CHAPTER I. A VISITOR AT NIGHT

The room seemed strangely silent when Bruce Duncan awoke. It was uncanny in this front room of the old house; he had noticed that before during the month he had lived there since his uncle's death. But the silence had never seemed so ominous as now.

One comfort to his disturbed mind was the beam of light that came through the transom of the door to the right of the bed. It fell upon the hearth of the old stone fireplace at the right wall of the room. Duncan turned his eyes momentarily in that direction; an instant later, he was staring at the window again.

For he had heard a strangely sibilant whistle — close and ominous — as though it came from among the bushes on the ground a full story below the window.

There was a rustle outside as if a slight breath of wind had stirred the thick ivy vines that covered the stone masonry of the house. Then a head and shoulders were silhouetted in the dimness of the open window. A grotesque form slipped over the sill.

The figure stole softly toward the bed. Duncan did not move. Somehow he seemed powerless to move.

He turned his eyes to follow the actions of the strange visitor from the night, and his gaze was transfixed as the being came into the light from the transom.

The figure was that of an apelike man — a weird, stoop-shouldered creature whose arms were long and whose fingers were bony claws. The face was wizened, and the eyes gleamed wickedly in the light.

The creature's head turned toward the bed. Instinctively, Bruce Duncan closed his eyes and lay as if asleep. He had no will to move a muscle; he could only wait and wonder in the midst of this real nightmare.

The side of the bed sagged slightly as though a form was pressing against it. The creature was stooping over him now. Duncan could feel a warm breath against his forehead. His heart thumped furiously in this moment of weird suspense, and he lay motionless as a waxwork figure, waiting for the clawlike fingers to close about his neck.

But the thing from the night made no closer approach. It was like a game of strategy. Duncan felt that if he made the slightest motion, death would follow. Only by feigning sleep could he escape.

* * *

What was to be the next move? Duncan could only wait. Wait and watch.

The creature had moved onto the hearth of the fireplace. A bony hand appeared in the light. The claws crawled up the right side of the fireplace until they reached the top. The hand pressed upward on the metal border.

There was a sharp click. The creature turned quickly toward the bed, but Duncan's eyes closed instantly.

Again he lay motionless for fully fifteen seconds. Then he reopened his eyes and stared in fascination.

The gruesome creature was stooping now — stooping beside an opening in the hearth against the side of the fireplace. Its bony hands dipped into the cavity in the floor. They emerged carrying a small package and two envelopes.

The apish visitor again pressed the side of the fireplace, and Duncan saw the stone in the hearth close, completely concealing the hole. As his eyes remained on the spot, he suddenly realized that the creature was gone.

He glanced toward the window. A blotch appeared and immediately vanished downward. From outside came that same hissing whistle. The ivy vines rustled. Then all was silent; the quiet of the night returned.

Only half awake, Duncan climbed out of bed, and switched on the light.

A dream, likely, thought Duncan. Well, there was only one way to test it.

He walked to the fireplace.

He placed his hand against the metal rim and tried to move it. It seemed solid enough. He yanked at it and attempted to push it up and down. Suddenly it yielded as his hand was going upward. There was a sharp click from the floor — a click that he recalled.

He looked at the hearth. One of the stones had swung upward on a hinge, impelled by a concealed spring. There in the masonry was a neatly formed opening, beneath it a small cavity that gaped with emptiness.

CHAPTER II. WORD FROM THE DEAD

There was a knock at the door the next morning. Duncan opened the door and admitted Abdul, his Hindu servant. The man was carrying a breakfast tray.

"It was time for you to awake, sahib. I have brought breakfast."

"Abdul," asked Duncan, as he began his meal, "did you hear any one outside last night?"

"No, sahib. At what time of the night?"

"I don't know. Didn't you hear a whistle?"

"No, sahib. What did sahib eat last night?"

"Nothing that would have kept me awake," answered Duncan. "I had an early dinner in the city, and I read for a while in the evening, after I came home. I did eat one of those peppermints in the dish over there on the table not long before I went to bed."

The Hindu went to the table. He took a peppermint from the dish and tasted it.

"At what time did sahib go to bed?" he asked. "You will recall, sahib, that I was not here."

"That's right," replied Duncan. "You went out for the evening, after I came in, didn't you? I guess it was about midnight when I retired."

"Sahib had dreams last night?"

Duncan hesitated a moment before replying.

