CHAPTER I

SEALED LIPS

A SUDDEN chill swept over Don Hasbrouck as he reached forward to place his hand upon the bell. He hesitated. He looked upward to the black windows and strange turrets of the old stone house. The cold, driving rain pelted into his face. The night — or the dismal, sinister mansion itself — brought instinctive fear deep into the man on the steps.

Hasbrouck straightened his shoulders. He couldn’t tell, for the life of him, why he hesitated, or from whence came that eerie feeling.

He was at the end of a trail, ready to enter a place that he knew well. There was no one in the gloomy house who could harm him. Reason told him that. But instinct, some age-old secret dread, fought against reason.

A shrill night wind whistled through the narrow uptown street, as if to shriek a warning. And, suddenly, Hasbrouck, in the midst of Manhattan, felt isolated and insecure.

Hasbrouck’s finger crept forward. Deliberately, he pressed the bell. The wind had died down. Now, from the depths of the house, he heard a single, muffled note, like that of a ghostly gong struck in somber silence.

The sound quickened Hasbrouck’s qualms. As he waited, he felt a sudden desire to turn and dash down the stone steps behind him. The darkness of the night seemed safer than the gloom that lay ahead.

He waited. The door creaked slowly open. With a quick effort, Hasbrouck stepped into the dimly lit vestibule.

Before him, a quiet, pale-faced young man — a servant, to judge from his black garb — moved noiselessly aside to let him enter.

“Good evening, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the young man, in a monotone. “Mr. Glendenning is expecting you. He has stayed up to see you. I shall tell him that you are here.”

Standing in the gloomy hallway, Hasbrouck watched the young man ascend the stairs. The regularity of the man’s step made him appear like a mechanical figure.

Now, within the portals of the old house, Hasbrouck strove to fight off that fearful impression which had gripped him so surprisingly. But it remained.

Hasbrouck turned quickly, in response to an unknown impulse. He stared at the dark velvet curtains that hung in front of the entrance to a side room. He reached forward and pressed his hand against one curtain. The heavy cloth wavered beneath his touch.

What lay in the darkness beyond?

A shudder shook Hasbrouck’s shoulders. His hand dropped quickly to his side. From the direction of the stairway came the sound of footsteps. The young man was returning. Hasbrouck assumed an attitude of composure.

“Come right up, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the calm voice.

Hasbrouck felt less uneasy as he ascended the stairs and reached the second-story hall. A door was open at the front of the building. Passing the young man, Hasbrouck entered the front room alone.

An old man reclined in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows. He was attired in a dressing gown. His thin, gray hair heightened his aged appearance. A crop of white stubble covered his face. This was the recluse, Clinton Glendenning. His face was lined with marks of gloom and discontent.

The sight of this individual was momentarily reassuring to Don Hasbrouck. Clinton Glendenning was a man whom one might pity, but certainly not fear.

Hasbrouck, tall and hawklike, loomed like a human scarecrow in the center of the room. He felt a certain superiority over his host, as he went to the chair toward which old Glendenning motioned.

“Come in, Larkin!” rasped Glendenning.

The quiet-faced man at the door obeyed. He closed the door behind him, and stood within, in the attitude of a servant awaiting his master’s next order.

AN oddly assorted trio! Larkin was the only one who presented a neat appearance. He was virtually self-effacing as he stood beside the door. His pale face formed a marked contrast to the dark, well-pressed suit he wore.

“Well?” questioned old Glendenning shrilly. “What do you want, Hasbrouck? Why have you come here?”

“The usual matter, Mr. Glendenning,” replied Hasbrouck, in a deliberate tone. “I am still searching for Robert Buchanan.”

“Why annoy me, then?” responded the old man testily. “I have told you several times that I have no idea where he may be.”

“I thought perhaps that you might have received some news. It has been two weeks since I last called to see you.”

Glendenning’s eyes flashed suddenly. The steely glint surprised Hasbrouck. His gaze dropped to the arms of Glendenning’s chair, and he observed the old man’s clawlike hands as they gripped the arms.

There was strength in Glendenning’s thin, curved fingers — remarkable strength. It was something that Hasbrouck had not noticed before.

He began to feel uneasy again. Sensing hostility on the part of his unwilling host, Hasbrouck sought to give an explanation of his visit. He glanced toward Larkin, at the door. The pale-faced man had not changed his position.

“I do not wish to annoy you, Mr. Glendenning,” said Hasbrouck. “At the same time, you must understand that it is my business to trace young Buchanan.

“So far, I have uncovered only one important fact. Robert Buchanan was engaged to your niece, Margaret Glendenning. The girl favored an early marriage. You opposed it. The last night that Buchanan was seen was the night he came here to discuss the marriage with you—”

“Why go into that?” demanded the old man angrily. “We talked about that the last time you were here. That’s true, isn’t it, Larkin?”

