“He recognizes people whom he has seen before, but he never fraternizes. You see” — Galban smiled wistfully — “I used to be about a bit in the past. No one ever visited me here. It was a great assurance to know that all was safe during my absence.
“Mercher is exacting; Sanyata is clever; Fawkes is stalwart. With such a trio at my disposal, I had no fear. Now that I am crippled, I feel even greater security while they serve me.”
There was something in old Eli Galban’s manner that showed a weakening through effort. Having viewed the paroxysm that had come over the old man, both Harry and Terry realized that it was useless to prolong their visit. Harry glanced at Terry and caught a nod.
Both arose. Terry placed the forged Villon manuscript in his brief case. He extended his hand to Eli Galban. Together, the visitors said good night. They were ushered into the elevator by Lycurgus Mercher. The bent secretary ran them to the ground floor.
Fawkes was waiting in the waxwork room. Despite the remarks that Eli Galban had made in the servant’s favor, Harry Vincent could not repress a shudder at sight of this uncouth man. He sensed the strain of danger when Lycurgus Mercher returned to the elevator.
Fawkes, however, did no more than point to the curtains opening on the front hall. Harry and Terry followed his direction. The servant joined them. Fawkes removed a massive bar from the huge front door and showed the visitors out into the night. The door clanged shut before Harry and Terry had reached the walk.
AT the wheel of the coupe, Harry lighted a cigarette and pondered. Terry sat in silence beside him.
Both were thinking of the interview with Eli Galban; their glances were instinctively directed to the gloomy old mansion where the rheumatic man resided high on the third floor.
“Well,” decided Terry, “that matter is settled. My uncle was evidently a dupe. Nevertheless, I am glad we saw Galban. His recognition of the false manuscript was proof sufficient — at least, to me.”
“Yes,” agreed Harry, “he gave us a new slant on the Villon situation. The man is unquestionably an expert at detecting forgeries; his fund of information is also large.”
Sitting in the darkness of the car, the two continued an easy resume of their visit. After several minutes, the conversation reached the inevitable: Corry Fawkes.
“Fawkes gave me the creeps,” admitted Terry. “I wouldn’t like to live in the same house with him.”
“Galban says he is reliable,” inserted Harry, “but I must admit I didn’t feel safe with him around.”
“I guess with old Mercher and the Jap there, it’s easy for Galban to keep Fawkes in hand.”
“Yes; but he is a monstrosity, nevertheless.”
In the pause that followed, Terry Barliss uttered a musing grunt.
“Let’s get away from here,” he suggested. “I’ve got a hunch that some one is watching us. It seems almost as though every word we said was being heard.”
Harry Vincent emitted a hollow laugh. He was trying to down the same feeling of an unseen presence. He started the motor. The coupe rolled into the night.
Eli Galban’s mansion loomed dimly in the darkness after the car had moved away. It was like a living creature, waiting motionless to swallow up its prey. The house, itself, seemed a sufficient reason to have caused Terry Barliss concernment.
Then came the sign of a closer cause. Directly beside the spot where the coupe had been, a swish sounded in the dark. A living form came into being. It stood invisible, shrouded by the thickness of the night.
Burning eyes were directed on the old mansion. A whispered laugh lost itself in darkness, caught by the sighing of a light wind. Unseen, the watching figure drifted toward the row of deserted houses that adjoined Eli Galban’s stronghold.
That figure was the answer to Terry’s suggestion of listening ears and watching eyes. It had been lurking by the coupe, waiting for Galban’s visitors to emerge from the mansion. Nothing betokened the invisible being’s identity; yet the very silence of motion gave the answer.
Harry Vincent and Terry Barliss, during their visit to Eli Galban, had been under the protection of one whose purposes they were serving. The Shadow had come to this forlorn, deserted spot. He had been here to make sure his agent and his friend had safely completed their appointed mission.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SECOND MANUSCRIPT
IT was late the next afternoon. Terry Barliss was seated in his living room. Harry Vincent was there with him. Conversation was lacking.
To Terry, the matter of the Villon manuscript seemed a dead issue. He possessed a worthless forgery instead of a volume worth one hundred thousand dollars. To Harry, the situation would have seemed the same, but for one peculiar circumstance.
That morning, Harry had dropped in to see Rutledge Mann. He had given the investment broker a report to be forward to The Shadow. He had found a message awaiting him; word to go back with Terry Barliss.
Harry could see no connection between last night’s episode and the future. Nevertheless, he realized that The Shadow must have found something in the report — Harry had been careful to record every detail — that indicated a possibility of a further quest on the matter of the manuscript.
Thus Harry had returned to the old brownstone house where Terry Barliss lived. He and Terry had become real friends on short acquaintanceship, due in part to the fact that Terry knew no one else in New York. Hence Harry’s return had been welcomed by Terry.
Terry had just suggested that they go out to dinner when the doorbell rang. The servant appeared bringing a telegram. Terry looked at the yellow envelope and expressed surprise.
“It’s for you,” he said to Harry. “How did it happen to come up here?”
“I remember now,” recalled Harry, “that I left word at my hotel to send any message up here. They should have telephoned that a telegram had come for me. Instead, they sent it here.”
Harry tore open the envelope and read the message. It was a regularly printed telegram, but across its face was a written line in code that Harry understood:
Visit Wendel Hargate.
The writing faded almost as Harry read it. The Shadow’s agent tossed the telegram over to Terry Barliss.
“I should have expected this,” laughed Harry. “I get one of these every month or so. It’s from the folks out in Michigan, suggesting that I take a trip home. The usual story — some friends have arrived. Good times in the offing.”
“Are you going?”
“I can’t.” Harry shook his head ruefully. “I have business pending here in New York. I like to go back to the old town, but it can’t be done.”
While Harry spoke, he was thinking of The Shadow’s message. The telegram, he knew, was a mere blind. Those three brief words inscribed upon the yellow paper were the real message. Words that Terry Barliss had not seen, yet words which concerned Terry more than Harry.
WENDEL HARGATE!
Harry had included that name in his report. Wendel Hargate was the millionaire whom Eli Galban had mentioned last night. Wendel Hargate, like Shattuck Barliss, had shown a Villon manuscript to Eli Galban. The old expert on forgeries had pronounced Hargate’s manuscript spurious also.
The task now was to bring up the matter to Terry Barliss. Harry decided to do it tactfully. It was not until he and his friend had arrived at the restaurant and were eating dinner that Harry gave voice to a sudden inspiration.
“Say, Terry!” he exclaimed. “I’d forgotten something that Eli Galban said last night. Do you remember that he spoke of some millionaire who also claimed to own a Villon manuscript that contained a Fifth Ballad?”