"Unusual dreams," he said. "They were very vivid, as though they were real. They seemed like something was going to happen — as if I were waiting."

"And time went very slowly?" questioned Abdul.

"Yes," admitted Duncan. "Why do you ask that, Abdul?"

"The peppermint," said the Hindu, "tastes to me different. It is like something that we have in India — something from a bush that grows in the wild."

"What is it?" questioned Duncan.

"It makes men sleep. It makes them dream. To them the minutes seem like the hours. To them the hours seem like the days. The things they see are strange."

* * *

A sudden thought came to Duncan. "You mean hashish," he said.

"That is it, sahib," replied the Hindu.

"You think the peppermints contain hashish?"

"It seems to me like that, sahib."

"Then I was drugged last night. Who did it? Why? Where did you get these peppermints, Abdul? Who brought them?"

"I shall answer you, sahib," replied the Hindu. "I shall tell you all. I was in the house all day. I came in this room often, as you have told me to do. At the door of the house I found the package that you had told the man to send. In it was the peppermints. So I brought them here."

"Yes," said Duncan, "I've been having them send mints up every day or two. I've been chewing them at nights — makes the cigarettes taste better with a few mints in between. But how did these mints come to be in the package?"

Abdul shrugged his shoulders.

Duncan was thoughtful when the Hindu left the room. He trusted his Hindu servant — Abdul had been with him for five years — yet it was strange that the man should have so promptly diagnosed the cause of Duncan's peculiar sleep the night before. But why had Abdul mentioned the fact if he had had anything to do with it?

The Hindu returned with the morning mail. It contained a letter from Duncan's lawyer. The young man read the message:

Please call at my office at your earliest convenience. This is very important, and I will expect to see you shortly. ROBERT CHALMERS TREMAINE.

Two hours later, Duncan was seated in the lawyer's office, facing Tremaine across a large mahogany desk.

"Good morning, Mr. Duncan," said the lawyer in a voice that suited his pompous appearance. "I have interesting news for you."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Your uncle, Mr. Duncan, was an interesting man. You, as his heir, received rather unusual instructions, which I understand you have followed, in order to comply with the terms of his legacy."

"Correct, Mr. Tremaine," said Duncan. "I have lived in Uncle Harvey's house since the day he died. I have slept in the front room which he occupied, as his will instructed. During the day, my servant has been there continually — except when I have been at home."

The lawyer smiled.

"Those instructions," he said, "were left with a purpose. What the purpose was, I do not know. I was your uncle's attorney, but he did not take me into his confidence on that matter. Some time before his death, however, your uncle told me that he intended to impart some information to you before he died.

He was unable to do this as he passed away the day you reached the city. He was calling for you when he died."

"So I have been told," said Duncan soberly.

"Your uncle anticipated that something might prevent him giving you his message — which proved to be the case — so he left a sealed envelope with me. It was to be delivered to you on this date."

Bruce Duncan studied the long, heavy envelope that Tremaine handed him.

The lawyer thereupon ushered him into a smaller room, to a table in the midst of book-lined walls.

"You will not be disturbed here."

Alone, the young man tore open the envelope which was of cloth texture inside. He withdrew several folded sheets of paper. The inner page carried a message in clearly legible longhand. Bruce recognized it as his uncle's writing.

As he scanned the firmly written lines, astonishment came over him. He began to understand not only why his uncle had left such unusual instructions regarding the occupancy of the house, but, also, he gained an inkling of the significance of last night's experience.

CHAPTER III. A STRANGE HERITAGE

The terse, blunt statements of the letter told a strange story so plainly that they seemed like spoken words. Bruce Duncan, as he read them, could imagine the very tones of his uncle's voice: I am speaking to you, Bruce. I am writing in the front room of my house. The shades are drawn. It is late at night. You and I are alone. These are the exact words that I hope to say to you before I die, in the place that I have named. This message is written to be read if that hope is not realized.

I am a comparatively old man, Bruce. You are young and you are my only living relative. You are my dead brother's son and, like him, you have the firm traits of our family.

I am a man with a mission, Bruce, as I write these words. When you read this message, my mission will be yours; for I shall be dead.

For years I have lived in the front room of my home. I have been there always at nights, as you will be.

For that room contains a secret which must be guarded.

I have been many places in my life. I have had many adventures. I was in Russia during the Revolution. In Moscow I saved the life of a great man — a member of the nobility — a general in the army of the czar.

