HIRAM LANDOW paced the room. At last, he turned and faced Foulkrod Kendall.
“This has been a terrible shock,” admitted the governor, in a quavering voice. “It is dreadful, Kendall. I appreciate your generous offer so far as my son’s future is concerned. I do not want to pardon Elverton, but you have set me thinking. I can believe anything, now that I have proof of my son’s criminal action. I can believe, therefore, that Elverton is innocent of murder. There are points of reason to Doctor Guyon’s plea.”
“I am convinced of that fact,” affirmed Kendall. “That is why I brought the matter to your attention. If I am willing to be lenient so far as your son Clayton is concerned, there is every reason why you should show clemency for Ronald Elverton.”
Hiram Landow was a beaten man. A deluge of miserable thoughts swept his brain. He slumped in a chair. Foulkrod Kendall, watching the governor with a gloating smile, saw that the psychological moment had arrived. He was ready for it.
From his pocket, the millionaire extracted another paper. He passed it to the governor. Hiram Landow studied it with a vacant stare.
“The pardon for Ronald Elverton,” announced Kendall quietly. “It awaits your signature. That will make it effective.”
The governor hesitated. Kendall added smooth persuasion.
“Here is the envelope,” he said, “in which you may seal the document. I have a trusted chauffeur awaiting me. He can take the pardon directly to the warden of the State penitentiary. The execution will be prevented.”
“It will arouse tremendous disapproval—”
“You have Doctor Guyon’s plea,” said Kendall, interrupting the governor’s weak protest. “You can issue it as a statement tomorrow. Come, governor. Time is short!”
Hiram Landow took the unsigned pardon toward the writing desk by the curtains. He turned as he neared that spot and spoke to Kendall.
“Send for your man,” ordered the governor.
Foulkrod Kendall stepped to the door to summon a servant. Hiram Landow paused before turning to the writing desk. Neither he nor Kendall were looking toward the little table. No one saw what happened there.
THE heavy curtain trembled. From its depths came a black projection which developed into the vague shape of a human arm. A black fist approached the center of the table. It placed an object there.
The hand lifted. The article which it had produced was a bottle of ink, similar in size and shape to the one which already rested on the table. Then, with the same easy motion, the black hand plucked up the original bottle and carried it away through the curtain.
Hiram Landow reached the writing desk. He laid the document beside the bottle of ink which the hand from the dark had put there. He uncorked the bottle, dipped the pen in ink. With a sweeping flourish, the governor applied his signature to Silk Elverton’s pardon.
Blue ink glittered upon the white paper. The governor surveyed his handiwork. With a gasp and a shake of his head, he applied a blotter to the paper, and folded the pardon so that he could no longer view the name that he had signed. He was acting under pressure. He regretted it.
Foulkrod Kendall was coming in from the doorway. With him was a man in uniform — Tim Mecke. The governor was putting the pardon in the envelope which Kendall had provided. As the two men neared him, Hiram Landow sealed the envelope.
“Here is the message to the warden,” announced Hiram Landow, in a feeble tone. “Take it, Kendall — send it by this man of yours. He can he trusted?”
“Absolutely,” declared Kendall. The millionaire turned to Tim. “Mecke, drive immediately to the penitentiary at New Avalon. Give this envelope to Warden Barringer. You must get there before midnight.”
Tim Mecke nodded.
“I shall remain in this city over night,” added Kendall. “I shall return to New Avalon by train tomorrow morning. Stop at my home after you have delivered the envelope to the warden.”
Tim Mecke left on his appointed task. Foulkrod Kendall turned to look at Hiram Landow. The millionaire smiled as he saw the governor’s look of dejected resignation.
“Good night, governor,” said Kendall.
The manufacturer departed. Governor Landow remained alone. He was staring at the doorway through which both Tim Mecke and Foulkrod Kendall had gone.
Again, the curtain trembled. The blackened hand stretched forth to replace the bottle of ink upon the writing table. The same hand took away the bottle which had been substituted — the one into which the governor had dipped his pen.
When Hiram Landow arose to leave the gloomy room, his eyes fell upon that bottle. The governor did not suspect the substitution. He stopped at the writing table to lay down the sheaf of papers which constituted Doctor Guyon’s plea for clemency.
The governor went out. The curtain moved. Blackness — this time in greater mass — emerged. The tall form of The Shadow developed into a sinister shape. A low whisper came from the lips beneath the slouch hat.
A black-gloved hand picked up the papers which lay upon the governor’s table. The white sheets crinkled as they disappeared beneath the crimson-lined cloak. The walls echoed softly with the reverberations of the Shadow’s suppressed mirth. The phantom being glided across the floor and passed through the door beyond.
Sobbing echoes lingered weirdly. They seemed to cling to those curtains from which The Shadow had emerged, as though they regretted the departure of the master. Through those curtains, the hand of The Shadow had stretched forth upon a strange mission.
Doctor Guyon’s statements would not be needed on the morrow. Hiram Landow, to save his son, had signed Silk Elverton’s pardon, but an explanation of that deed would not be necessary.
The Shadow, by his unseen action, had counteracted the governor’s momentous signature! He — The Shadow — had thwarted the scheme of Foulkrod Kendall!
The governor’s pardon was nullified — by The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX
AT THE DEATH HOUSE
IT lacked twenty-five minutes of twelve o’clock when an automobile came to a sharp stop before the iron portals of the State penitentiary near New Avalon. An excited driver blew his horn. A man came out from a guardhouse and threw the rays of a flashlight toward the car. The beam revealed the visage of Tim Mecke.
“I want to see Warden Barringer,” asserted Tim. “Right away — important.”
He extended a card — one which had been obtained by Foulkrod Kendall. It bore the warden’s signature, allowing the holder admission to the prison. The guard went back to his house. The gates swung open. Tim Mecke drove through.
It had been a grueling drive from the State capital. The sedan in which Tim was seated was dripping with rain from a fierce storm through which the man had ridden. It was drizzling here in the courtyard of the penitentiary; roads had been slippery all along the way. Yet Tim had made it with nearly half an hour to spare.
The gangster grinned as he showed his permit to an inner guard. He was ushered along a corridor to the warden’s office. At that spot, progress ended.
An anteroom was jammed with men — newspaper reporters, guards, and others who were to witness Silk Elverton’s execution. Tim spoke to one of the uniformed men. He stated that he must see the warden at once. The guard thrust himself between Tim and a glass-paneled door. Tim could see the words upon the barrier:
WILLIS BARRINGER
CHIEF WARDEN
“You can’t go in there,” growled the guard. “Not a chance, young fellow. Warden Barringer is busy.”
“But I must see him—”
“You’ll have your chance. He’ll be out pretty soon.”
“Before the execution.”
“Of course. That’s why these hounds are around here. They’re going downstairs with the warden.”