“Mr. Crayle?” he questioned.
Harry’s companion arose. He held out a quivering hand that Terry Barliss accepted. Then, with sudden recollection, he turned toward Harry Vincent.
“This is Mr. Vincent,” explained The Shadow, in the cackling voice that belonged to Hawthorne Crayle. “He was kind enough to bring me here.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Vincent,” said Terry.
Harry Vincent shook hands. He found himself liking Terry Barliss at first sight. Harry and Terry were of a type; both clean-cut and decisive in manner.
“I am glad that you have come here, Mr. Crayle,” began Terry, as he seated himself. “I find myself perplexed by what seems to be an unsolvable mystery. Something may be wrong; at the same time I may be mistaken.”
“I am no detective,” came the old man’s cackle. “I came here to see the Villon manuscript—”
“That is exactly why I am glad that you are here,” interrupted Terry. “I understood from my uncle that he had shown the manuscript to different persons. Some seemed to think that it was genuine.
“I was not one who saw it.”
“But perhaps you can tell me if it is actually the manuscript which my uncle claimed to own.”
The stooped head was shaking, the long hands were faltering as The Shadow reached for the manuscript which Terry Barliss extended. As old Hawthorne Crayle, The Shadow was performing a perfect impersonation.
“I am no authority on rare books,” he crackled. “I am a dealer in curios. Nevertheless, such a remarkable object as a parchment manuscript comes into my field of endeavor. Perhaps—”
The false Crayle was opening the volume as he spoke. His fingers were turning the pages. At last the crackling voice returned, together with another shake of the head.
“This is not a Villon original,” was the statement. “It is spurious — and for one so astute as your uncle, it seems unlikely that he could have believed it genuine.”
“Exactly!” affirmed Terry. “That is what I have maintained. Rodney Glasgow, my attorney, feels somewhat as I do. He has been unable to help me, however. All that he has done has been to give me items of information, none of which have aided me.”
TERRY BARLISS looked directly at the face of Hawthorne Crayle. He detected a gleam in the eyes that were before him. Those optics seemed to urge him to continue; yet no word was spoken. Looking at Harry Vincent, Terry again saw an expression of interest. He paced across the floor and began to speak.
“My uncle,” he declared, “died with that manuscript in his hands. He claimed that it was a unique work, ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’, an authentic manuscript of the French lyric poet, Francois Villon.
“The manuscript should have contained five ballads. It has only four, however. That places it in a comparatively valueless class at the outset; moreover, it leaves genuineness of the manuscript a matter of considerable doubt.”
Terry paused to consider certain facts. When he resumed, he expressed himself with deliberation.
“Detective Cardona,” he asserted, “advised me to gain some specific information. So far, I have obtained none. My uncle placed that manuscript in his wall safe, prior to his final illness. As proof of the fact, I have the testimony of the nurses and I feel sure that it will be corroborated by my uncle’s physician.”
“Did they see him put the manuscript in the safe” questioned Harry.
“No,” returned Terry, “they did not. That is why I know the manuscript must have been there for two weeks. My uncle was confined to his bed for that period. Those visitors who came to see him were never out of sight of the physician or the nurses.”
Harry Vincent was displaying intense interest. He knew now that he was not following a blind lead. The Shadow had evidently known that Hawthorne Crayle had intended to visit Terry Barliss. This was certainly the quest that had been deputed to Harry.
“My uncle’s servant,” added Terry, “is a very trustworthy man. He claims that he knew nothing of the wall safe and I believe him. Outside of Doctor Fullis and Rodney Glasgow, there was no one who visited my uncle regularly. Only one man came more than once. That was Compton Salwood, the interior decorator.”
“Why did he come to see your uncle?” questioned Harry, when he noted that Hawthorne Crayle seemed stupidly disinterested in the conversation.
“He makes a specialty of renovating old houses,” explained Terry. “My uncle had fixed up his little library; a few months ago, Salwood came to offer an estimate on the rest of the house. Salwood had not done the library decoration; he merely studied that room and arranged to make a figure for the remainder of the second floor.
“He returned about a week ago and chatted for a short while with my uncle. Then he came four days ago and left his estimate. The matter was dropped, however, pending a partial recovery by my uncle.
“I mention Salwood only because he represented the most extensive visitor. The nurse was in and out of the room while he was here the last time. My uncle, as was his habit, was drowsy. Yet the nurse states that Salwood could never have moved from the chair beside my uncle’s bed. So he could not possibly have gained access to the wall safe.
“It is obvious, gentlemen, that my uncle stored the Villon manuscript himself; and it is also apparent that no one could possibly have taken it from its hiding place.”
“Your uncle” — these words came suddenly in the crackling tones of Hawthorne Crayle — “seemed sure that he had a genuine Villon manuscript. He claimed that people had pronounced it genuine. Now if some expert had maintained otherwise—”
“That’s it!” broke in Terry. “There was an expert who termed it spurious. He was probably the last one who saw it; he came here only a few months ago.”
“His name?”
“Eli Galban.”
A withered smile appeared upon the countenance of Hawthorne Crayle. It was not to Terry’s liking. He seemed to be annoyed by it.
“Eli Galban,” declared The Shadow, in his false crackle, “is highly recognized. I have heard of him. His opinion is to be valued.”
“So I believe,” admitted Terry. “Therefore, I am inclined to believe that my uncle was in error. There is no use of my seeing Eli Galban.”
“Why not?”
“Because he has already declared this manuscript to be a fake.’
“Yet he may have been mistaken.”
“That is true—”
“And if, by some odd chance, the real manuscript has been stolen and replaced by this false one, Eli Galban might give you information.”
“You’re right!” exclaimed Terry Barliss. “I never thought of it before! Say — if I could see this fellow Galban! Where does he live?”
“Somewhere in New Jersey, I believe,” came Crayle’s crackle. “It would not be difficult to find out where.”
“Could you go to see him with me?”
A negative shake was the response. “I must go to Cincinnati,” decided The Shadow, in his role of Crayle. “I would advise, however, that you took some one with you. Galban may be a trifle obscure in his statements. Some one who has at least a passing knowledge of manuscripts—”
A pause. A light appeared in the eyes that accompanied the face of Hawthorne Crayle, as those eyes turned toward Harry Vincent.
“Mr. Vincent!” exclaimed The Shadow, with Crayle’s characteristic chuckle. “He is the very man! He seems interested in this matter. Perhaps, Mr. Barliss, he would be willing to work with you.”
“Gladly,” asserted Harry, with sincere promptness. “This is of great interest to me, Barliss. I have leisure time at present; I should like to visit Eli Galban when you take your manuscript to him.”
“Agreed,” returned Terry. “This is fine of you, Vincent. I have been ready to drop the matter entirely; now, I consider it worth while to at least see Galban.”