I brought him to safety. I risked my life for him. I left him in Paris, and then I saw him some time later. He was going back to Russia. He intended to join the forces of Admiral Kolchak in their fight against the Red rule.

He had another purpose, also. He intended to reclaim a vast wealth. Money, in golden rubles; and precious gems. An amazing fortune. He had left it hidden in Russia, and he was confident that no one could have discovered the hiding place.

He told me that in his trials he had gained the help and friendship of seven men. To each of them he owed an obligation. He regarded me as the most important of the seven.

He stated that he intended to divide his wealth into three parts — each a fortune. One was for the surviving members of his family. Another was for the cause of the czarists. The third was to be divided into eight portions — one each for six of the men who had befriended him; two for myself.

To me he intrusted the division of this fortune. He gave me a sealed box containing the insignia of a high royal order, which he or his messenger would recognize. He gave me a sealed envelope containing the names of the other six men with their descriptions.

Some day, he declared, I would receive a message simply stating a time and place for a meeting. There I would find him or his messenger. The other six would be present, each notified independently. At that time, I should open the box and reveal the insignia. The fortune would then be given to me without question.

My next duty would be to open the envelope, learn the names of the other six friends, and identify them.

To each I should give his share. Should any be absent, it would depend upon me to find them and to give their shares to them or to their heirs, if they had died.

I regarded this as a sacred trust. Upon my return to America, I constructed a hiding place and kept the package and the envelope there. My health had failed, and I lived indoors, always remaining in that room.

For as years passed, the matter became to me the most important subject of my life.

My Russian friend was killed in the rout of the Kolchak forces. Still I maintained the trust, confident that he had placed his affairs in the hands of some relative or trusted friend.

I have earned my reward. One week ago, I received a letter that stated the time and place of the meeting. I added the letter to the package and the envelope which contained the names of the other six men.

When you read this, I will be dead. Dead, before the meeting time. I rely upon you to fulfill the mission and to receive the wealth that would have been my reward.

The secret hiding place is in my room. You must live there and guard the spot until the appointed time.

Do not regard this as an old man's whim. It is important. No one knows my secret, yet sometimes the most secret things are discovered.

Use the utmost secrecy, Bruce. Be sure that you are alone, in my room. Go to the fireplace. Press upon the metal border at the top of the right side. The hiding place will open. It is concealed by a stone in the hearth.

Read the letter. Learn the time and place of the meeting. Carry the package and the sealed envelope and go there — alone. You know your duty from then on. Destroy this letter after you have read it.

The signature of Harvey Duncan was at the bottom of the page.

* * *

The young man stared at the words before him. He read the letter again. Each fact seemed to burn itself into his brain. He tore the papers into fragments. He wondered what to do with them, then realized it did not matter.

For the secret was no longer his alone. His uncle's fears had been realized. Some one had discovered the hiding place. Bruce was positive now that he had been drugged the right before. Perhaps the hashish — if that had been the drug — had made the strange visitor seem grotesque. But he was certain that some living being had entered his room and had taken the documents and the package.

His only hope was that the thief had not fully understood the significance of the objects he had taken. This seemed a faint hope. Where, then, had the information been gained? Bruce was sure that no one could have read the letter which he had just perused. Tremaine, the lawyer, was unquestionably reliable. Abdul could not have known of the secret. Perhaps the knowledge had been gained from Russia. No; that would not have carried a clue to the hiding place in the hearth.

Bruce Duncan went into Tremaine's office. He was tempted to tell the lawyer what he had learned, for he felt that he needed advice. The secret had been discovered; this fact might alter the instructions in the letter, which demanded absolute secrecy. On second thought Duncan decided to say nothing.

"You have read your uncle's message?" asked Tremaine.

"I have."

The lawyer smiled.

"It was to be read by me," he said, "in case that you failed to abide by the terms of your uncle's will. I am glad that you have seen fit to conform to his desires. Your uncle was my friend."

He walked to the door with Bruce.

"Did any one talk with my uncle before he died?" asked the young man.

"No," said the lawyer. "He talked very little the last few days while you were on your way from Japan. I should have notified you sooner. He was delirious several times."

"Who came to see him?"

"I don't just recall any one person. Hopkins could tell you. He was your uncle's attendant. He had lived there for several years, you know. A faithful servant and a willing worker."