The quiet-faced man nodded.

“Why annoy me, then?” repeated Glendenning, turning to Don Hasbrouck. “Larkin is my secretary. He attends to such minor matters as this. Should we hear anything from Robert Buchanan” — there was biting sarcasm in the old man’s tone — “Larkin will inform you. I have your card, here.”

Glendenning reached in the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a card, which he held so Hasbrouck could see it. On the card was inscribed:

DON HASBROUCK Hasbrouck Detective Agency

Hasbrouck watched while old Glendenning fumbled with the card. A sinister expression played upon the gray-haired man’s lips. Seeing it, Hasbrouck felt a return of that dread which had almost overpowered him before.

What were the thoughts in the old man’s mind? What did he know that he had not told? Hasbrouck was determined to learn. Trying to catch Glendenning unaware, he sprang a sudden question.

“Did you ever hear of a man named Jerry Middleton?”

Glendenning looked up.

“No,” he replied. “I do not recall any person by that name.”

“A friend of Buchanan’s?” prompted Hasbrouck.

“I never heard of him.”

“The reason I asked,” explained Hasbrouck, “is because Buchanan and Middleton were close friends. Before Buchanan came to this house — on that last night — he spent a few hours with Middleton.”

“I suppose Middleton is missing, also,” said Glendenning, dryly.

“He is,” admitted Hasbrouck, “but there is no mystery about that. He is always a difficult man to find. Middleton is a young man, of considerable wealth. He goes in for the unusual. Always seeks new thrills. He becomes bored in New York, and travels about the country.

“The last I knew about him, was the same night that Buchanan vanished. Middleton left for Florida that very night.”

“Perhaps Buchanan went with him.”

There was a subtle tone in the old man’s remark.

“Perhaps,” agreed Hasbrouck. “But there is no proof of it; and Buchanan does not have Middleton’s habit of dropping out of sight. However” — he paused, then decided to continue — “that matter will be settled tonight.

“Middleton is coming to New York. He has an appointment with a friend. I expect to meet him at the friend’s home and learn what he knows.”

THERE was a ringing challenge in Hasbrouck’s voice. It seemed as though the detective was offering a last chance to Glendenning, giving the old man an opportunity to reveal whatever he might know.

There was no response from Glendenning. He merely stared. Hasbrouck shot a glance toward Larkin. The secretary’s face was immobile.

“This interview,” said Hasbrouck, “may be our last meeting, Mr. Glendenning.”

“It will be our last,” replied the old man coldly.

Hasbrouck did not like the tone. His gaze wandered slowly about the room. He took in its simple furnishings. He meditated for a moment, and the howling of the wind disturbed his thoughts. It reminded him of the menace he had felt when he stood outside the house.

“Our last interview,” he said quietly. “Very well, Mr. Glendenning. That brings me squarely to the point at issue. It concerns your niece — Miss Margaret Glendenning.”

“Well?” asked the old man querulously.

“She was engaged to Robert Buchanan,” said Hasbrouck. “Therefore, she might furnish a clew. I should like to speak with her.”

“There is no reason for that,” declared Glendenning emphatically.

“I disagree with you!” retorted Hasbrouck.

The old man glowered. He looked fiercely toward the detective; then turned suddenly to Larkin.

“Call Miss Margaret,” he ordered. “Tell her I would like to speak to her. We shall end this matter now!”

Hasbrouck smiled as the secretary left. He had won his point. On his previous visits, Glendenning had refused to let him meet the girl. Now the wish had been granted.

Neither man spoke during the interim of waiting. The silence troubled Hasbrouck. Why had Clinton Glendenning suddenly capitulated?

It was obvious that the old man did not wish to give out any information upon the subject of Robert Buchanan. Margaret Glendenning was the important key. From her, Hasbrouck might expect statements which her uncle would not make.

But another thought disturbed the detective’s mind. Had Margaret Glendenning been schooled for this pending interview? If so, her remarks would be of little value. Suppose she did talk — what then? It would antagonize the old man toward Hasbrouck.

The detective pondered as he considered such a situation. Were his fears forebodings? Would Clinton Glendenning use some method to thwart him, if he learned facts that the old man did not want him to know?

The arrival of Margaret Glendenning put an end to these thoughts. The girl entered the room, accompanied by Larkin.

She was remarkably beautiful, but the black lounging pajamas that she wore gave an added pallor to her white features. The girl stared directly at the visitor, and Hasbrouck noticed a sad look in her brown eyes.

“What do you wish to know?” the girl inquired, without waiting for the formality of an introduction.

Hasbrouck had risen from his chair. He sat down as Margaret Glendenning took a seat opposite him. He responded immediately to her question.

