Barbara Wyldram shuddered. Jarvis Raleigh stood glaring. Stokes Corvin broke the tension by plucking Richland’s sleeve.
“Come old man,” suggested Corvin. “Let us finish this work.”
LAMONT CRANSTON was still puzzling over the hieroglyphs. Tapping of the hammer alone broke the silence. The work completed, Stokes Corvin arose and passed the hammer to Sidney Richland.
“The floor is as solid as stone,” Corvin declared, in a puzzled tone. “The walls are actually stone. It is about forty feet to the turret” — he was looking upward — “as I should judge it. I fancy that we have engaged ourselves with a hopeless project. I can offer no solution to the disappearance of those two men.”
“Leave this turret then,” ordered Jarvis Raleigh. “Your actions have not met with my approval, Stokes. As for you, Sidney” — he paused to turn warningly to Richland — “I shall tolerate no further insubordination of the sort that you have shown. If you expect to remain at Montgard, you will meddle no longer in affairs which do not concern you.”
“This matter,” observed Lamont Cranston, in a smooth tone, “seems to be closed. My conjecture is that Quarley must be correct. Those men must have left somehow of their own accord.
“To me, Mr. Raleigh, your invention upstairs is alone of consequence. I shall forget this unpleasant commotion and I trust that those who live here at Montgard may decide to do the same.”
With a bow toward the others, Lamont Cranston moved toward the step where Jarvis Raleigh was standing. The owner of Montgard smiled in approval of his visitor’s statement. Turning, he led the way toward the stairway to the second floor.
Stokes Corvin and Sidney Richland had rejoined Barbara Wyldram. They formed a silent trio as they watched Quarley close the big door to the entry and press the bolts in place.
Corvin shrugged his shoulders as he motioned to the others to follow him along the passage to the library. Reaching that room, he gently conducted Barbara to her chair and placed her book in her hands.
Picking up his own volume of Dumas, Stokes lighted a cigarette and resumed his reading. He said no more about the mystery which had proved so disturbing. Barbara Wyldram decided to follow his own example.
Only Sidney Richland still appeared perturbed. Standing by the doorway to the passage. Richland toyed with the ribbon of his spectacles as he stared toward the barred front door. His twitching lips were voicing soundless words. Sidney Richland was loath to forget the secret which hung over the lonely mansion of Montgard.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SHADOW SEEKS
WHEN Stokes Corvin decided to retire for the night, Barbara Wyldram had already finished reading and had gone upstairs. Sidney Richland was still sulking like a melancholy owl as he watched Corvin replace the volume of Dumas on the shelf.
“Good, night, old top,” said Corvin, cheerily, as he strolled past Richland. “I prescribe a bit of rest. Let’s forget this worrisome matter until the morn.”
“I can’t forget it,” pleaded Richland. “Think of it, Stokes! Two men missing—”
“We can’t explain it, Sidney,” interposed Corvin, gravely. “I can assure you that I am as disturbed as you. Nevertheless, brooding will bring no solution. Cheerio, old fellow. Brace up before you begin to see Maria’s ghosts.”
Sidney Richland shuddered. Corvin smiled in reassuring fashion and walked from the room. As he passed along the angled passage, Corvin’s forehead furrowed. Despite his light manner, this new resident of Montgard was taking matters very soberly.
As he reached the second floor, Corvin saw a light under the door of Jarvis Raleigh’s laboratory. He knew that Raleigh must still he engaged in discussion of his invention. Arriving at the third floor, Corvin noticed an opened doorway. Lighted candles shone in wall brackets. This was evidently the apartment designed for Lamont Cranston.
Entering his own room, Stokes Corvin performed his nightly ceremony of lighting a cigarette from a candle wick. He blew out the lights and strolled through darkness to the window. He opened one of the turning panes.
Silence reigned below. Corvin recalled that nothing more had been said of Rox, the missing hound. He assumed that the dog had not yet been found and that the matter had been dropped. All was quiet outside the huge house; then came a sound within — footsteps on the stairs.
Holding his cigarette behind him, Stokes stole to the door of his room and opened the barrier a trifle. Peering through the crack, he saw Quarley conducting Lamont Cranston to the guest room. Cranston entered. Quarley closed the door. Stokes saw the old servant shoot the outer bolt. He heard the bar click in place. Lamont Cranston, like every new guest at Montgard, was securely imprisoned for the night.
Corvin softly closed his own door. He turned the key in the lock. He strolled to the window and continued smoking until his cigarette had dwindled. He flicked the glowing stump far out upon the lawn; then made his way through the darkness of the room until he reached the bed.
IN the guest room, Lamont Cranston was standing near the door. He had heard the click of the outer bolt. His lips wore their thin smile. Walking about the room, he extinguished the candles, then made his way toward a spot near the window where Quarley had placed his bags.
Slight sounds occurred. A mass of cloth came from a grip. Its enveloping folds slipped over Cranston’s crouching form. A tiny flashlight glimmered. Its guarded rays reached the door as the unseen figure moved in that direction.
A gloved hand came into the tiny circle of illumination. Fingers plucked the key from the hole beneath the knob. A long piece of thin, curved metal came into view before the flashlight’s rays. The end of the pliable hook had a loop.
The flashlight went out as the gloved hand of The Shadow pushed the metal loop through the keyhole. With deft fingers, The Shadow guided the probing loop upward. It scraped gently against the outside of the door, then found its objective.
Twisting the curved metal in adept fashion, The Shadow used it to draw back the outer bolt. Rising, he unloosed the delicate instrument and withdrew it from the keyhole. Softly, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. He closed the door behind him and pressed the bolt without a sound.
A tall figure garbed in black — a dim shape in the dull light of the hall. Such was The Shadow as he moved toward the stairway and descended. The door of the room was bolted behind him. To all appearances, Lamont Cranston was safely imprisoned for the night.
Yet The Shadow was at large. A stalking, ghostlike figure, he was faring forth to investigate affairs within the walls of Montgard. Alone, unhampered, The Shadow was seeking the answer to the strange disappearances that had occurred here.
Until tonight, The Shadow had gained no proof of strange crime in Montgard. He had come here — as Lamont Cranston — to learn the reasons why Reeves Lockwood was apparently staying at Jarvis Raleigh’s home. Arriving before Merton Helmsford, The Shadow had gained no knowledge of the detective’s expected visit until after Helmsford had arrived.
Then The Shadow had learned truth regarding both lawyer and detective; but in that truth there had been no tangible clew to the strange fate that had overtaken these unwelcome visitors.
THERE was a hall light on the second floor; The Shadow, however, noted no glimmerings from under doors. He continued downward and reached the center passage. He advanced until he gained the door to the circular entry.
In the dim light furnished by a single incandescent at the meeting of the passage, The Shadow drew back the three bolts. He opened the heavy barrier and advanced softly into the turret chamber.