Hours passed. Montgard became a silent structure of heaped stone and small-paned windows that glimmered in the starlight, while pacing men patrolled the grounds, their rifles ready for a possible return of scattered invaders.
Though the past seemed forgotten at Montgard, it was remembered elsewhere. One hundred miles away, in New York City, a light came on in a mysterious room where only one being penetrated.
The Shadow was in his sanctum. Long white hands appeared beneath the bluish lamp. A brilliant gem, changing in its radiant hues, sparkled from a finger of the left hand. That jewel was The Shadow’s girasol, the matchless fire-opal which served as the mysterious master’s only token.
Hands were at work beneath the light. They were inscribing carefully worded letters, each to a different person. These messages were not in code. Their statements, phrased in simple language, were brief and definite.
The hands folded each of the letters. The notes were placed in separate envelopes. The Shadow’s hand addressed them. One letter was for Jarvis Raleigh; the other for Stokes Corvin.
A typewritten sheet of paper appeared beneath the light. It was a confidential statement from Rutledge Mann, an investigating agent who, in capacity of investment broker, obtained information for The Shadow. Another sheet appeared; it had been prepared by a second agent: Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic.
Between these two workers, The Shadow could rely on accurate data concerning all persons whose affairs he followed. Here, listed in order, were brief accounts that referred to Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin.
They told of Jarvis Raleigh’s former business connections; of the enterprises in which his father, Windrop Raleigh, had been engaged. They also gave facts concerning Stokes Corvin’s residence in England, where he had lived all his life.
In addition, the lists bore short statements concerning Sidney Richland and Barbara Wyldram. At the bottom of each list, however, there was a question mark beside the name of Quarley. The old servant had worked for Windrop Raleigh and now served his former master’s son. Nothing else was known concerning him.
The Shadow had chosen the names of Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin. These two would be the recipients of the communications which he had prepared. The envelopes disappeared as The Shadow drew them from the table. The light clicked out.
A strange laugh reverberated within the blackened walls of the mysterious sanctum. Ghoulish echoes sobbed back the mirthful cry. When the sounds had ended, the room was empty. The Shadow had departed.
The Shadow had planned to solve the mystery of Montgard. The time for the dispatching of the letters had not yet arrived; when the epistles reached their destinations, all would be ready for the final stroke.
The Shadow was relying upon the actions of two men. Through the responses of Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin, he would trap the villain who was responsible for crime within the walls of Montgard!
CHAPTER XVII
THE INTERLUDE
THREE nights had passed since the raid on Montgard. Twilight, settling over the secluded estate, showed Stokes Corvin pacing the veranda at the side of the house.
All had been quiet since the excitement. The sheriff’s posse had patrolled the grounds only for a single night. Crippled mobsters, quartered in the local jail, offered no more explanation than did their dead companions.
The strange evanishments of Reeves Lockwood and Merton Helmsford were apparently closed issues. Yet these disappearances, thought they had remained undiscussed, were not forgotten. Somehow, all within Montgard seemed to be waiting for what was to come.
Jarvis Raleigh had maintained a silent routine, staying in his own quarters except at dinner time. Quarley, taking up Jerome’s chief duty, made circuits of the house after dark, accompanied by the Great Danes. He performed this service in addition to his regular duties.
Stokes Corvin had maintained a wise silence; while Barbara Wyldram had copied his discretion. Only Sidney Richland had shown odd behavior. As wild-eyed as the harmless Maria, Richland had paced about the house, mumbling incoherent menaces. The man was brooding; that fact was plain to all.
Finishing a smoke, Stokes Corvin flicked his cigarette from the veranda as he heard a footfall at the door. He supposed that Quarley had arrived to summon him indoors. It was nearly time for the servant to patrol the grounds.
Turning, Corvin observed Sidney Richland instead of Quarley. Richland appeared excited as he beckoned to the man on the veranda. Corvin entered the library and Richland drew him to the front corner.
“I’ve talked with Jarvis.” Richland’s tone was low but excited. “I went up to his laboratory after dinner. I caught him in a friendly mood.”
“Why did you wish to speak to him?” inquired Stokes.
“Because” — Richland paused as Barbara entered the room and took a chair — “because I had an idea. That’s why. Listen, Stokes. I told him that I was worried because Quarley went down town every night to get the mail. I told him it was a mistake to leave the house unprotected.”
“What did Jarvis say?”
“He asked what I thought should be done about it. I told him” — Richland’s lips formed a cunning smile — “that I would be pleased to go instead.”
“Did he agree?”
“Yes. He considered the matter for a time; then said that I was to tell him when I was ready to leave. He said that he would instruct Quarley to let me leave the house. I can drive the old roadster to—”
“One moment, Sidney.” Stokes Corvin was serious in his interruption. “You’re telling me only half, old chap. There’s some other reason why you wish to go to Glenwood. I wager that I can guess it.”
RICHLAND stared and nodded slightly.
“Who might you see downtown?” Corvin put a question that he was prepared to answer for himself. “I shall tell you. That sheriff chap — Burton Haggar — would be the logical fellow. Haggar is interested in affairs up here at the manor. Perhaps he would like to hear about Lockwood and Helmsford.”
“That’s just it,” declared Richland, persisting in his crafty smile. “I don’t mind you knowing it, Stokes. I’m going to see Haggar. I’m going to tell him what he ought to know, without Jarvis Raleigh learning of it.”
“Listen, old fellow.” Corvin was more serious than before. “Take my advice and remain here. I guessed what your real reason is. Do you fancy that Jarvis failed to conjecture it also?”
The smile faded from Richland’s lips. The man stared as he tried to recall his interview with Jarvis Raleigh. At last, he shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he declared. “I don’t believe that Jarvis saw through my game. I didn’t talk to him as I have just talked to you, Stokes.”
Stokes Corvin shook his head in disapproval. Sidney Richland seemed to resent his attitude. Moving toward the door to the passage, Richland removed his pince-nez and gestured emphatically with the glasses as he spoke.
“The situation is too wearing,” he declared. “I can tolerate it no longer. I am going downtown. I expect to see Burton Haggar, to tell him all—”
Richland stopped abruptly as he caught a warning gesture from Stokes Corvin. Quarley had entered the room in his stealthy fashion. The old servant’s face was rigid. There was something about the cadaverous continence to indicate that he had overheard Richland’s interrupted statement.
Seeing that the three people were all in the library, Quarley solemnly bolted the door to the veranda. Without a word, he turned and went back to the passage. Sidney Richland approached Stokes Corvin.