Stanley was taking an empty car back to Manhattan. During that brief trip down the drive, the rider in the rear had done more than give brief instructions. It was a different figure than Lamont Cranston’s which stepped so silently out into the rain. Cloak and hat had come from a bag in the rear seat, weapons also.
A phantom shape had emerged by Royce’s gates. Through the driving blackness of the rain, an invisible shape was moving toward the lane-like shelter of trees that led up to the house.
Keen eyes saw Selwood Royce returning into the mansion. The porch light went out. Through blackness, The Shadow cut over toward the portico where Weldon Wingate’s car was parked. He approached the door that the lawyer had used when going for his papers. It was unlocked.
The Shadow entered. The dull light from the hallway showed a glisten to the blackness of his garb.
Glistening raindrops covered slouch hat and cloak shoulders. Then The Shadow faded into the darkness of an unlighted hall. From then on, no one could have traced the course of this mysterious being who had returned to the confines of the huge Long Island mansion.
CHAPTER XIX. THE NEXT INTRUDER
“STILL pouring outside.”
Roger Parchell made the statement as he stared at the blackness of a living-room window. Puffing a cigarette, he was viewing the sheets of water that were pouring down the pane.
“But we’re inside,” commented Clyde Burke, from an easy chair.
“Lucky we are,” agreed Roger, strolling over to pick up a half-filled glass. He clinked the ice. “I wouldn’t want to be outside even in an automobile. I don’t envy that chap Cranston.”
Weldon Wingate, seated at a writing table, looked up and beckoned to, the heir.
“Here are the papers, Roger,” declared the lawyer. “Mostly receipts for the delivery of stocks and bonds. Read them over and sign them.”
Roger went to the table. Silence followed as he read the papers; then came intermittent scratches of his pen. During this interval, Selwood Royce decided to light a fire that was built in the grate.
“This big fireplace is a dandy,” the millionaire told Clyde Burke. “The house gets musty very rapidly when it rains. It will be more pleasant with the fire.”
Talbot entered. The servant looked troubled. He approached the fireplace and stood there until Royce looked toward him.
“What is it, Talbot?” inquired the millionaire.
“Sorry to annoy you, sir,” replied the servant, “but I fear there is an intruder about. I caught the sound of footsteps while I was in the dining room.”
“How long ago?”
“Just a few minutes, sir. Now about the door, sir, I—”
“The front door is locked, Talbot. I locked it myself.” Royce looked to the mantelpiece and noted a clock. “I locked it more than half an hour ago, just after Mr. Cranston left.”
“It’s not the front door, sir,” protested Talbot. “I knew that it must be locked. But I went first to the little veranda door at the rear hall, sir—”
“And found it unlocked?”
“No, sir. It was properly bolted from the inside. But then I went to the portico door. It was unbolted, sir. Some one could have come in that way.”
“Was that the door I used?” inquired Wingate, stepping up. “When I went to my car?”
Royce nodded.
“I suppose I forgot to bolt it,” mused the lawyer. “Perhaps I was thinking too much about the papers that I brought.”
“Some one could have come in there, sir,” said Talbot, to Royce. “An intruder could have crossed the dining room while I was absent. I believe, sir, that we might do well to look up in the art gallery.”
“Very well, Talbot,” laughed Royce. “We have nothing else to do. Let’s form a hunting expedition. Come along, every one. We’ll quell Talbot’s apprehensions.”
OUT by the doorway to the gallery stairs, a waiting man was crouched, listening. He was peering from the first turn in the hall. Dull light showed a sallow face, watching in case any one should come. The intruder was Homer Hothan.
Half-dried clothing indicated that Hothan had been hiding outside the house, keeping under some cover to avoid the rain. It was he who had entered, and Talbot had heard him. Hothan had seen the servant come out from the dining room and go back.
Satisfied that he was safe, Hothan groped toward the door to the gallery. He opened it, left it ajar and went up the stairs. When he reached the thirty-foot passage, he used a flashlight. He started back in sudden alarm as he saw a blink come from the other end. Then he emitted a nervous laugh.
Hothan had seen the reflection of his own light in the mirrored door of the closet at the end of the passage. Recognizing that he was facing a looking-glass, Hothan crept on. Suddenly, he extinguished his light. He had heard a sound from below. Some one was coming up to the gallery.
Hothan seized the knob of the closet door; he tugged. The door wrenched open, but without great noise.
Hothan moved inside and pulled the door shut. He was just in time. Lights came on in the passage.
Selwood Royce had pressed a switch from below.
THE searching party came up. They walked along the passage, Royce adding new lights as they went.
They arrived at the gallery and found it empty. After they had looked in both extensions, they returned.
Royce spoke to Talbot as they neared the passage.
“No one up here,” said the millionaire. “Your imagination was at fault, Talbot”
“But I am sure, sir—”
“No one came in from that portico. And the other doors are bolted.”
“What about the north wing?” asked Roger Parchell. “Couldn’t some one have come in from there?”
“The windows are nailed and barred,” explained Royce. “The only door is bolted from the inside. As for the door that connects the north wing with the gallery, that is bolted on this side. We just examined it.”
“Of course, sir,” put in Talbot, “some one could have come through there and bolted the door behind him.”
“But how would he get through in the first place?” laughed Royce. “How could he have gotten into the north wing before that? Be sensible, Talbot.”
Royce tugged at the closet door as he spoke. This was the one place that they had not examined. The millionaire wanted to give final satisfaction to the matter of a supposed intruder. But as he yanked, the door failed to open.
“That closet door is very tight, sir,” reminded Talbot. “I tried to open it a few days ago. It appeared to be stuck.”
“It’s stuck now.” added Royce, “and we’re not going to waste time with it. When we get downstairs, Talbot, you can call in other servants from the kitchen and look about on the ground floor.”
The group went through the passage and descended the stairs. Lights clicked out. A door slammed.
Ten seconds passed; then the closet door opened. Hothan came out boldly; he listened in the darkness.
Then he found a light switch and pressed it to illuminate the gallery.
Hothan snickered. He had heard all that was said. The closet door had been tightly wedged; Hothan had opened it quickly because of his desperation. But when Royce had tried the door, it had failed to open because Hothan was hanging on to the inside knob.
Statements had indicated clearly that no further search of the art gallery would be made; that was why Hothan had forgotten his timidity.
He was a curious sort, this killer. Fearful at times, nervy at others. He was undergoing one of his brave spells at present.
He found the door at the end of one extension. He unbolted it and looked into the yawning spaces of the north wing. Sneaking back, Hothan turned out the gallery lights. Using his torch along the floor, he headed for the door that he had opened.