“Glasgow has spoken of my library,” continued the old man. “It is valuable, yet not exceedingly so. There was but one item in my collection that could be highly prized. Until a few weeks ago, it rested with the other books. When this illness seized me, I removed it to a place of absolute security.”
The old man raised his withered right hand and pointed with scrawny finger to a panel on the opposite wall. Terry, understanding his uncle’s indication, went to the spot.
“Press,” ordered Shattuck Barliss. “To the left — down — to the left — up — to the right—”
His voice became a chuckle as the panel sprang open. A small wall safe showed beneath the spot where the woodwork had formed a covering. Terry grasped the knob of the safe with his fingers.
“Left, three” — Shattuck Barliss, keen and staring, was giving the combination in chiming tones — “right five — left two — right six—”
The door yielded as Terry completed the action. The door of the safe opened. The young man found but one object within — a leather-bound volume, that he removed with care. He brought it to the bedside. Shattuck Barliss received it and turned back the cover.
The book was very thin. Its pages were of parchment. They were not permanently bound; the cover merely served as container for what appeared to be a precious manuscript.
Terry stared at the title page. It was embellished with quaintly formed characters. Terry recognized that the language must be French, yet it seemed strangely obscure.
“This,” announced Shattuck Barliss, as he placed his long forefinger upon the title page, “is the only existing copy of a work which is virtually unknown. There are other such manuscripts, but all are incomplete with the exception of this one.
“This manuscript is called ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’. It contains five ballads written by Francois Villon, the first and greatest of the French lyric poets. The verses were apparently produced by Villon in the year 1455.
“This manuscript is priceless. It belonged to your father, Terry. He gave it to me to reserve for you. Let me explain why its value may be regarded as fabulous — why you could sell it for many, many thousands.
“The first four ballads are found in other manuscripts. The calligraphy — or penmanship — is identical. Evidently all were inscribed at the same time. It is possible that some of those manuscripts were copies, or forgeries. Their value is doubtful.
“This manuscript, however, is unique. It, alone, is complete. It contains the Fifth Ballad — the lost rondeau of Francois Villon!”
THE gleam of enthusiasm showed on the old man’s countenance. His right hand rested on the title page. Terry Barliss — Rodney Glasgow as well — caught the spirit. They stared in awe as Shattuck Barliss turned the title page to exhibit inscribed lines of verse upon the next sheet of parchment.
“This manuscript is genuine,” exclaimed Shattuck Barliss. “All who have seen it have remarked upon that fact. All except one” — the old man’s face soured at the recollection — “and his opinion was outweighed. That one was Eli Galban.
“He holds a reputation for detecting forgeries. He maintained that there could be no Fifth Ballad of Francois Villon; that the added verses which give this manuscript its value — are no more than a spurious interpolation.
“But Galban’s examination was superficial!” The old man’s voice was rising. “Galban made no test! He called the entire work a forgery. That shows where he was wrong” — Shattuck Barliss was chuckling — “for I had already proven through other experts that the first four ballads were genuine; and they agreed that the fifth must have been inscribed by the same calligrapher.”
Shattuck Barliss was turning pages slowly as he spoke. He pointed with his fingers; the other men stared and nodded. They could see the quaint style of the letters on the parchment pages. They were waiting for the climax.
“See these lines?” questioned Shattuck Barliss sharply. “They comprise the first four ballads. They are valuable only because they prove the genuiness of the fifth. Mark these verses well, for I am coming to the final pages, where the fifth ballad appears. You will see them — for yourselves — the lost verses of Francois Villon!”
As he spoke, the old man rested his hand upon the page, in readiness to turn it. Both Terry Barliss and Rodney Glasgow could see that the book had not been opened for a long while. They knew that Shattuck Barliss had kept this treasured manuscript untouched; that the present exhibition had probably been given but seldom in the past few months.
The page turned slowly as Shattuck Barliss raised it. The old man was staring — the others with him — looking for the lines that would commence the Fifth Ballad.
A cry of terrible consternation shrieked from the old man’s throat. Withered hands clawed at the parchment pages; finger nails slipped as they scratched the Villon manuscript. Shattuck Barliss was wild-eyed. His nephew and his lawyer saw the reason.
The page which should have marked the beginning of the Fifth Ballad was a blank. It was merely a sheet of parchment that served as a final leaf to the priceless book!
“Stolen!” cried Shattuck Barliss. “Stolen!”
Those were the last words the old collector uttered. Choking gasps coughed from dried lips. Shattuck Barliss dropped back upon his pillows. A broken spasm of sound was his final outburst.
Staring eyes lost their gleam; withered hands fell useless. A rejuvenated frame became a pitiable human form. The shock had proven too great. In spite of the stimulating dose, the old man had yielded to the strain.
Shattuck Barliss lay dead, the false manuscript of Francois Villon spread — with its blank pages — before him. The priceless treasure that he had cherished for so many years had gone from his possession.
Some crafty, unknown hand had wrested away the true Villon manuscript that Shattuck Barliss had so closely guarded!
CHAPTER II
THE UNSEEN VISITOR
A TELEPHONE was jingling. The city editor of the New York Classic reached for the receiver. His voice sounded above the eternal hubbub of the news room.
“What’s that, Tewkson?… Yes… Yes… All right, I’ll send a man out on it.”
The editor hung up the receiver and looked about him for a reporter. The first one whom he spied was a frail fellow who was idly puffing a pipe. The city editor beckoned. The reporter hastened to the desk.
“Good story here, Burke,” informed the editor. “Tewkson just phoned in about an old fellow named Shattuck Barliss who died from heart failure. Seems that he was killed by the shock when he learned that a valuable manuscript had been stolen.”
“Is Tewkson at detective headquarters?” questioned Burke.
“Yes,” replied the city editor. “He says that a man is going out to investigate the robbery. You’d better hop up to the house where that old fellow Barliss lived.”
“Right.”
Burke left the desk. He went from the city room, descended in an elevator and reached the street. He turned directly into a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He put in a call. The response came in a quick voice.
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report from Burke.”
“Report.”
Briefly, the reporter gave the information that he had received from the city editor. He added the address of the old house that had belonged to Shattuck Barliss.
There was purpose in this report. No one, watching the telephone booths in the cigar store, would have attached significance to the fact that Clyde Burke, reporter on the staff of the New York Classic, had made a brief telephone call. Yet Clyde Burke had performed a most unusual function.
Somewhere in New York, his very sanctuary a place of unknown location, dwelt a mysterious being called The Shadow. A master of detection, a lone wolf who battled crime, this strange personage had a penchant for solving cases which baffled the police.