Duncan recalled the old gray-haired retainer who had lived with his uncle. He had a card in his pocket now, with the man's address on it. Hopkins had gone to live with his sister after the death of Harvey Duncan.

A telephone booth was Bruce Duncan's first stopping place after leaving Tremaine's office. He found the card with Hopkins's number and decided to call the old man.

A woman's voice answered.

"Mr. Hopkins?" questioned Duncan.

"Who is calling?" was the reply.

"Bruce Duncan. Nephew of Mr. Harvey Duncan."

"Oh, Mr. Duncan," came the voice. "He asked for you. Mr. Hopkins died two weeks ago. I thought you had been notified. It was so sudden — a heart attack in the night—"

Duncan speculated on this strange coincidence as he drove homeward. A theory had formed in his mind.

Some one had visited his uncle, and had been left alone with him by Hopkins. In delirium, Harvey Duncan had given the secret which he had intended to retain for his nephew.

Poor Hopkins! Bruce had almost suspected him when he had made the phone call.

Suddenly, a horrible suspicion filled the young man's mind. Perhaps his uncle had been murdered.

Perhaps the death of Hopkins had been planned!

Some fiend was at work; that was certain. Why then had his own life been spared by the creature of the night? The answer came to him. The malefactor behind all this had not known of the envelope in Tremaine's office. The criminal believed that no one knew Harvey Duncan's secret. He, Bruce Duncan, had been drugged so that the paper could be stolen at night. Had he moved while the enemy was in the room, his life would have been taken.

He began to detect the mystery of the peppermints. Each night, Bruce had sat by the window reading, with the peppermints close at hand, as he smoked his cigarettes. He had rarely drawn the shades. Some one had observed him; a clever person had opened the package from the drug store as it lay on the steps. The doped peppermints had been substituted.

Some criminal mind was at work. It possessed the knowledge that belonged to Bruce Duncan as the heir of his uncle.

Duncan realized the difficulty of his position. He had no clue except the gaping space beneath the hearth.

He did not even know the time or place of the meeting. He did not know the names of the six men who could help him. He was sworn to secrecy by his uncle's message, and no provision had been made for this dilemma.

CHAPTER IV. VINCENT REMEMBERS A FACE

Three weeks had passed since Bruce Duncan's visit to his uncle's lawyer. Adventures had apparently ended, so far as Duncan was concerned. Unless new factors developed, episodes of the past would pass into oblivion.

New factors, however, were already entering the game. Oddly, strange incidents were beginning many miles from New York — incidents that chance, alone, was guiding. Budding events had begun aboard a train on the Pennsylvania Railroad, during its day trip east from Pittsburgh.

The Eastern Limited was swinging along the curving roadbed as it followed its course on the mountainside above the river. The scene from the window of the sleeping car was one of rugged grandeur, but it held no interest for a passenger named Harry Vincent.

He was the only person seated in the car; the other passengers — of whom there were very few — had gone either to the diner or to the observation car.

For three hours during that afternoon, Harry had been watching a closed door. It was the door of the drawing room at the end of the car, and his interest in what might be behind that door had kept him in his seat.

At three o'clock, Harry had first discovered that there was a passenger in the drawing-room. The conductor had gone to the door of the compartment and had knocked upon it. The door had been opened slightly; the conductor had not entered. He had merely checked a ticket through the partly opened door and had gone on his way.

Harry had observed a dim face in the drawing-room. Then the door had closed. From then on, he had been puzzling over the matter.

The train was not so fast as some of the other limiteds that ran from Chicago to New York. Why should a single passenger — and Harry held a hunch that there was but one person in the drawing-room — have chosen a compartment all alone, on a car nearly empty?

With nothing to do but while away the time during the long day trip, Harry had pondered on this matter.

To him it spelled mystery. There was only one solution. The person in the drawing-room must have chosen this train and taken the available compartment because it would mean seclusion from observation.

Twice, between three and six o'clock, the door had opened slightly as though some one within were studying the car to see who was there. There had been several persons in the car both times.

* * *

The train stopped at Altoona, and Harry still sat alone in the car. He realized that they had passed the famous Horseshoe Curve without the sight even attracting his attention.

Now they were on their way again, and it was growing dark. The closed door still intrigued Harry Vincent, and he watched it more intently than before. He detected a motion. He buried his head suddenly behind his newspaper.

