The last house in the deserted row ended in a brick-faced wall. Evidently the builders had expected to encroach farther toward Galban’s residence, so had left this row but partly completed. Harry sidled along that wall. He was in a narrow space between the last house and the high fence that marked the edge of Eli Galban’s premises.
Peering toward Galban’s, Harry noted a lighted window on the first floor. He decided that by watching it, he might spot any sign of activity within the house — particularly on the part of Fawkes.
To gain a better view, Harry climbed the fence. He poised there; then, with hopes of still better observation, he let himself down on the other side.
Rain-soaked ground squelched beneath his feet as he crept closer to the big, gloomy mansion. Despite the forbidding aspects of the house, the place seemed to hold a magnetic lure. Harry reached the side of the house and raised himself to the lighted window.
He was looking into a dim, furnished room; the light came from an entry beyond. Harry could picture Galban’s paneled waxwork gallery.
In his interested view, Harry forgot the conditions that surrounded him. Heavy night, dripping drizzle and cold atmosphere gave him a sense of detachment. He did not realize that his body, though well veiled from any who might be in the house, could be seen from without.
PERHAPS it was the distance from the fence that gave Harry an added sense of security. The grounds seemed empty about Eli Galban’s place. It was not until Harry fancied that he heard a sound other than the dripping of rain that he dropped quickly from his spot beside the window.
Some one, Harry felt sure, was standing close by. Vainly, Harry peered through the darkness as he crouched beside the wall just below the window. The flicker of light threw a vague illumination straight ahead. Harry kept away from that patch and listened.
Creeping, squdgy sounds — vague in their direction. Harry Vincent slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket and clutched the automatic that he carried there. He decided that some other visitor must be within these premises; that he was not the only one spying upon events at Eli Galban’s.
Harry thought of Wendel Hargate. He knew that the hard-faced millionaire was plotting against Eli Galban. Were Hargate’s henchmen on the ground already?
Harry swung quickly as he heard a drawn hiss beside him. He yanked his gun from his pocket as he turned to meet a form that came lurching from the darkness.
Springing to his feet, Harry was caught off balance. His attacker bowled him flat upon the ground. With a desperate roll, Harry sprawled into the dim patch of light. His adversary followed, hissing fiercely as he leaped upon his quarry.
The gun was knocked from Harry’s hand. The Shadow’s agent was pinioned on his back. Hard hands gripped Harry’s throat. A gargle came from Harry’s lips. Staring with bulging eyes, Harry Vincent saw the face of his attacker.
Directly above him was the hideous, bloated countenance of Fawkes. Eli Galban’s fierce servant had crept up in the darkness to attack the intruder who was in his master’s precinct. To Harry, that evil visage carried the threat of death. Unable to cry out, The Shadow’s agent struggled weakly.
Then came blankness. Harry Vincent plopped limply back upon the muddy ground, worsted in his brief fight with his formidable foe.
Like Terry Barliss and The Shadow, Harry Vincent had met with circumstances that brought an end to his present plan of action.
CHAPTER XIX
IN THE OLD HOUSE
HARRY VINCENT opened his eyes. He was lying upon his back, staring straight upward at the ceiling. He could see fantastic flickers there. He realized that he was in a room where a fire must be burning in the grate.
Yet Harry did not move. He was trying dimly to recall what had happened since the time when he had been attacked outside of Eli Galban’s house. He remembered the glaring, evil face of Fawkes. He recalled a dull return to consciousness; the sensation that he was being carried helpless, like a sack of wheat.
After that, delirium. Short stages of sane moments, then he had seen faces which seemed strange but familiar. Long stretches of burning fever, when his body had ached. Then had come sleep and finally this awakening.
Some one was approaching the couch. Wearily, Harry turned his head. He stared into the face of Sanyata, Eli Galban’s valet. The Japanese turned and spoke quietly. Another man approached. It was Lycurgus Mercher.
Neither the valet nor the secretary showed signs of animosity. Sanyata was placid; Mercher was almost servile. The tall, bent secretary was rubbing his hands together as he gazed at Harry Vincent with a solicitous air.
“Do you feel better?” he asked, in his whimpering tone.
“Yes,” replied Harry, as he reached up to rub his forehead. “A little weak but—”
“That is natural,” nodded Mercher. “Let me help you rise.”
Mercher showed considerable strength as he brought Harry to a sitting position. The Shadow’s agent blinked his eyes as he realized where he was. He had been brought to Eli Galban’s sitting room. Directly in front of him, old Galban was seated in his chair beside the fire.
This was a pleasant aftermath to Harry’s fierce experience with Fawkes. All was cheery here, even more than it had been before, when Harry had first visited Eli Galban with Terry Barliss.
Sanyata was wheeling a table over to the couch. Eli Galban extended his hand to indicate the objects there. Harry saw a goblet of orange juice, a glass of water and a cup of coffee.
“It is time for breakfast,” announced Galban, with a chuckle. “Sanyata will bring you toast. We have been waiting for your awakening.”
Harry began with a drink of water. Mercher was speaking to Galban. The old man nodded seriously and the secretary went into the elevator. Sanyata was busy making toast on a small electric grill.
A SENSE of blankness impressed Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent realized that considerable time must have elapsed since the episode outside the house. He caught a slight twinkle in Eli Galban’s eye.
“How long have I been out?” questioned Harry.
“Forty-eight hours,” responded Galban, with a smile.
“What!” exclaimed Harry. “You mean—”
“That it has been two nights since you had your unfortunate encounter with my man Fawkes. That affair was most regrettable — at the same time, you have much to be thankful for.”
Harry looked puzzled. Galban explained.
“Fawkes is uncontrollable at times,” said the old man. “Only, however, when he is within certain rights. It is his task to keep intruders from these grounds.
“He has thrown trespassers over the fence; he has hurled trouble-makers from the front door; but only when he knew that they had no business here. When he saw you at the window, Fawkes decided that you must be trying to enter the house. It was his first experience with a burglar. When he saw you draw your gun, it was his life or yours.”
“It’s a wonder he didn’t kill me,” admitted Harry soberly.
“He might have,” replied Galban quietly. “Fortunately, however he recognized your face. He remembered you as a visitor whom he had seen here. He had already choked you seriously, and had ground your head into the mud. It was lucky that you were not lying on concrete paving.”
Harry nodded.
“When he recognized you,” resumed Galban, “he brought you into the house. Mercher made him carry you up to this room. We worked to bring you to your senses. You were in a state of semiconsciousness. We managed to restore you, but the result was a stage of delirium that lasted all the night.