As Tim Mecke left, Doctor Guyon arose and announced that he, too, was departing. He remarked that he would have to start at once on his appeal in behalf of Silk Elverton.
Foulkrod Kendall remained alone in his living room. The bluff-faced millionaire paced back and forth. His face displayed a variety of emotions. Resentment toward Tim Mecke was evident, but it was counteracted by a cunning look which dominated Kendall’s countenance. At last, with a gruff laugh, the millionaire walked from his living room and went upstairs.
Then came another laugh. No more than a whispered shudder, it raised uncanny reverberations behind the door of the little room. The door opened, and The Shadow stepped into the living room. His tall form was visible in the lights which Kendall had left for a servant to extinguish.
The Shadow had heard all; even the final, undertoned conversation between Kendall and Mecke, near the door of the little room. Creepy echoes of The Shadow’s soft mirth seemed to join with the foreboding mockery that had come from bidden lips.
The Shadow knew. He understood the thoughts which had gone through Kendall’s mind. He had gained an insight into well-masked phases of subtle crime.
The echoes died away. The tall form glided across the floor and merged with the gloom of the hall. When the servant entered to put out the lights, The Shadow had departed.
Tomorrow held a new quest for the master who fought against insidious crime.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE GOVERNOR’S PARDON
IT was early the next evening. Two men were seated in a room of the governor’s mansion. One was Foulkrod Kendall; the other was Hiram Landow, the governor. A dignified, gray-haired man, Landow displayed the integrity which had enabled him to gain election on a ticket supported by reformers.
The room was a lonely one, furnished with old-fashioned chairs and tables. The darkness of the woodwork, the deep shades of hanging curtains, gave the place a gloomy effect. Neither Kendall nor the governor seemed to notice this. They were too busily engaged in discussing an important matter.
“The time limit is nearly ended,” declared Kendall, in a persuasive tone. “Your messenger can reach New Avalon in time to prevent the death sentence at the penitentiary.”
“Kendall,” returned the governor seriously, “my patience is at an end. I have studied Doctor Guyon’s report from beginning to end. It is an excellent plea for pardon, but it does not convince me.”
“I am positive that Elverton is innocent.”
“I, in turn, am sure that he is guilty.”
Hiram Landow arose and went to a table in the corner. This piece of furniture served as a writing desk. It was set by heavy curtains which concealed a small alcove. Reaching to the table, the governor pushed aside a small bottle of ink that he had used as a paperweight, and picked up a sheaf of papers. He brought the bundle to Kendall.
“You may keep Guyon’s plea,” said Hiram Landow. “I have no use for it.”
“Governor,” asserted Kendall, “you are making a great mistake. You have absolute authority in this case—”
“Granted,” interposed the governor. “That, in a sense, is unfortunate. The chief executive wields the power of an autocrat, so far as executions are concerned. That does not privilege him to misuse his power. He must not become a tyrant.”
“I ask this as a favor.”
“I refuse. I would violate my oath of office.”
“You have nothing to lose.”
“You are wrong there, Kendall,” returned Hiram Landow. “I have not considered this matter from a selfish viewpoint, but since you bring it up in that light, I can assure you that my political future would be at stake, should I pardon Ronald Elverton. Popular feeling is decided. The man is accepted as a convicted murderer.”
“You are passing it on to Doctor Guyon,” asserted Kendall. “Let him take the blame. He will not object. He is independent. He does not care for politics.”
“There is no use, Kendall,” declared Hiram Landow. “My decision is final. In fact, I disapprove of your having come here. I might readily suppose that you had a hidden interest in the affairs of this man Elverton. I advise you, Kendall, to say nothing of this foolish plea. It does you no credit.”
FOULKROD KENDALL said nothing. His face hardened. Hiram Landow noticed the look and wondered. He had a feeling that something was foreboding.
“You suggest,” declared Kendall, after his pause, “that I am interested in Elverton’s affairs. Very well. I am. I demand his pardon.”
Hiram Landow’s gaze was cold.
“What is more,” resumed Kendall harshly, “I can convince you that Elverton’s welfare is to your interest. Let me mention that your son’s engagement to my niece will be ended if you do not grant this pardon.”
“You are showing your colors now,” returned Hiram Landow, in a rising tone of restrained anger. “Your craven statement is futile, however. I have every respect for my son’s happiness. Nevertheless, I shall not allow its culmination to interfere with justice.”
“You mistake me,” said Kendall, with a sour smile. “The engagement will be broken for a very fair reason. Your son — not yourself — will be the cause.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the governor.
“That your son,” responded Kendall slowly, “your son, Clayton Landow, is guilty of embezzlement, and that I can produce the proof!”
Hiram Landow clenched his fists. Foulkrod Kendall was unperturbed. He drew a paper from his pocket, and handed it to the governor. With staring eyes, Hiram Landow read the report.
“This morning,” said Kendall, “I had my private auditor go over your son’s books. Clayton’s own record was all that we requested. But, during his absence — he went out on business which I gave him — we checked the old books which came in from the theater managers. You will observe the discrepancy.”
“Eight thousand dollars,” gasped Hiram Landow.
“Not much money,” observed Foulkrod Kendall, “but enough to put Clayton in prison for ten years. I might add that I have a man watching his office to see that the books are not removed from the safe. Clayton may suspect—”
“This is terrible!” Hiram Landow seemed stupefied. “My son — a thief! I cannot believe it! It must be a lie!”
“I did not like to tell you of this,” said Kendall quietly. “I have revealed these facts only because of this crisis. Governor, Ronald Elverton was my friend. I cannot believe him guilty of murder — any more than you can believe your son guilty of embezzlement.”
“What do you intend to do?” questioned Hiram Landow.
“That is up to you,” returned Kendall quietly. “I can simply tell Clayton that we need the old books no longer. He will then destroy them. All will be forgotten. He will have a chance to make amends by living a righteous future. But” — an evil smile flickered on the speaker’s lips — “the price that I demand is the pardon of Ronald Elverton.”
“Never,” gasped Hiram Landow weakly. “Never—”
“Your political future?” queried Kendall, in a meditative tone. “Do you think that this will help it? Would it not be better to lay the act of pardon upon Doctor Conrad Guyon than to lay the act of embezzlement upon your son?”
Hiram Landow made no reply.
“Like father — like son,” remarked Kendall dryly. “A good rule works both ways. Like son — like father.”
The governor remained silent.
“You will be elected to the Senate,” continued Kendall, after a pause. “The governorship is but a step in your political career. The pardon of Elverton will be forgotten. The conviction of your son will always be remembered.”