“I’ll find it out,” declared Mallet. “There’s windows there, aren’t there? I can look through them, even if I can’t get in. Leave that to me, Speedy. I’m going to get the lay of the joint.”
“I see. That’s why you’re having Bagger work tonight. You think that one hound out of the way will be enough?”
“Yeah. For the time. Just so I can keep tabs on a few things up at that house. I’m telling you, Speedy—”
The rest of the sentence was lost to The Shadow. The black-garbed listener was swinging away from the window. His tall form flattened itself against the side of the cottage and edged into a corner by a stone chimney.
Corky was coming by. The gorilla’s flashlight swept the wall. Its angle missed the niche that The Shadow had chosen. Corky went past and turned the corner of the house. His voice came in challenge at the front of the cottage. It was answered.
The Shadow moved back to the window, just in time to see Corky entering with three men who had arrived from the clearing. One, a coarse-faced ruffian with a scar on one cheek, was evidently “Bagger.”
“You got the hound?” The question came from Mallet Haverly.
“You bet,” laughed Bagger, huskily. “That’s one pooch gone where he won’t do no harm. I picked the kennel that you told me about. It was a cinch.”
“Good work.” Mallet arose. “You stay here, Speedy. I’m taking Bagger and Corky with me to stay back by the fence while I do a sneak around the big place.”
Speedy nodded as Mallet started forth. With Bagger and Corky flicking their flashlights to point the way, the chief of the crooks headed toward the woods beyond the clearing.
TEN minutes later, Mallet was on the grounds of Montgard. Moving carefully across the lawn, the racketeer was going toward the kennel which now had no canine occupant. Mallet reached the house and stood there, staring upward toward unlighted windows. Crouching, he waited a while; then, after crawling closer to the wall, he suddenly arose and began to move along the side of the house.
Mallet’s survey was a brief one. The crook studied the wall that fringed the first story veranda and decided that a climb might prove too noisy. Groping through the dark, he retraced his footsteps toward the vacant kennel.
There he paused and craned on tiptoe to study the windows of the library. Shades were drawn. The room was evidently occupied. Mallet continued his retreat. His first visit to Montgard had been a short one.
Something moved by the wall near where Mallet had been. A gliding figure went stealthily to the front of the building and crossed the gravel without a crunching step. The same form became invisible.
Later, a creepy laugh sounded in darkness by the front gates of the estate, a quarter mile from the house itself. A soft sound swished in the darkness.
The Shadow had paid a second visit to Montgard, to watch Mallet Haverly. He had needed no break in the circle of kennels. Drowsy hounds could not scent The Shadow’s presence.
Tonight, The Shadow had studied the fortlike home of Jarvis Raleigh. He had also visited the temporary quarters where men of crime were waiting opportunity to rise to an attack.
The Shadow knew that any onslaught on Montgard would, of necessity, be delayed. Mallet Haverly was playing a waiting game. The stakes were too big to be risked by a futile raid.
Again the laugh. Hollow in the open spaces, its tones were unheard by any but the one who uttered them. The Shadow’s laugh was prophetic.
The time would come for Mallet Haverly’s attack. The foray would be a planned one. Its indications would be plain before it took place. When Mallet and his men broke forth, The Shadow would be ready.
The Shadow, like Mallet Haverly, was playing a waiting game.
CHAPTER VIII
IN MONTGARD
WHILE prowling figures stalked the grounds about the stone-walled castle of Montgard, a trio of persons were engaged in conversation within the house itself. Stokes Corvin, new resident at Montgard, was making friends with the two other persons who classed themselves as guests at the manor.
Corvin was in the library, seated in a comfortable easy chair. Opposite him was a pinch-faced, middle-aged man who stared solemnly through a pair of gold rimmed glasses that were fastened by a ribbon from his waistcoat pocket. This man was Sidney Richland.
To the right was a quiet, pale-faced girl of twenty five. Barbara Wyldram was attractive of features, but her countenance bore the marks of melancholy. Her eyes, as they stared toward Sidney Richland, seemed dull; when they turned in the direction of Stokes Corvin, they showed a momentary sparkle.
It was evident that life at Montgard had been tedious to Barbara Wyldram. In Stokes Corvin, the girl saw the first person whose manner had been in contrast to the depressing atmosphere of the old house.
“So you believe you will enjoy it here at Montgard.” Sidney Richland was speaking testily to Stokes Corvin. “Well, young man, that is more than I can say for the place. To me, it is a port in a storm. More precisely” — the speaker was nodding sagely — “it is a haven away from storms.”
“Montgard,” rejoined Stokes Corvin, “is quite an interesting old place. I find it to my liking and I believe” — his gaze shifted toward Barbara Wyldram — “that I shall find the company enjoyable.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” nodded Richland.
Barbara Wyldram smiled. She saw what Richland had not discerned; namely, that Stokes Corvin’s remark was intended for her alone.
“Already,” resumed Corvin, leaning back in his chair, “I have experienced a day of placid adventure. I awoke at nine, to find the door of my room unbolted. That was an unexpected pleasure to begin the day.”
“An old custom of the Raleigh’s,” interposed Richland, dryly. He glanced suspiciously toward the library door as though expecting listeners. “A queer lot, if you ask me. All guests are bolted in for the night, when they first come here. That practice will end in a few days.”
“I shall be paroled?” laughed Corvin. “Excellent. But to resume my story, I breakfasted alone. I returned to my room and fell asleep. I lunched alone.”
“That was purely unintentional on our part,” pleaded Barbara Wyldram. “You were late for breakfast and for lunch as well. Neither Sidney nor I knew that you had arrived until—”
“Until,” interrupted Corvin, with a smile, “you found me here in the library just before dinner. That was when I looked forward to an enjoyable meal. I had not reckoned with the gloomy presence of our host.”
“Jarvis Raleigh is always dour,” explained Sidney Richland. “He likes silence at dinner — the only meal at which he joins us. Since he is master here, we respect his wishes.”
“So I observed,” declared Corvin. “With Cousin Jarvis silent at the head of the table; with Quarley playing butler and moving about in stealthy fashion, the dining room seemed like a mausoleum. It was not until the three of us came in here to chat that I began to acclimate myself—”
Corvin’s voice broke off suddenly. The new guest was staring beyond Sidney Richland, toward the door of the library. Sidney Richland turned; Barbara Wyldram did the same. Both saw the object of Stokes Corvin’s puzzled observation.
A WOMAN was standing in the doorway. A haglike figure, with lower lip projecting from a parchment face, this creature was staring with wide, wild eyes.
Her gray hair formed a tousled mop upon her head. Her lips began to move as she mumbled to herself. Then, after a blank stare at a spot by the window, the woman gave a cackling laugh. She turned and shuffled down the corridor. Her cackle was repeated.
“Who is that?” queried Stokes Corvin.
“Maria,” replied Richland, in his testy tone. “The cook here for many, many years. Quite eccentric. She serves as housekeeper also.”