Peering upward over the top of the paper, he saw the door open wide. A man stepped out, turning quickly so that his back was toward Harry, and the door closed. Then the fellow disappeared along the passage that led to the door of the car. Harry dropped his paper and followed. He reached the next car, but no one was in sight when he came to the aisle. He walked through rapidly and entered the second car. By this time he should have gained on the other man. But there was no one in the aisle.

He was puzzled for the moment. Then he retraced his footsteps. It was obvious that the other man had not gone through the train.

When he reached his own car, Harry pushed back the curtain of the smoking compartment and entered.

A man was seated by the window, staring into the outside darkness.

The stranger had assumed a position that confirmed Harry's suspicions. The man had his forehead pressed against the window, with both elbows on the sill, and his hands against his face.

As Harry sat down beside the man and lighted a cigar, the stranger relaxed himself. He did not turn in Harry's direction. But as Harry sat drowsily looking at the floor, he was sure that the other man was studying him in the mirror across the smoking compartment.

Harry spoke without looking at the other man.

"It's a long trip."

"Yeah," confirmed the other.

This was encouraging to Harry. Evidently the secretive passenger had satisfied himself that Harry was simply an ordinary traveler.

"Do you make it often?" questioned Harry in a casual way.

"Once in a while," came the reply.

* * *

Harry turned his head slightly toward his companion. Now he saw the man's face. It was a sallow, smooth-shaven face. The man's eyes were dark and shifty. He did not seem intent upon hiding has features now, but Harry did not watch him long.

Instead, he looked straight ahead and made occasional remarks that might enable him to involve the other man in conversation. He received responses that were brief and few.

The porter entered the smoking compartment, and the stranger took that opportunity to leave. When Harry went back into the car, he saw that the drawing-room door was closed and he felt sure that the mysterious passenger had returned to his seclusion.

The porter came through the car, and Vincent called to him.

"What's the next stop, porter?"

"Harrisburg, sah."

"Many people getting off there?"

"No, sah. None off this car. All going through to New York, sah."

Harry went to the diner and enjoyed the meal which he had so long delayed. The train was pulling into Harrisburg when he came back to his car.

In the passageway he encountered a man who had a small valise. He recognized him instantly as the passenger of the drawing-room.

The stranger moved aside and turned his head away as he allowed him to pass. The train was slowing as Harry reached his seat. Without hesitation the young man picked up his suitcase and hurried through to the car ahead — directly opposite the exit by which the stranger was leaving.

CHAPTER V. MEN IN THE DARK

The man who had occupied the drawing-room on the Eastern Limited entered a telephone booth in the Harrisburg station. There was an empty booth behind him. Harry Vincent went into it, and pretended to be calling a number.

The partitions in telephone booths are by no means sound-proof. Harry knew this and smiled when he heard the number which the stranger called. There was something about the man's voice that seemed familiar now.

The number had been obtained. Vincent heard words that gave him the final clue to the stranger's identity.

"Hello, Wally," said the man. "This is Steve."

Steve! That filled the gap in Vincent's memory. He knew now that the fellow was Steve Cronin, the New York gangster who was in hiding. Steve Cronin was known to Harry Vincent, but Cronin did not know Vincent.

Some time ago, Cronin had murdered a man in a New York hotel, and had escaped for parts unknown.

Harry had seen Cronin then, but at that time the man had had a black mustache. Now he was clean-shaven.

The New York police wanted Steve Cronin. That was not Harry's concern, however. His instructions came from one source only — from a mysterious person called The Shadow. At present, Harry was under no orders.

Yet The Shadow had been somewhat concerned with Cronin at the time of the murder in the Metrolite Hotel. Whatever information Harry could obtain about the man's present actions might prove useful. So he listened carefully.

Cronin's conversation was brisk and unilluminating. He seemed to be cutting short the remarks that were coming over the phone.

"Tell me later," Harry heard him say. "Meet me an hour from now. I'll be at the Gorham Hotel. I'll be registered as Stephen Bell. Come up to my room. I'll leave the door open."

The receiver banged on the hook, and Steve Cronin walked from the booth.

* * *

Harry Vincent was at the Gorham Hotel twenty minutes later. The place was an old one that had known better days. There were a few men hanging around the lobby. Harry looked at the register and saw the entry of "Stephen Bell, Room No. 322."

The clerk was busy, and Harry walked away from the desk. He sat in a leather chair and read a newspaper. At the same time he kept a careful watch and was suddenly elated when he saw Steve Cronin come down the stairs and go out the door.

