“Yes,” declared Lockwood, “provided that he engages in no gainful occupation—”
“I have no post at present,” interposed Corvin. “Therefore I am entitled to residence at Montgard.”
“So long as you choose to abide by the rules that the will imposes.”
“Jolly!” ejaculated Corvin. “I shall go there and reside for a time in spite of Jarvis Raleigh. I’ve heard much talk of American nerve — the kind that we term cheek in England. I’ll introduce a bit of it myself.”
So saying, Corvin drew a wallet from his pocket and removed cards and folded papers. He handed these to Lockwood.
“Papers of identification,” chuckled Corvin. “Place me on your schedule, Mr. Lockwood. I shall join the colony at Montgard.”
Reeves Lockwood smiled as he arose. He extended his hand to Stokes Corvin.
“It seems to be a sporting proposition with you,” remarked the lawyer. “On that basis, your visit to Montgard may prove enjoyable. Roberts will arrange matters for you, together with a letter of introduction to Jarvis Raleigh, which I shall sign.”
So speaking, the attorney ushered his visitor from the office. Roberts followed and closed the door behind him.
Smiling as he stared from the window, Reeves Lockwood seemed to relish this turn of affairs that was sending another resident to Montgard.
Turning to his desk, the lawyer again noted the newspaper. He crumpled it and tossed it in the wastebasket. He spoke, half aloud.
“I wonder how much Luskin knew,” mused Lockwood. “Not much, I suppose, outside of the terms of the legacy through which he received no benefit. Ah, well, the past is buried. The future can show no clews.”
By which Reeves Lockwood indicated that although adventure lay at Montgard, it would never be uncovered by the man who sought it: Stokes Corvin.
Reeves Lockwood was wrong. Adventure was impending at the old estate. Events that were brewing there would involve Lockwood as well as Corvin; for men of crime were at work.
Moreover, hidden completely in the affairs that were already under way, was a power that would manifest itself before the climax.
That was the power of The Shadow.
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW GUEST
IT was evening. Harry Vincent was pacing the platform of the little station in the town of Glenwood. To all appearances, he was merely one of the townsmen who made their occasional appearance when the through limited was due.
A distant whistle announced the incoming train. Harry, staring down the tracks, saw a headlight flash into view from beyond a bend. The roar of a big locomotive increased, then became a heavy clatter as the light loomed large.
The limited came to a stop. Platforms clicked. A man alighted, followed by a porter with luggage. A local taxi-man approached and grabbed the bags. Harry, a few paces away, heard the porter ask the man if taxi service were required.
“A cab? Certainly.” The man who had alighted from the limited was speaking with an English accent. “I say — do you know of an estate hereabouts that is called Montgard? You do? That’s excellent. Montgard is where I wish to go.”
As the arrival — it was Stokes Corvin — walked toward the old sedan that served as Glenwood’s only taxicab, he tossed a half-consumed cigarette to the ground. Harry Vincent, going in the opposite direction, nearly jostled against a heavy man who was lounging along the platform. Stepping aside, Harry caught a glimpse of a thick-lipped face.
Strolling to his coupe, Harry joined Cliff Marsland, who was seated at the wheel. The moment that Harry entered, Cliff shoved the car in gear. It pulled away from the station just as the locomotive of the limited was clanging its bell for the departure.
“Wait a minute, Cliff,” protested Harry. “What’s the hurry? Did you see that fellow with the bags? He’s going to Montgard.”
“Who is he?” questioned Cliff.
“I don’t know,” responded Harry. “I suppose he’s a new guest. One of the family, maybe. He talks like an Englishman.”
“All right,” laughed Cliff. “That settles him. You saw him and you don’t know who he is. But I saw a fellow that I know. That’s why we’re moving.”
“Who did you see?”
“Mallet Haverly. You nearly bumped into him on the platform.”
“You’re sure it was Mallet?”
“Positive.”
The rickety taxi came speeding past the coupe. Cliff had headed in the direction of Montgard. He guided the coupe behind the old sedan.
“We’ll make sure that this fellow is going to Montgard,” decided Cliff, “and then we’ll keep on to do a little exploration of our own. We’ve got to do more than just watch the big mansion, Harry, now that we’ve spotted Mallet.”
“You mean the cottage that we saw in the woods?”
“That’s it. It would be an A-1 hideout for Mallet and his crew if they mean trouble. I’ll park off in the woods and we can edge around a bit.”
The coupe had reached a spot nearly a mile from the town of Glenwood. Up ahead, the tail light of the sedan made a sudden turn as the improvised taxi swung from the straight road.
“That chap’s going to Montgard all right,” asserted Cliff. “The old taxi just entered the gates to the house.”
The Shadow’s agents glanced down a long, straight driveway as they passed the gates. They caught another flash of the tail light. Cliff kept on, to circuit the big estate. He and Harry, with the town of Glenwood as their base of operations, had familiarized themselves with the territory about Montgard.
MEANWHILE, the taxi that was carrying Stokes Corvin as its passenger had taken the bend of a graveled circle in front of the looming mansion. A quarter mile within the gates, it came to a stop. Corvin, staring from the window, made out the dark shape of the huge central turret.
Dull lights showed through small-paned windows. The front door of the gloomy mansion was barely discernible as Corvin sought to penetrate the darkness. Although Corvin had made no effort to open the door, the driver gave an important warning from the front seat.
“There’s bad dogs hereabouts,” said the man. “Stay where you are until the caretaker comes up.”
As if in response to the admonition, growls sounded in the blackness. A Great Dane came pouncing up to the car. It set its forepaws on the step and emitted another growl. A second canine guardian joined the first. One dog uttered a vicious bark.
The sound was answered by barks from kenneled hounds. Then came the sweep of a flashlight, with crunching footsteps on the gravel. The headlights of the local taxi showed an ugly-faced fellow approaching the car.
“What you want?” came the challenge as the advancing man stepped into darkness and flickered his light into the car.
“It’s all right, Jerome,” returned the cab driver, in a wheedling tone. “This gentleman came in on the limited. He wants to see Mr. Raleigh.”
“Yeah?” Jerome’s reply was unfriendly. “Well, Mr. Raleigh don’t want to see nobody.”
“One moment, my man,” spoke Stokes Corvin, in a firm voice. “I have important business with Mr. Raleigh. I must see him. Do you understand?”
“I ain’t stopping you,” growled Jerome, with an odd laugh. “Step right in, mister. But if Mr. Raleigh don’t want to see you, I’m here to see you get out.”
With that, Jerome flickered the light on the Great Danes. The dogs dropped back from the car step. Their growls were muffled, as Stokes Corvin alighted from the car and boldly advanced to the house. Finding a knocker on the front door, Corvin lifted it and delivered a succession of loud raps.
There was a long pause. The old sedan remained in the driveway, its motor idling in jerky fashion. Jerome was holding back the dogs. At last, the sound of moving bolts came from within the house. The door swung inward.