The Creeping Death

CHAPTER VIII THE MAN FROM THE ARGENTINE

DIRECTLY across the river gorge from the spot where the road turned to the woods, a man was standing in a clump of bushes. In his hands he held a pair of powerful binoculars. His eyes were peering through the glasses.

As the car which Vignetti was driving came into view, the concealed observer saw it from a distance of less than one hundred yards. With the aid of the binoculars, he clearly discerned the faces of Lawrence Guthrie and Vignetti, for the car was moving slowly at the turn.

When the sound of the motor had disappeared into the woods, the man lowered his glasses and emitted a short laugh. Turning, he strolled along a faint path that took him away from the place where he had been watching.

Tall, dark-haired, and with flashing black eyes, this man had all the appearance of a Castilian grandee. His dark complexion was another evidence of his Spanish ancestry. As he walked along through the woods, the man smiled in a satisfied fashion.

The path bordered the cliff opposite the rear of Lucien Partridge’s well-protected stronghold. It was just far enough from the edge of the gorge to hide the presence of the walker. When the man arrived at one particular spot, he stopped and again raised his binoculars. Pressing aside the branches of a small tree, he sighted across the chasm to the estate where Partridge dwelt.

The large frame mansion showed among the trees. The little workhouse near the gorge was hidden behind sheltering trees. The observer seemed to be watching for any sign of activities upon the premises. At length, he ended his lookout and continued along the path.

The way led from the cliff, and after a short walk, the man came to a small cottage that was situated in a clearing. There was no road to the cottage. It was an old deserted building, apparently on the verge of abandonment.

The man ascended the steps of the cottage and walked quietly through the open door. He turned into a room where a short, powerful man was seated dozing in a chair. At the sound of the footfalls, the short man leaped up excitedly. When he recognized the man who had entered, he sheepishly resumed his chair. The tall man laughed.

“Frightened you, eh?” he questioned. “Ah, you are becoming nervous, Jose.”

Jose made no reply.

“Our friend has gone,” remarked the tall man. “You remember — the one you saw arrive last night? I suspected that he would be leaving early to-day. That is why I was on watch to see him. They must rise early, Jose, if they expect to catch Alfredo Morales asleep.”

The speaker laughed and walked across the room. He placed the binoculars in a case and turned again to Jose.

“Bring me some breakfast,” ordered Morales. “We will not wait for Manuel. It may be some time before he arrives.”

JOSE went from the room. Some minutes later, he returned with a tray of breakfast, and set his burden upon a table.

Although Jose was evidently the servant of Alfredo Morales, the two men were on an equal basis after Jose had completed his task, for one sat at each side of the table, and both began to eat.

“Yes,” remarked Morales thoughtfully, “he is gone. That makes three of them, Jose. Three visitors since we have been watching. I suppose that this last man has gone to New York like the others. Well, we shall wait for Manuel’s report.”

Breakfast completed, Morales waited impatiently, watching through the open door. At last a man appeared in the clearing. This was the slender, dark-complexioned man who had seen Clifford Forster arrive at Westbrook Falls. The newcomer advanced across the clearing and greeted Morales.

“Well?” questioned Morales.

“He has gone, senor,” was the reply.

“To New York?”

“No. He bought a ticket for Buffalo.”

“Hm-m-m,” observed Morales. “That is different, eh, Manuel? Did he seem like the others had — pleased with his visit?”

“Yes, senor,” responded Manuel. “He was rubbing his hands while he waited for the westbound train. Rubbing them — so” — Manuel imitated the action — “like one who is happy. He seemed very pleased, senor.”

“Good,” declared Morales. “Now tell me, Manuel. Are those two men still at the inn?”

“Yes, senor. I believe so. I have not seen them to-day—”

“Then you do not know if they are still there. Go back, Manuel. Keep watch as before — at the station — and come back here later on.”

When Manuel had left, Morales strolled about the clearing, smoking cigarettes, one after another. He went back into the house, and again startled Jose by his stealthy arrival. This time Morales laughed in an irritable manner.

“What is the matter with you, Jose?” he questioned. “Do not tell me that you are still frightened at every shadow that you see.”

A troubled look appeared upon Jose’s greasy face. The servant tried to avoid the glance that Morales directed toward him.

“You and your shadows. Bah!” Morales spoke contemptuously. “You are a fool, Jose. I brought you with me because you were a brave man — and one who could speak English fluently. Around here you are useless. Every night, when you watch, you talk of shadows. Bah!”

“But I have seen them, senor!” blurted Jose. “I have seen them. Out there — in here — everywhere!”

“You have madness, Jose. You spoke to me about those shadows twice. I looked where you pointed. I saw nothing. What is it that you can see and I cannot see? Nothing! That is what you have seen, Jose — nothing!”