Evidently the man intended to go on some errand before his friend, Wally, arrived. Cronin had said that the door would be open. Perhaps it was open now. Harry decided to act. He went up the stairs and found Room No. 322. The door was unlocked.

The room was dark, and Harry did not turn on the light. There was to be a meeting here; it would be excellent if he could listen in. Where would be the best place to hide? Under the bed would place him in a precarious position if found, for he was unarmed. The closet might do; there at least he could defend himself if discovered.

He turned toward the door which he had closed behind him. Then he became suddenly motionless as the door opened slowly. Hidden in the darkness, he was momentarily safe as a man entered and closed the door.

"Steve," came a whispered voice.

Harry responded to a daring plan which came to him on the instant.

"That you, Wally?" he whispered in return. "Don't turn on the light. Sit down on the bed."

The man who had entered the room obeyed. Harry found a chair and sat by the window.

"It wasn't my fault, Steve," came the man's voice in the darkness of the room. "I spotted the guy the minute he stepped off the train last night. I followed him to his hotel. I figured he'd stay there a while. Instead of that, he hopped out and took a cab. Cabs ain't plentiful around here. I spotted the number of his cab and got one myself. Figured the only place he could have gone was to the station. I was right enough. His cab was there when I got there. But I couldn't find him at all."

* * *

Vincent did not reply. The speaker continued:

"I hope you ain't sore, Steve. I done my best. He must be coming back here. I've watched his hotel. He left his bag there. What took you so long getting in?"

"Slow train," growled Harry, trying to imitate the voice of Steve Cronin.

"What's the racket, Steve?" came the question. "I've been working blind since I got your tip. Let me in on it, won't you?"

"I'll tell you later."

"You act like you are sore," said the man in the dark. "You don't talk this way often, Steve. It don't sound like you. What's the matter?"

"Tell you what, Wally," returned Harry. "You run along a while. Come back in half an hour. Let me think it over a bit."

"All right," said the man reluctantly. "Don't see why you want me to go away, Steve; but this is your game. I didn't think you'd be this way about it. Why don't you turn the lights on and be sociable?"

"The bulls are after me."

"I know that, Steve. But they ain't anywhere around here. They don't know you're in Harrisburg. But you're the boss, Steve. I'll be back in an hour or so."

He rose from the bed and stood listening beside the door.

"Did you hear anything, Steve?" came his whisper.

"No," said Harry softly.

"Sounds like some one outside the door."

"I don't hear it."

Wally stood motionless. Harry could not see him in the darkness, but he knew the man was intent.

Harry's nerves were tingling now. He sensed immediate danger and wondered how he should act. He reached out and placed his hand on the window sill, then peered out. Three stories down. No escape there.

A few seconds passed, and they seemed a long time. Then suddenly two actions occurred with amazing quickness. The door swung open, and a hand pressed the light switch. The room was instantly illuminated.

One of Harry's hands clutched the window sill; the other gripped the arm of the chair as he stared at the scene before him.

By the bed stood Wally, a startled figure. He was a rough-looking individual, with an ugly, unshaved ace.

His mouth was agape with astonishment.

At the door stood Steven Cronin, commanding the room. One hand was still on the light switch. The other clutched a revolver which was close against the holder's body. Cronin's lips were parted in a grim smile that revealed a gold tooth at one side of kits mouth. His keen, quick eyes were taking in the situation.

Harry Vincent felt a sinking sensation. He was caught. What would be next?

CHAPTER VI. CRONIN TALKS TERMS

Steve Cronin closed the door of the room. He looked at the man called Wally. Then he lowered his gun.

"Oh, it's you, Wally," he said. "Who's your friend over there?"

Wally had raised his hands at the threat of the revolver. He still held them half upward in astonishment as he stared from Steve Cronin to Harry Vincent. Then he looked back to the man at the door.

"It's you, Steve?" he asked.

"Of course."

Wally became active. His senses suddenly returned.

"Cover the guy by the window," he commanded. "Cover him quick, Steve."

Cronin raised the automatic, and Harry put his hands in the air.

"Get up," ordered Wally.

Harry obeyed. The man ran his hands over Harry's clothes.

"He ain't got a gun," said Wally.

Steve Cronin was now the astounded one.

"Sit down," he said to Harry. "You too, Wally. If the guy ain't got a gun, we can talk sense. What's this all about?"