“I should like to know anything that you know concerning Robert Buchanan,” said the detective. “Anything that might help me in my efforts to locate him.”

“I do not know where he is.”

The girl’s voice was level — each word uttered in a hushed, solemn tone.

“You have not heard from him since the last night he was here?” Hasbrouck questioned further.

“Not a word,” answered the girl, with a far-away look.

“He said nothing that might give you an idea where he has gone?”

“Nothing at all,” declared Margaret solemnly. “He” — a slight expression of fearfulness appeared in her eyes, as she looked toward her uncle — “he said nothing of his plans.”

“And you were engaged to him?” asked Hasbrouck quietly.

“Yes,” answered Margaret, “but that is ended now.”

“Why?”

“My uncle disapproved. He said that in his opinion I was too young to marry. I am not yet twenty-one. But” — her eyes turned again toward Glendenning — “he did not interfere. After Robert went away, without a word, I decided that Uncle Clinton must be right. That is all.”

“Do you know Jerry Middleton?” inquired Hasbrouck.

“No,” replied the girl. “I have heard Robert speak of him. They were friends. But I did not know Mr. Middleton.”

WHILE Don Hasbrouck was considering another question, Margaret Glendenning arose abruptly and walked from the room. The sudden action perplexed the detective. Hasbrouck turned to speak to Glendenning.

“Regarding Middleton,” he said, “I might mention that the man is wealthy, and a very good friend of Buchanan’s. When I tell Middleton, this evening, that his friend has disappeared, he will leave nothing to chance in conducting a thorough search.

“I have been employed by Buchanan’s relations. I am working on this case alone. I have assembled some data, and all my previous findings have been recorded. I shall include my interviews with you and Miss Glendenning in the report that I expect to make.”

“I hope that your notes may prove illuminating,” said the old man. “I also trust that you will find your interview with Middleton a productive one. But in view of the man’s tendency to go and come as he pleases, you should not count too much upon finding him tonight!”

With this statement, Glendenning used a tone of finality. He raised himself from his chair, moved abruptly to a corner of the room, and passed through a door that evidently led to his bedroom. Hasbrouck was alone with Larkin.

The peculiar emphasis of Glendenning’s parting words brought a new feeling of insecurity to the detective. He stared at the chair that the old man had vacated.

Why had Glendenning left so abruptly?

Hasbrouck glanced at Larkin. He wanted to quiz the secretary, but he feared that the old man might be listening.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Don Hasbrouck arose from his chair and walked toward the door. Larkin went before him. In the hallway, the detective felt more uneasy.

He had interviewed Clinton Glendenning in the past, and each time this man Larkin had been a silent witness. What did the fellow know about the secret? Could he explain the reluctance that both Glendenning and his niece had shown?

Hasbrouck knew that he would have to search for information elsewhere. He had mentioned the name of Jerry Middleton, hoping that it might bring results. And it had failed.

But Jerry Middleton himself would not fail when the detective met him tonight. Hasbrouck knew where Middleton would be. He intended to go directly to that place.

In the dim light of the lower hall, Hasbrouck found himself once more fighting the sense of impending danger — of some unknown peril that lurked in that house. Foolish, he knew, for in a moment he would be out.

Larkin, here, was certainly no menace. Neither was Clinton Glendenning, for that matter.

He stifled a contemptuous laugh. How ridiculous! Here, in a house inhabited only by an old man, a pasty-faced weakling, and a girl, Don Hasbrouck was worried! He looked at Larkin as he donned his coat. The secretary bowed a silent good night.

Hasbrouck, standing by the velvet curtain, watched the young man go upstairs. He was left alone, to leave the house at his leisure. It was another sign of the abruptness that all the occupants of this residence displayed.

He sensed that Larkin wanted to avoid any chance for an interview. Hasbrouck shrugged. He could not blame the secretary. The fellow had to do old Glendenning’s bidding. He could take no chances with his job.

AS Larkin’s footsteps echoed at the top of the stairway, Hasbrouck pulled a card from his pocket and glanced at a written address which told his next destination; the place where he would find Jerry Middleton.

He put the card back in his pocket, and once more glanced up the stairs. His hat was in his right hand; the fingers of his left sought the knob of the vestibule door. His back grazed the nearer of the two velvet curtains.

Something brushed over Don Hasbrouck’s shoulder. It felt like a wirelike cord, moving swiftly sidewise. The invisible object had fallen over his head. It was moving slowly upward, toward his collar.

It might have been the imperceptible touch of this cord; it might have been a sudden thought that had flashed through Hasbrouck’s brain — at any rate, the detective shuddered.

He held his breath and stood still as he sensed a motion behind him. Then he slowly drew his left hand from the doorknob and pressed it against the curtain.

