died.
The secretary was busy going over the old man’s effects — articles, chiefly, which had been brought from the safe. Paget, his long cigarette holder in his hand, was watching indolently.
“Good morning, doctor,” drawled Paget. “Just dropped in to say hello. Willis told me you were coming today. How are you?”
“Well, thank you,” snapped Lukens. He turned to the secretary. “Willis, I told you not to do this work until I arrived.”
“I was just arranging things, sir,” replied the secretary. “Mister Paget asked me if I had begun, and I told him I was waiting for you. He suggested that I put things in readiness.”
“Obey my orders after this,” retorted Lukens.
There was a pause. Then Paget spoke.
“You are staying here, doctor?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the physician.
He went to the desk and began examining some papers that had been taken from the safe. Suddenly he wheeled and looked at Paget. The clubman was standing at the left. Lukens acted so quickly that he surprised him.
Paget had been staring at the papers, Lukens thought. The man’s gaze turned hurriedly, but too late to escape the doctor’s notice.
“I must be going,” drawled Paget. “I shall return later, doctor. I thought that you might find something concerning my business with Mister Marchand. Perhaps by this evening—”
“Drop in then, if you wish,” said Lukens brusquely. He watched Paget suspiciously as the man left the room. The physician made no comment to Willis, who was busy at the safe.
The secretary had removed everything from Marchand’s safe and closet. Doctor Lukens was surprised at the amount of work he had accomplished. Every small article had apparently been gone over while Paget had been present.