“The millionaire, eh?” Corvin laughed indulgently. “I rather fancied so, by the thrum of his motor. It sounded like a European car. Well, Quarley, go about your duty. I shall not annoy our distinguished guest.”
With that, Corvin turned and strolled back toward the library, puffing his cigarette as he went. Quarley watched him steadily. As he saw Corvin reach the library door, the servant turned to the central passage and moved toward the stairs with lengthy, catlike stride.
A TALL man was standing in the circular entry of the turret. His keen eyes were studying the stone walls and the door through which Quarley had gone. Lamont Cranston was a striking individual, perfect in poise and manner.
His features, even in the dim light of the entry, showed unusual characteristics. His face, though distinguished, was almost masklike. His hawklike nose gave him a keen appearance. His eyes, sharp of vision, were like blazing orbs.
Those optics, peering from each side of the aquiline nose, were distinguishing marks. They were the same eyes that had studied the exterior of Montgard. They identified this visitor as the being who had peered so intently from the dark.
The character of Lamont Cranston was a pretense. In the guise of a millionaire, the master of darkness had penetrated within the walls of Montgard. This personage who called himself Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!
Two nights ago, The Shadow had heard statements to the effect that Reeves Lockwood would not remain at Montgard more than a single night. Yet Reeves Lockwood had not come from the old mansion. Hence The Shadow, by subterfuge, had arranged a visit of his own.
The keen eyes turned to the floor of the circular room. They studied the compass points; then the signs of the zodiac. Finally, they rested upon the outer border with its Egyptian inscription. The Shadow’s eyes moved along the circle of hieroglyphs, noting the characters with interest.
A thin smile rested upon the firm lips of Lamont Cranston’s countenance as it turned upward. The Shadow studied the circular wall of the room, as it rose in tubular fashion to the turret high above. The thin smile remained. Then came an interruption.
Quarley was unbolting the inner door. With the manner of Lamont Cranston, the visitor strolled forward and reached the barrier just as the servant opened it. Looking straight ahead, The Shadow saw the stooped form of Jarvis Raleigh. The owner of Montgard wore a smile as he bowed to greet this welcome visitor.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Cranston.” Raleigh stepped forward with outstretched hand. “This is a privilege to have you in my home. You are intending to remain over night?”
“I can do so,” remarked Cranston. “My chauffeur is outside. He has my bags in the car.”
“Get them, Quarley!” ordered Raleigh. “Get them at once.”
The old servant unbolted the outer door. Jerome was there with the Great Danes. Quarley approached a limousine that was standing in the drive. Lamont Cranston followed to the outer door.
“All right, Stanley,” he called to the chauffeur. “Keep the car at Glenwood for the night. Call here in the morning.”
“Very well, sir,” came the chauffeur’s response.
TURNING, Cranston found himself close to Jarvis Raleigh. The master of Montgard had stepped into the turret. While they were waiting for the bags, Cranston made a gesture toward the tiled floor.
“A remarkable bit of workmanship,” he commented. “Those characters around the outer border. Egyptian, I presume?”
“Yes,” responded Raleigh. “My father had this work done; he obtained the titles from some plant where work had been done for a museum. The inscription, I understand, was supplied by an Egyptologist.”
“What is its significance?”
“It is a rather somber message.” Jarvis Raleigh was cackling nervously as he pointed a scrawny finger toward the floor. “I do not know the individual characters; but the entire inscription” — his finger was describing a circle — “is to this effect:
“‘Ye living men who love life and hate death; ye who will pass by this spot shall sacrifice to me.’”
“Was there a hidden purpose in that message?” questioned Cranston, mildly. Jarvis Raleigh was moving toward the inner door. He paused there, his clasped hands doubled on his bosom. His tones were harsh as he stated this conclusion:
“My father, Mr. Cranston, was a man of sharp practice. He and I had nothing in accord. I never approved of his grasping methods. That explains why I have sought outside capital to finance my inventions.”
Quarley had arrived with the bags. Lamont Cranston’s tall figure appeared in the corridor, following Jarvis Raleigh. Behind the pair came Quarley. Stokes Corvin, standing at the door of the library, saw the tall visitor between the other two. He caught the flash of a pair of searching eyes as Cranston chanced to glance along the hallway toward the library.
Then Jarvis Raleigh and the visitor were gone along the central passage toward the stairs. Quarley remained to bolt the inner door. The servant picked up the bags and followed the path toward the stairs.
STOKES CORVIN strolled back into the library. He noted anxious looks upon the faces of Barbara Wyldram and Sidney Richland. He spoke in reassuring tones.
“Our first visitor has arrived,” declared Corvin. “It is Lamont Cranston, the millionaire. He has gone upstairs with Jarvis Raleigh.”
Barbara seemed pleased as she resumed her reading. Richland sat down with an air of relief. His nervousness was dispelled.
“Perhaps I was wrong about Lockwood,” he decided. “It may have been a hoax. Your theory, Stokes—”
“My theory,” interposed Corvin, quietly, “may be entirely wrong. The letter from the detective makes it seem that Lockwood actually disappeared from this house.”
“Another hoax, perhaps.”
“I hardy think so. The matter looks serious to me. One of us, Sidney, must make sure that this detective actually arrives.”
“It will be my turn, Stokes.”
“You are still nervous—”
“Not at all. Quarley might become antagonistic if you appeared again. This time I shall watch from the passage.”
Sidney Richland spoke in a decisive tone. Stokes Corvin nodded slightly in agreement. He lighted a cigarette and sat down beside Barbara. He began pleasant conversation. A dozen minutes passed. Suddenly, Stokes Corvin raised his hand.
“Is that a car?” he questioned.
The sounds of a throbbing motor were barely audible. Sidney Richland nodded as he heard them. Both men listened tensely. Corvin glanced at his watch.
“The limited arrived ten minutes ago,” he remarked, “provided, of course, that it was on schedule.”
“It usually is,” stated Richland, rising. “Stokes, this means that the second visitor is here.”
Adjusting his pince-nez, Richland arose and threw back his shoulders in a manner that would have been ludicrous on an ordinary occasion. With an attempt at bravado, he moved toward the door and entered the passage.
“Stokes!” Barbara’s tone was cautious. “I feel dreadfully ill at ease. If this should be the detective—”
The girl stared startled as the door bell clanged. Stokes Corvin leaned forward and patted her shoulder in brotherly fashion. He stood silent for a few moments; then, as Barbara sighed in slight relief, Stokes strolled to the door. He stood there peering into the passage. He returned some seconds later.
“Quarley has just come back from the entry,” he remarked. “He has left to announce the visitor. Sidney is watching the bolted inner door.”
“These coming minutes will be frightful—”
“Not if you take them calmly. Resume your reading, Barbara.” Corvin raised the book that was in the girl’s hands, “Rely on Sidney’s observation. To set you an example” — Corvin smiled as he stepped away — “I shall resort to my favorite author, Alexander Dumas.”