Wally looked at Harry, and seeing that he intended no action, decided to explain matters:

"I come up here," he said, "and walk in the room. This guy was here, and I thought he was you. He said to leave the light off. So I talked to him."

"What did you tell him?" asked Cronin.

"Not much; but I told him some things he'd better not know."

"Who is he?"

"How do I know? I thought he was you. That's why I was surprised when you stepped in the door. I didn't get who you were at first. You look different since you—"

"Never mind that, Wally," interrupted Cronin. He addressed Harry in a voice that boded no good.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Harry hesitated a moment, then he decided to take matters calmly and to bluff his way out of this unexpected dilemma.

"My name is Vincent," he said quietly. "Harry Vincent."

"You're the guy that was on the train," said Cronin in sudden recognition. "What's your idea of following me? Are you a bull?"

"Listen, Cronin," said Harry, with sudden boldness. "I'm a friend of yours, but you don't know it. I made a big mistake butting in on this business. I'll admit that. But I'm willing to get out."

"I guess you're anxious enough to get out," sneered Cronin. "But you'll wait a while until I find out what you mean by this 'friend' stuff. I never saw you before to-day."

"I've seen you before, Cronin," responded Harry. "I watched you follow a man in New York. I was near by when you killed him. I might have made trouble for you, but I didn't. That proves, at least, I'm not your enemy."

"Why are you trailing me now, then? How did you find me? How did you happen to be on the same train?"

"That was just a coincidence, Cronin. I didn't recognize you on the train. I was getting off at Harrisburg and I happened to call up a friend from the booth next to yours. I heard you say where you were going to be. I realized who you were when I heard your name. I wanted to talk business with you. So I came here to the hotel."

"He was here in the room," explained Wally.

"That's right," admitted Harry. "I walked in, after I knocked. Then this other fellow came in and called me 'Steve.' He thought I was you, Cronin. I didn't tell him different. Thought I'd have a little fun with him."

* * *

Steve Cronin sat on the edge of the bed and whistled softly. He studied Harry for fully a minute.

"Look here, Vincent," he said at last. "This story of yours is fishy. That's all right. I expected it to be. I'd have told a fishy story myself if I were you."

"I've told you the facts, Cronin."

"You've told me some facts," resumed Cronin with an easy smile. "But I want more. You know who I am and you know some things about me. If you're a dick, you're dumber than most of them. If you're a crook, you're a smooth one; and that's what I think you are. What's your game?"

Harry became deliberate. Cronin had given him a cue, and he was puzzling how he could use it. He smiled rather knowingly and took the opportunity calmly to light a cigar. Then he confronted Cronin and commenced his bluff:

"Yes, I'm a crook," he announced. "Maybe I'm a good one; maybe I'm not. I play a lone game when I can. I don't go locking for trouble. I let other fellows get into it. Then I use what I find out.

"When I saw you in New York, Cronin, I figured you were after some big game. I didn't have a chance to follow it up. When I saw you on the train to-day, I half figured you were up to something. When I heard you talking on the phone, I knew who you were and I heard enough to know that some game was under way. I came over here to see what I could find out. Now that you know all about it, I'll play with you if you let me in on it. If you want me to get out, say so; and I'll move along."

Cronin whistled softly again as he considered the explanation.

"You're talking sense now, Vincent," he said. "You're speaking my language. You're no fool and neither am I. You know what I'd do ordinarily, don't you? I'd feed you some of the lead out of this gat in my pocket. But I'd be a fool to do it now. I'm in a jam in New York and I'm still laying low. I can't let anything interfere with the game I'm playing now. I can use your help besides. I need some one with more brains than this fellow, Wally, here.

"Besides that, the game is big enough for the three of us. You'll get a cut if you play square from now on. I think you will. So I'm letting you in."

Harry listened eagerly. Cronin spoke as though he were telling the truth. Harry felt that he had gained the man's confidence and that he was to hear some revelation.

"I've been out in Cleveland," said Cronin frankly. "I've been watching a big bloke who has all kinds of money and doesn't care how he spends it. There's something phony about the guy, though. Maybe you've heard his name. I'm going to tell it to you—"

"Don't do that, Steve," interrupted Wally.

* * *

Cronin glared angrily at his fellow crook. "Shut up, Wally," he said. "You're not the boss. I'm headman of this outfit. Vincent is going to work with us. He looks like he has sense enough to spot a guy that gets off a train without letting him get away. That's more than you have, Wally."

