Stokes Corvin nodded approvingly. He had noticed that Quarley had left the dining room some minutes before. While Corvin was still nodding, Maria entered and began to clear the table. The woman was wearing her vacant stare. Her cracked lips were moving in silent speech.
FOOTSTEPS sounded in the passage from the front. Quarley appeared, bringing the mail that Jarvis Raleigh had promised. The servant passed a small packet of letters to his master. Jarvis Raleigh tossed two envelopes to Stokes Corvin; he kept one for himself.
Corvin opened the first envelope. It contained an advertising letter from a New York store. He opened the second and began to peruse the contents of this letter when he heard a chuckle from Jarvis Raleigh.
“Speaking of visitors,” announced Raleigh, “we shall have a welcome one tonight. My friend Lamont Cranston will pay a new visit to Montgard. He thinks well of my gold extractor. He wishes to talk terms.”
Stokes Corvin was meditative. His forehead furrowed as he folded his own letter and thrust it into his pocket. He remained silent as Jarvis Raleigh arose to leave the dining room.
“I shall be in my laboratory, Quarley,” stated Raleigh. “Admit Mr. Cranston in the usual fashion. Announce his arrival to me.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the cadaverous servant.
As soon as Jarvis Raleigh had departed, Stokes Corvin arose. He nodded toward Barbara Wyldram. The girl accompanied him to the library. Alone in the secluded room, they began a tense conversation.
“Something may happen tonight, Barbara,” confided Stokes. “I believe that the climax of strange occurrences is due.”
“Did your letter—”
“Please don’t question me, Barbara,” interposed Corvin. “Just do as I suggest. Go to your room; remain there until I call you.”
“And after that—”
“We shall leave Montgard. I have remained here solely on your account, Barbara. Our departure seemed unwise; but after tonight, we can leave.”
“You mean—”
“That we need not fear the future. I am not dependent, Barbara, upon the petty legacy which enables me to live at Montgard. Nor should you be. We can leave — together — for England.”
The girl’s eyes opened. Though hesitant, Barbara began to view the prospect with a smile. She placed a hand upon Stokes Corvin’s arm.
“I have relied upon you, Stokes” said the girl. “Perhaps it is well that you do not tell me what the immediate future holds. I shall continue to depend upon you. Yet I am afraid—”
“Because of Sidney?”
“Partly. More, though, on account of this man who is coming here tonight. Lamont Cranston seemed a kindly person. I should not like to see harm befall him.”
“Do not worry.” Corvin spoke firmly. “Rely upon me, Barbara. No matter what occurs, remain in your room until you hear me call. I promise you that we shall then be free.”
Barbara nodded. She picked up her book and went from the library. Stokes Corvin lighted a cigarette. He peered along the passage.
Satisfied that Quarley was not about, the young man unbolted the door to the veranda. Leaving it ajar behind him, he strolled to the parapet and stood there gazing out into the night.
THERE was a sound from the ground below. Quarley, serving for Jerome, was making the rounds with the Great Danes. Stokes Corvin drew back to the door and stood against the barrier, holding his cigarette low, so even its glimmer would not show. Quarley passed along toward the stables. Corvin advanced to the parapet.
The young man finished his smoke with short puffs. He flicked the cigarette stump out unto the lawn; then turned and made his way softly to the door. He edged into the library and closed the door behind him. He shot the bolts.
The action was just in time. Corvin had scarcely seated himself with a book before Quarley appeared at the door of the library. Pretending that he had been reading, Corvin looked up in startled fashion.
“Where is Miss Wyldram?” questioned Quarley, in his monotone.
“She has retired,” responded Corvin. The servant turned. His footsteps sounded dully in the passage. Stokes Corvin arose. He carried his book with him and rearranged it on the shelf, along with the other volumes of Dumas. Then he stole quietly toward the door of the library and stood there, listening.
A smooth purr came from the front of the house. Corvin recognized the sound of Lamont Cranston’s foreign motor. The car came closer; Corvin heard it stop out in the drive. Softly, the young man stole to the door that led to the veranda. He drew back the bolts.
There was a ring from the front door bell. Moving to the door to the passage, Corvin peered cautiously. He saw Quarley arrive and unbolt the big door to the turret entry. The servant went into the entry. One minute later, he returned and closed the door. He pressed the bolts in place and took the central passage to summon Jarvis Raleigh.
Lamont Cranston had arrived. Stokes Corvin was sure of that fact as he stepped back into the library. Corvin’s face wore a firm smile. The climax was at hand. Tonight, the long vigil which Stokes Corvin had kept would be crowned with the achievement for which he had hoped.
CHAPTER XIX
ONE MORE GONE
STOKES CORVIN was right in his assumption that Quarley had admitted Lamont Cranston. The old servant had found the millionaire standing by the front door. He had beckoned Cranston into the turret; in turn, Cranston had picked up a bag with one hand while he waved to his chauffeur with the other.
Within the turret, Quarley, true to orders, had bolted the outer door. He had passed into the house, to bolt the inner door behind him, he had paid no more attention to the visitor’s actions.
Hence Quarley had not seen the glint in Lamont Cranston’s eyes as those optics had lowered to gaze at the Egyptian inscription upon the floor of the turret room. The aftermath came when Quarley had closed the door. A soft laugh echoed from Cranston’s thin lips. His tall form stepped toward the stone wall while his right hand raised the bag that he was carrying.
Out came a mass of folded cloth. It swept down over Cranston’s shoulders. A slouch hat settled on the visitor’s head. As the bag dropped to the floor, a pair of automatics showed in long-fingered hands. The weapons disappeared beneath the cloak.
Reaching into a fold of his black garment, Lamont Cranston, now The Shadow, began to draw forth a pair of black gloves. All the while, his keen eyes were upon the floor, while his cloaked shoulder pressed against the rough hewn stone that made the circular inner wall of the tower.
A muffled, warning click sounded from beneath the floor. The gloves dropped instantly into the folds of the cloak as The Shadow’s bare hands shot upward to grip projecting stones. The keen eyes watched the floor.
The tiled surface began to open downward. Each of its four quarter-circles dropped inward at the center.
Like the pieces of a mammoth pie, a star-trap on a huge scale, the hinged sections fell points downward to reveal a blackened abyss!
The Shadow’s suitcase dropped. While the black-garbed form clung safely to the wall, the bag plunged down into the chasm. Long moments followed until a faint splash marked its destination — a watery pit a full hundred feet below!
The Shadow was moving upward. His hands and feet found easy holds upon the projecting stones. A grim, whispered laugh sounded in the turret as The Shadow’s eyes, still peering downward, saw the four sections of the trap swing upward and click into place.
Once again, the tiled floor appeared solid. The X lines that divided its circles into quadrants were the closed edges of the perfect-fitting trap.
THE fate of three men was explained. No one, standing near the center of that floor, could have escaped the plunge which The Shadow had so cunningly avoided.