His fingers encountered a solid object through the velvet! Hasbrouck started to move forward. He stopped abruptly.

A wild look came upon his face. His eyes bulged, and his hands shot toward his throat. The tiny cord was there, tightening into the flesh! The detective’s clawing fingers could not loosen its terrifying pressure!

A gurgle sounded in the doomed man’s throat. His gangling form toppled backward and slumped against the curtain. Hasbrouck went down slowly, his fall governed by that cord which bound his neck. The cruel thread was biting — strangling — killing!

Invisible hands came from the curtain. Hasbrouck’s inert form was drawn into darkness. A short, sizzling sound came from behind the velvet curtain. Then all was silent in the hall.

Ten minutes later, Larkin came downstairs and locked the front door. The secretary turned and went upstairs, passing the spot where Don Hasbrouck last had stood. There was nothing to indicate that the detective had not left the house.

Detective Hasbrouck’s forebodings had been realized. Here, in this great, sinister, silent house, he had met his fate. His lips were sealed by death!

CHAPTER II

THE SOCIETY SUICIDE

A QUIET-FACED man was seated in an office on the ninth floor of the Badger Building. The door of his private room was open. Beyond was a stenographer at a desk.

The glass-paneled door at the outer entrance bore the number 909, in reverse figures. Beneath it, also in reverse, was the inscription:

RUTLEDGE MANN Investments

The man at the desk was somewhat rotund in both face and body. Like most persons of his proportions, he was inclined to be leisurely.

He picked up a letter from the desk, handled it thoughtfully; then arose and closed the door of the private office. He returned to his desk, cut the envelope with a letter cutter, and took out a folded sheet of paper.

The paper bore a coded message which Rutledge Mann perused without difficulty. Even as he finished reading, the ink on the letter began to disappear. Mann tore up the blank sheet and deposited it in the wastebasket.

He picked up the telephone and called the office of the New York Classic. Connected with the editorial department, Mann asked for Clyde Burke. He spoke a few cryptic sentences into the telephone, then hung up.

Some twenty minutes later, there came a rap at Mann’s door. The stenographer opened it.

“Mr. Burke is here,” she said to the investment broker.

A young chap of medium height entered the room. He was plainly dressed, but presented a neat appearance. His eyes were keen as he closed the door behind him.

“The Andrews case?” he questioned, in a low voice.

“Yes,” responded Mann. “What do you make of it?”

“Plain as the nose on your face. George Andrews got hit in the stock market. Discharged his servants and took a little apartment. Broke. Things became worse. He hung himself.”

Mann fingered a clipping on his desk. It told the story.

George Andrews, young society man, had committed suicide by hanging himself from the hook of a skylight in his studio apartment. With his neck in a dangling loop, he had kicked away the chair on which he had been standing.

His body had been discovered by a maid who had entered in the morning.

Friends of Andrews had stated that the young man had been depressed because of money matters. This was all covered in the early editions of the evening newspapers.

“Too bad,” observed Mann. “I was talking this morning with a chap who knew Andrews well. He said that he had seen Andrews yesterday afternoon.”

“What did he say about him?” Burke asked.

“Well, Andrews was certainly hard up. But he was somewhat cheerful at that. He told my informant that he was expecting a visit from Jerry Middleton.”

“The polo player?”

“Yes,” Mann went on. “Middleton is a great traveler. Andrews evidently expected him back in New York last night. Middleton has money. Perhaps Andrews thought Middleton would lend him some.”

“But—”

“Either Middleton refused, or did not arrive as expected,” the man at the desk ignored the interruption. “I incline to the latter opinion.”

“Why?”

“Because I called up Middleton’s town house, and they told me that he was still away, and not expected to return. They said that they didn’t know where he was.”

“Well,” commented Burke, “it looks plain enough. Andrews needed dough. That’s why he killed himself. But, of course” — he hesitated thoughtfully — “there may be some other reason in back of it. A man isn’t too quick to take his own life.”

“What about this case, Clyde?” asked Mann, changing the subject.

HE drew a clipping from the desk drawer. Burke looked at it. The account was a few days old. It told of a small motor boat found adrift in Long Island Sound. The owner, a sportsman named Dale Wharton, was missing. It was assumed that he had fallen overboard and drowned.

“There may be a mystery here,” observed Burke. “They’re expecting the body to turn up any time, now. When they find it, there may be a clew.

“Wharton started out at night, alone, for a run over to Connecticut. Left Long Island; that’s all they know about him.”

Mann nodded.

“A peculiar case,” he said, “and there’s another one that the newspapers know nothing about. A young man, rather prominent socially, has been missing for approximately two months.”

“Who is he?” Clyde Burke’s question came in a tone of surprise. Very few such items failed to reach the news office of the New York Classic, the tabloid newspaper with which Burke was connected.

