Steve Cronin had planned well. The fulfillment of his scheme had become a matter of minutes only. A mighty juggernaut of iron was hurtling along the steel rails, and in its certain path stood the waiting automobile.
CHAPTER VIII. DUNCAN'S VISITOR
The very time when Harry Vincent lay helpless behind the wheel of the abandoned touring car, Bruce Duncan was comfortably seated in the upstairs room of his dead uncle's home. Once more he was pondering over the odd adventure that he had experienced within these walls.
Patience was not one of Bruce Duncan's virtues. He realized this as he sat in the armchair, staring at the fireplace.
Three weeks had elapsed since the mysterious visitor of the night had entered his home. During that time he had failed utterly in his attempts to discover who the visitor might be.
Nothing had disturbed him since; but he did not expect that. The thief had obtained what he had sought.
Why should he be molested further?
Three weeks — to be exact, three weeks and one night. Twenty-two days without action. It was Wednesday now; the hiding place in the hearth had been opened on a Tuesday night.
Duncan was sure of but two facts — first, that the actual thief had been an ape-faced creature that had seemed inhuman; second, that some one had been outside the window, directing the actions of the strange being.
The door opened, and Abdul, his Hindu servant, entered.