“Whom, for instance?”
“Any one who was closely associated with Henry Marchand. I am convinced that the old man was murdered; the problem now is to find what was stolen — and to trace the criminal.”
DOCTOR LUKENS nodded in agreement. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. The physician noted that the visitor was strangely calm.
“There may be danger here,” said the stranger. “You may find some clew among Marchand’s effects. You may learn of others with whom he has been associated. Some specter of the past may rise to confront you. If it does, you must recognize it.”
“I shall be prepared,” said Lukens firmly. “It is a duty to my old friend, Henry. You have convinced me, also. Your ability amazes me. Though I have never seen you before, I have confidence in you. I should like to know your name.”
The man in black stood up. His tall form cast a long, thin shadow that stretched fantastically across the width of the room.
Slowly, noiselessly, he walked to the door; there he turned and stood facing the physician. Now, at the edge of the room, the stranger’s face was scarcely discernible in the gloom.
“I am a friend,” said the man in black. “My name does not matter.”
“But what are you — a detective?”
A soft laugh came from the man at the door. It was a whispered laugh with a sinister tone that made Doctor Lukens shudder involuntarily.