“A man named Robert Buchanan,” declared Mann. “His relatives have been disturbed about his absence. He was engaged to marry Margaret Glendenning, who lives with her uncle, a retired manufacturer. No one seems to know where Buchanan has gone.”

“How did you find out about it?” Burke asked.

“I hear many things at the Cobalt Club,” declared Mann, with a note of pride. “It’s my business — as you know — to keep posted on matters unusual. I learned of Buchanan’s disappearance about ten days ago.”

“And then—”

“I sent the information to— to the proper person” — there was a hidden significance in Mann’s words — “and of course I made notes on the Wharton case also.

“I must admit, however, that I would have seen nothing in the suicide of George Andrews. But to-day, I received instructions.”

Burke nodded. He knew what Rutledge Mann meant by “instructions.” For both Clyde Burke and the investment broker were the secret agents of that man of mystery — The Shadow.

Rutledge Mann, working from the security of a comfortable office, and spending his evenings at the exclusive Cobalt Club, served as a contact man for The Shadow.

Clyde Burke, ostensibly a newspaper reporter with the Classic, in an ideal position to conduct outside investigations, was an active agent of The Shadow.

“I had been expecting instructions,” declared Mann quietly, “but until today, all was silence. I read of the Andrews suicide in the newspapers, and I actually passed by it. Then came the word. That is why I called you at the Classic office. You are to get information on Andrews immediately.”

“At his apartment?”

“No. That is either unimportant, or has been taken care of. Your investigation must be made at the morgue. You are to view the body of George Andrews.”

“That’s easy enough,” said Burke. “I can go down there right away.”

“Good!” said Rutledge Mann. He stared at the wall and spoke as though repeating words which he had read. “Look for anything unusual when you see the body. If you find it, report in full. If you see nothing, report to that effect. Learn all you can.”

Mann became silent. Burke knew that the discussion had ended. He arose and left the office.

Mann remained at the desk, studying the newspaper clipping. He put it away in a desk drawer, called the stenographer, and dictated some letters to his investment clients.

AN hour later, Mann was once more alone in his inner office, when the stenographer appeared to say that Mr. Burke had returned. The reporter was soon cloistered with Mann.

There was a tone of repressed excitement in Burke’s voice as he related the details of his investigation in the Andrews case.

“I went to the morgue,” he said. “I ran into Steve Brill, covering the story for the Classic. Brill took me in to see the body.

“It was an ugly sight, but that didn’t concern me. I was interested in the rope mark about the neck. It left a big welt — almost like a scar. You could see the twists of the rope.

“I’ve seen marks like that before, so I knew what to expect. I had a chance to look at it closely. And that’s when I saw something else!”

The reporter leaned forward, and his right forefinger traced a line on the palm of his left hand.

“Right with the rope mark,” he said, “was another line — so thin you could hardly see it. Just a faint, narrow trace, almost like a thread. It may have been red once; but it’s white now.

“It followed the rope mark so closely that it was lost at times. It looked to me exactly as though the rope had been set to cover that very line!”

Mann was listening with implacid countenance to Burke’s words. It was not Mann’s business to theorize too frequently. He was a collector of facts. Nevertheless, he could see the obvious connection toward which Burke was working. Mann made no comment.

“When I saw that,” continued Burke, “I did some more looking. That’s when I spotted something else. I looked at the dead man’s face. On his forehead, I saw a mark like this.” The reporter made a tracing with his finger. “A round spot, no bigger than a dime!”

“A scar?”

“It looked more like a burn,” Burke went on. “It was whiter than the surrounding flesh, and I never would have noticed it if I hadn’t been looking mighty close.

“Brill wasn’t watching me at the time. I heard him speak to some one, and I looked to see Detective Sergeant Cleghorn. He was handling the case. I listened while he spoke to Brill.

“It’s just another suicide, in Cleghorn’s opinion. He’s moving the body out of the morgue. He says that Andrews hung himself, and that all strangled people look a lot alike.

“He’s right on that — but he’s missed his guess about how George Andrews was strangled!”

Rutledge Mann nodded. “Have you made your report?” he questioned.

“No,” replied Burke. “I thought you might intend to include this with your own—”

“Yours will be sufficient,” interposed Mann, pushing pen and paper to the reporter.

Deftly, Clyde Burke began to write a message of coded characters. He wrote swiftly, and in five minutes his task was done. He folded the paper and inserted it in an envelope which Mann provided.

“I’m going downtown,” he said, as he sealed the envelope.

Mann nodded.

Clyde Burke left the office. He reached the street and took the subway to Twenty-third Street. There he entered a dilapidated building, ascended the stairs, and dropped the envelope in the mail chute of a deserted office.