He followed this rebuke by again addressing Harry. "The big boy out in Cleveland," he said, "is named Elbridge Meyers. Every now and then he hops out of town. Goes East for two or three days. Finding things out is my business. I found out why Meyers left town so often. There's a woman mixed up in it. So I figured that if I could get the goods on the old bloke, he'd cough up with the dough."

"Blackmail," said Harry.

"That's the story," resumed Cronin. "Well, I watched this fellow carefully enough, but he got away from me. First thing I knew he'd left town. I got in his office after it was supposed to be closed and found a slip of paper crumpled in the wastebasket. It was a memo this Meyers had made telling the time he was leaving and where he was going — here to Harrisburg. I called up Wally, who was in Philadelphia. He had time to get up here and meet the train. But he muffed things. It's up to us to pick up the trail."

There was silence after Steve Cronin had finished speaking. Harry looked at the man and nodded.

"Sounds good to me," he said. "Count me in on it. How are we going to work it?"

Cronin shrugged his shoulders as he rose from the bed.

"We'll have to locate Meyers, first thing of all," he said. "Now is the time to find him."

He turned to Wally, who was standing at the foot of the bed, looking disgruntled.

"Go over in the corner, dim-wit," said Cronin. "I want to talk business with a man that has brains. If you ear the dope, you'll probably spoil it. You're just the deuce spot in this deck of cards, from now on."

He beckoned to Harry, who rose from the chair and joined Cronin in the corner opposite the indignant Wally.

"Listen," said Cronin, placing one hand upon Harry's shoulder and speaking low in his ear. "I've got a plan, but it takes nerve to work it. You're just the fellow I've been looking for. You see, it's this way—"

* * *

Something caught Vincent in the back of the neck. His teeth clicked as his head went backward. A hand was planted against his chin, and the side of his head was driven against the wall. Just before he felt the blow, he heard the sneering laugh of Steve Cronin. Then consciousness left him, and his body slumped to the floor.

"Jujutsu stuff, Wally," chuckled Cronin. "He's out, and he'll stay out."

"What's the idea, Steve?" asked the amazed Wally. "Ain't you going to let him work with us?"

"This guy? You must be crazy."

"What did you tell him all your business for then?"

"To make him believe me."

"You could have given him a phony story, Steve."

"Not with you around, Wally. He was looking at you. You might have given the game away. The easiest system was to tell him the truth."

"Well, he fell for it. But he'll know too much when he wakes up."

Steve Cronin laughed.

"He knew too much anyway," he said. "He knew who I was. But he won't know anything about it when he wakes up. Because he isn't going to wake up."

"You're going to bump him off?"

"Of course."

"Why didn't you do it right here?"

"Wally, there's no use trying to talk with you. Kill him here? Make a big noise about it? All sorts of trouble then. Nothing doing. We aren't going to figure in this thing at all — so far as anybody can find out.

You wait here and watch him. If he starts to wake up, tap him neatly with this. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Steve Cronin drew a blackjack from his pocket and handed it to his companion in crime. He left the room. Ten minutes later, he returned.

He glanced at the form of Harry Vincent as it lay limp in the corner. Then he looked at Wally and grinned — and his ugly smile spoke more clearly than words.

"Come on, Wally," he said. "Help me pick him up. We'll take him out like he was drunk. You've got your car near here?"

"Just down the street."

"We'll put him in it. Then I'll tell you what to do. You're going to learn something to-night, Wally. I've used the rod to put some fellows away, but I know better ways of doing it. Safer ways."

Steve Cronin laughed again as they braced the unconscious Harry Vincent between their shoulders. He was satisfied that this man who knew too much would soon be where he could never reveal his knowledge.

CHAPTER VII. DOOMED TO DIE

An old touring car was standing at the side of a dirt road. Its lights were extinguished, and the vehicle was totally obscured in the darkness. There were two men in the car. The one at the wheel was listening intently. The other, who was beside him, was motionless as though asleep.

A motor throbbed in the distance, and as the sound came closer, the man at the wheel of the touring car opened the door and stepped to the ground. He looked back along the road toward the red light of a railroad crossing. A pair of headlights appeared beyond, and a moving automobile came rapidly in view.

The second car came alongside the first and stopped in the center of the road. The motor was turned off.

The man beside the touring car was in the glare of the headlights. He stepped to the car which had just arrived and opened the door. It was a closed job.