If Doctor Wells had observed this incident, he would hardly have recognized the agile man as Lamont Cranston, for he would not have believed it possible that the millionaire could have acted with so much nimbleness.
In fact, the physician could scarcely believe that his ears did not deceive him when he answered the telephone at eight o'clock that evening, and heard the voice of Richards.
"Mr. Cranston has gone!" was the valet's amazing statement. "His door has not been opened, and his windows are still shut. No one has seen him go! No one has heard him go! But he was not there when we brought his dinner this evening. I can't imagine what has happened, sir. Yet I am sure that Mr. Cranston has disappeared!"
CHAPTER XXX. SINISTER SHADOWS
Rain was dripping from the branches of the trees above the abandoned lane that led from Ridge Road.
A downpour had begun at dusk; now, early in the evening, it had settled into a steady drizzle.
The old roadway was pitch black as a man sloshed through the puddles, his heavy boots spattering water in all directions. He appeared to be familiar with the road and indifferent to its condition. His splashing footsteps seemed to echo behind him.
He felt his way along the iron fence until he reached the gates which were open. Still in darkness, he sloshed along the mud of a long-forgotten driveway until he reached the ruin which had once been the home of Harper Marsden.
Even in the darkness, the old gray walls were slightly visible. They seemed silent and forlorn as they loomed toward the falling rain. The nearest corner of the old building was higher than the rest; it had evidently been a tower extending the full height of the building — a tower of stone that had alone survived the devastating flames.
The man passed by the front of the building and reached a flight of stone steps near the further side. The steps had been an entrance to the cellar. Slowly and cautiously the man walked down these steps.