The door of the office bore a name upon its cobwebbed glass panel. The title was:

B. JONAS

Clyde had never been inside that office. He had never known it to be unlocked. He knew only that a message dropped there was sure to reach The Shadow.

Clyde Burke was meditative as he rode uptown in the subway. He was thinking of the report he had just dispatched; and that report took his mind back to a very definite scene — the body of George Andrews lying in the morgue.

As Clyde half closed his eyes, he could picture two sights — that rope mark, with the thin white line running through it, and the round white spot in the center of the dead man’s forehead. The meaning of those discoveries was now plain to Clyde Burke.

He knew, with all positiveness, that George Andrews had not committed suicide! Andrews had choked to death — that was true — but not because of the rope that had been found around his neck.

He had been strangled with a slender cord, that had left its narrow indelible trace. And the murderer, whoever he might be, had implanted his mark upon the dead man’s forehead as a ghastly symbol of his evil deed!

Very shortly, another would know the truth about the death of George Andrews. Clyde wondered what this amazing information would mean to his mysterious chief — The Shadow!

CHAPTER III

WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT

THE following afternoon, Rutledge Mann was again seated in his office in the Badger Building. Once more he was considering a newspaper clipping. This one told of a more startling case than the death of George Andrews.

The body of Dale Wharton had been washed ashore on Long Island. This was a step toward the solving of the mystery which had shrouded the disappearance of the wealthy sportsman. But both police and journalists had met with disappointment.

The latest report — the one on Mann’s desk — said that the police could find no evidence of foul play.

Wharton, it was known, had been under the influence of liquor when he had started on his trip through Long Island Sound. Two bottles, one empty, the other nearly so, had been found in his pockets:

Everything indicated that Wharton had fallen overboard from his boat and had drowned. This solution was both simple and practical.

An intoxicated man, at the helm, might well lose control of the craft. A sharp turn, and overboard he would go. That, the authorities said, was what had happened to Dale Wharton.

Yet this case was not a closed issue so far as Rutledge Mann was concerned. The investment broker was patiently awaiting a report from Clyde Burke.

In response to instructions from The Shadow, Mann had dispatched the alert reporter to Long Island. Burke had found no difficulty in convincing his city editor that a look into the Wharton death might be advisable.

The afternoon was waning. Burke’s report should be there soon. Mann showed no signs of impatience, but he was actually anxious to obtain progress in this matter.

The telephone rang. Mann answered it. He recognized the voice of Clyde Burke. The reporter’s message consisted of a single, cryptic word that came over the wire.

“Identical!”

That was all that Rutledge Mann heard. It produced immediate action. He called a telephone number and repeated the word to the man who answered. After that, Mann waited.

It was nearly five o’clock when the stenographer entered the private office, carrying an envelope.

“This came through the mail chute,” she said.

Mann took the envelope. He closed the door after the girl had gone. Then he began to read a message from The Shadow — another of those strange, fading notes that told its story in cryptic code, then disappeared so no prying eyes could study it.

REACHING for the telephone, Mann called the Metrolite Hotel. He was connected with a guest named Harry Vincent. In a quiet voice, Mann inquired to whom he was speaking; then said:

“This is the Sea Breeze Realty Corporation. Our building plans offer a man a real opportunity at small investment. Once you have studied our offer, you will be interested.”

“I don’t think so,” came Vincent’s voice. “I spend my summers in the Middle West. I’m not interested in beach lots.”

Rutledge Mann hung up the telephone. In that short conversation, he had sent a very definite order to Harry Vincent. He had emphasized certain words. Phonetically, those words declared: “See R. Mann at once!”

Fifteen minutes later, Harry Vincent appeared in Rutledge Mann’s office. Like Clyde Burke, Harry was admitted to the inner room. For he, too, was one of The Shadow’s trusted agents.

Rutledge Mann placed two clippings in Harry’s hand. One told of the death of George Andrews; the other was the story of the finding of Dale Wharton’s body.

“Yesterday,” declared Mann quietly, “Clyde Burke saw the body of Andrews. To-day he has seen Wharton’s body. Upon the throat of each man was a thin, almost invisible white line. Each forehead was seared with a faint, round mark. Both men were murdered; both were stamped by the man who killed them.

“You will observe that Andrews and Wharton were both socially prominent. There is a third man missing — one whose absence has not yet reached the newspapers. He, too, is socially prominent, and may have suffered death at the hands of the same murderer. The missing man’s name is Robert Buchanan.”

“Is there any trace of him?” questioned Harry.

“None to our knowledge,” Mann said, “but there is one place where an investigator might learn something concerning him.

“Robert Buchanan was engaged to a girl named Margaret Glendenning, who lives with her uncle. The old man is a recluse. Clinton Glendenning is his name — a retired manufacturer.

