“Then I went to sleep; couple hours. Then he gets in the car, wakes me up, an’ tells me to bring him here.
“Blame me, it’s funny. Yet it ain’t time for the theater to be out. Guess I’d better be goin’ back.”
He took a last look in the back of the limousine; his eyes saw a piece of wrapping paper. He brought it out; looked at it, and dropped it on the street.
“Looks like somebody had a package in there,” he said. “They must ha’ opened it, an’ left the wrappin’.”
His final remarks were addressed to a few bystanders; the starter had left.
“It sounded like Mr. Krause, all right,” continued the chauffeur. “‘Take me to the Landis Club. Hurry, Wilkes,’ he says. I ought to know his voice when I hears it. Yet it must ha’ been me dreamin’.”
The chauffeur returned to the limousine, and drove away, still shaking his head in bewilderment. Yet he had propounded one theory which was correct.
There had been a package in the car; it had been placed there early in the evening, just after Mr. Krause had left the limousine. That same package had been opened — while the chauffeur was driving to the Landis Club.
Its contents had been a black cloak, and that cloak had been donned by the man who had ridden in the car. Lamont Cranston had slipped from the door opposite the curb, just as the limousine had pulled up to the Landis Club.
He had been nothing more than a shape of the night — a shadowy, sable figure, that seemed clothed with a garment of invisibility.