“This afternoon, following Burke’s report, I received an important message, instructing you to call on Clinton Glendenning and question him in reference to Buchanan. This should be a surprise visit, during the evening. Here is Glendenning’s address.”

HARRY was warmly enthusiastic. He had worked often in the service of The Shadow. He loved adventure, and here was another opportunity for it.

Matters had been quiet during the past month, and Harry had been considering a short trip to his Michigan home in the little town of Colon. Now, with The Shadow calling him to duty, he would remain in New York.

“After dinner,” said Mann, “go to Glendenning’s home. Interview the old man — and, if possible, talk with the niece.”

The conference ended. It was nearly six o’clock. A myriad of twinkling lights could be seen from the window of Rutledge Mann’s office.

Harry Vincent descended to the street and went back to the Metrolite Hotel. After dinner, he set out for Clinton Glendenning’s home.

Harry sensed no danger as he rode northward in the taxi. On the contrary, he felt that he was bound on a very tame mission. It was one that might require shrewdness; that was all.

Because his errand was a secret one, Harry discharged the cab near the address to which he was going and walked the remaining distance.

The street on which the dismal Glendenning house stood was quiet and deserted. Tonight it was undisturbed by the storm which had marked Don Hasbrouck’s visit. Nevertheless, Harry, like the detective, felt tense as he climbed the steps to the door of the house.

All about was shadowy blackness. Harry could not shake off the feeling that some one lurked in the darkness, watching him. But, as he remained in front of the door, the sensation diminished. Harry pressed the bell and heard the lonely, gonglike note.

The door opened. Harry’s path was blocked by a young man who stood in the dim vestibule.

“I would like to see Mr. Glendenning,” said Harry.

“I’m sorry, sir,” was the reply. “I cannot disturb him. You should have called to make an appointment.”

Harry edged his way into the vestibule.

“My name is Harry Vincent,” he declared. “It is urgent that I see Mr. Glendenning. I will not require much of his time.”

“I’m sorry—”

An interruption came from the head of the stairs. Clinton Glendenning’s querulous voice reached the men in the vestibule.

“Who’s there, Larkin?”

“A gentleman named Vincent,” called the secretary.

“Does he wish to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Bring him upstairs.”

The old man was back in his room when Harry entered with Larkin. Curiosity, rather than welcome, was apparent in Glendenning’s attitude. He was seated in his chair, and he eyed Harry sharply.

Harry sat down and looked at the old man. Larkin took his self-effacing stand within the door. In a friendly tone, Harry stated the purpose of his visit.

THE moment that Robert Buchanan’s name was mentioned, a change came over Clinton Glendenning. An angry expression appeared upon his face. His hands clawed the arms of his chair. Then the old man quieted.

“I do not know where Robert Buchanan is,” he said slowly. “He went away some time ago. He happened to be here the night before he left. For that reason, I have been annoyed frequently by a man who is trying to locate him.

“The fellow came here two nights ago, and I was forced to tell him once more that I knew nothing of Buchanan’s whereabouts.

“If your visit is a subterfuge, you are not welcome. If you have really come to inquire fairly about Robert Buchanan, you have heard my answer.

“I have no idea whatever where the young man may be!”

“I am sorry to have caused you any trouble,” said Harry quietly. “I am not in New York all the time — in fact, I had expected to leave town tonight. But it is urgent that I should meet Buchanan. I was told that he was engaged to your niece—”

“He was,” interrupted Glendenning. “That’s all forgotten. Robert Buchanan disappeared two months ago. That ended the engagement. Robert Buchanan is no longer welcome here. You will have to look elsewhere for him!”

“No one seems to know where he is,” said Harry gloomily.

“I understand that,” said the old man, softening a trifle. “Two nights ago a detective named Hasbrouck was here. He is a private agent, employed, I believe, by Buchanan’s relatives. They, too, are wondering where the young man is.”

“A detective named Hasbrouck?”

“Yes. Don Hasbrouck. He went away when I assured him that I had no idea where young Buchanan might be. Perhaps if you communicated with Hasbrouck—”

“My time is rather limited,” said Harry. “I shall look up Hasbrouck — but you say that he does not know where Buchanan can be found?”

“He may know by now,” declared Glendenning. “He told me he was going to see a friend of Buchanan’s a man whom he expected in New York night before last. Let me see” — Glendenning tapped his forehead thoughtfully — “what was that friend’s name? What was it, Larkin? Do you remember?”

“Not offhand, sir,” replied the secretary hesitatingly.

“I have it!” exclaimed Glendenning. “Hasbrouck was going to see a man named Jerry Middleton! That’s who it was! I have heard nothing from Hasbrouck since. There was no reason why I should.”

“Jerry Middleton,” repeated Harry Vincent thoughtfully. “I’ll remember that name. It’s very important that I find Buchanan. Perhaps—”

He paused and arose as Margaret Glendenning suddenly entered the room. The girl was attractively gowned, and Harry was immediately impressed by her beauty. But he also detected a worried, unhappy expression in her eyes. She looked at Harry; then at her uncle.

“My niece,” was Glendenning’s introduction. “Sit down, Margaret. Mr. Vincent and I were just talking about Robert.”

“Has he been found yet?”

There was a peculiar tone in the girl’s question. It seemed to carry a note of suppressed anxiety.

Harry saw the situation in an instant. The girl, evidently, was worried about Robert Buchanan. At the same time, she was probably trying to keep in her uncle’s good graces.

The old man did not care for Buchanan. The girl, to please her uncle, was trying to forget the man she had loved; but past memories were difficult to overcome.

“I am trying to find him,” declared Harry.

He was looking toward the girl as he spoke. Harry noticed that Larkin was no longer in the room. Then he became intent upon the girl’s next statement.

“We have no idea where Robert is,” said Margaret. “I think that he should have let us know where he went. Perhaps” — her voice broke momentarily — “perhaps something has happened to him.”

“I do not think so,” interposed Glendenning. “We would have heard about it long before this. People do not vanish into thin air unless they have a good reason to depart for places unknown. Buchanan left town because he wanted to get rid of you — to let you down!”

THE harsh statement caused Harry to feel a dislike toward Clinton Glendenning. Harry looked at the girl sympathetically. She seemed almost on the point of tears. Larkin came back into the room while Harry was studying the girl.

“The best plan for you, Margaret,” said Glendenning, in a tone that was not unkindly, “is to forget Robert Buchanan. I never regarded him as worthy of you. You have promised to forget him.”

“I know it,” said the girl bravely. “Good night!”

She left the room hastily with eyes averted. Harry fancied that he heard her sobbing as she went down the hallway. The girl’s emotion was genuine. Did she know more than she had said?

Harry watched Larkin. The secretary’s face was grave. Harry felt that he would like to quiz this man.

“That is all,” said Clinton Glendenning coldly. “I bid you good night!”

He rose from his chair and left the room, leaving Harry alone with Larkin. The interview was over, but Harry knew that he had gained by it.

He knew that a detective named Don Hasbrouck had visited Clinton Glendenning as recently as two nights ago. He knew that Hasbrouck had intended to communicate with a man named Jerry Middleton. Both items were valuable as information.

Accompanied by Larkin, Harry went downstairs. He felt a distaste for this gloomy old house. He donned his hat and coat, and while he was standing in the hallway, Larkin went up to the second floor, leaving the visitor to find his own way out.

Harry’s sleeve brushed against something; he turned quickly and stared suspiciously at a velvet curtain beside him. Acting upon impulse, he raised the curtain and stared into the blackness of the room beyond.

Then he laughed at his own suspicion of danger. He dropped the curtain.

Opening the door, Harry stepped forth into the night. There was no cab in sight, so he began a walk toward the corner.

Ordinarily, Vincent would have been very much alert. Before he had entered the house, he had been suspicious of his surroundings. Now, his thoughts were so occupied with the facts he had learned that he paid no attention to anything near by.

But before Harry had gone a dozen paces, there was a movement on the opposite side of the street. A man was lurking on the other sidewalk, keeping pace with Harry’s stride. When Harry reached the corner, he crossed the street to hail a cab.

It brought him close to the corner of a darkened building. The man who was following stood silent, sheltered by the corner. Harry never looked in his direction.

“Hotel Metrolite,” said Harry to the cabman.

The words were loud enough to be heard by the concealed observer.

As Harry’s cab rolled away, the watching man came into the light. He was of medium height. He was wearing a dark overcoat, which had made his form indistinct in the darkness.

In the light of the avenue, the man’s face was visible. It formed an evil, sinister countenance, with wicked lips that grinned maliciously.

The man whistled to a passing cab. The vehicle pulled up to the curb. The watcher entered.

“Hotel Metrolite,” he ordered. “Make it quick!”

The cab shot away. Then, from the thick darkness of the side street, another form emerged. A tall figure in black came into view. He was attired in a flowing cloak that hung from his shoulders. His visage was concealed beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat.

From an unseen post in the darkness, this man of the night had seen all that had transpired. Now, with long, swift strides, he was moving along the avenue, toward the kiosk of a subway station, a block away.

The tall, black-clad figure disappeared into the subway. Less than a minute later, an express rumbled into the station and stopped at the platform beneath the street. It was bound downtown.

THE next trace of the man in the black cloak was when he appeared in front of the Metrolite Hotel. His soft hat was turned down over his eyes. He merged with the blackness at the side of the building.