“But, senor, I have seen the same thing more than once. It is not just shadows that I have seen. One time I looked quickly — there I saw — him! He was like a shadow himself, senor!”

“I was there Jose,” responded Morales, in an annoyed tone. “I looked where you pointed. I saw nothing — not even a shadow.”

“But he was gone, senor. Gone before you saw—”

“Gone? From the middle of the clearing? You are crazy, Jose. You are crazy! No man could have disappeared into the ground or into the air.”

“No man, senor! I am afraid of no man. But if he is more than a man — some one that certain eyes can see and other eyes cannot—”

“Forget those superstitions, Jose,” cried Morales. “We are dealing with people, not with ghosts. Enough of such foolishness!”

With that Morales took the binoculars and left the house, turning again toward the path that led from the cottage to the lookout spot upon the cliff.

When his chief had gone, Jose stood at the door of the cottage. Apprehension showed on the man’s greasy countenance.

Jose, a creature of ignorance, was fearful as he gazed about him. His eyes wandered upward to the flat-topped roof of the cottage. Moving backward, the man stood still; then, looking about him, suddenly discovered that he was standing in the center of the clearing. Fearful of this haunted spot, Jose sprang to the door of the cottage, looking behind him as he ran.

After gaining the house, the man’s trepidation faded. He went into the main room and sat in a chair. There his worry began to fade as he dropped into a doze. This one place seemed to give Jose a sense of security. Here his laziness overcame his apprehension.

IT was afternoon when Alfredo Morales returned to the cottage. Again, Jose sprang up in alarm when his master entered. The servant prepared a lunch, and Morales ate in silence. It was obvious that his spying had not brought new results.

Morales went back to his observation spot after his meal. He returned a few hours later. Jose was awake, this time, standing on the porch. The sky had clouded; here in the woods, premature darkness was settling.

Almost immediately after Morales had arrived, Manuel appeared from the woods, and hastened to make his report. Morales listened with intense interest.

“They are there,” declared Manuel. “Both of them are at the inn. The man with the hard face; the man with the beard. You can tell them easily. They are both very wise; but they have not seen me. I have been too careful.”

“You will stay here, Manuel,” ordered Morales. “You will do as I have instructed. Jose will prepare your dinner. I am going down to the inn. Remember — I shall walk back alone. Be ready then, with Jose to help you.”

Long shadows had settled on the clearing when Alfredo Morales set forth into the woods. Manuel and Jose were watching him from the porch. Manuel was indifferently rolling a cigarette; but Jose was watching intently. The presence of those sinister shadows seemed to worry him.

“What is the matter, Jose?” questioned Manuel, as he happened to glance toward his companion. “One would think that you were looking at a ghost or something.”

“I have not been well,” growled Jose. “It is that sea-sickness that began ever since we left Buenos Aires.”

“Bah! You have been here more than a week. That is a poor excuse, Jose.”

The greasy-faced man did not reply. Jose was watching the figure of Alfredo Morales, the man from the Argentine, as it disappeared amid the thickening blackness of the wood. When he could no longer glimpse his departing master, Jose, after a last troubled look at the shadows in the clearing, shrugged his shoulders and went back into the cottage. Manuel laughed and followed him.

PERHAPS it was fear that had governed Jose; possibly the man was possessed of an overkeen vision. At least, Jose had sought to study every suspicious shadow that he had seen from the porch of the cottage. Yet despite his sharp gaze, Jose had failed in his self-appointed task.

For something had moved at the edge of the clearing the moment that Alfredo Morales had passed. That something had cast its shadow across the path; yet even Jose had failed to see the ominous patch of black.

Moving after Morales as though it were the man’s own shadow, that changing splotch of blackness had followed — lengthening and shortening amid the flickering light that trickled through the waving branches of the leaf-clad trees.

On went Morales, striding directly along a path that broadened and became more firm. Always, close behind him, slid a shape that was nothing more than an inky silhouette. It was not until Morales emerged from the woods and struck a dirt road that the moving shadow assumed a new appearance.

Then, momentarily, it appeared in more sinister form. Instead of a gliding shadow, it became the outline of a being clad in black — a tall figure garbed in a cloak. Two sparkling eyes shone from beneath the covering brim of a shapeless hat.

The vision persisted only for a moment. It merged with the trees at the side of the road. On through the dusk strode Alfredo Morales, totally oblivious of the weird apparition that had appeared behind him.

This evening — Alfredo Morales was bound upon a special mission — a work that concerned Lucien Partridge as well as others. Confident that no one knew of his presence in this vicinity, Morales was convinced of his security. He had no thought for the vague fears that had been expressed by Jose.

Yet those fears had now become reality. A phantom shape had become a living being. Alfredo Morales had come beneath a mysterious surveillance.

The Shadow was trailing the man from the Argentine!

What was the connection between Alfredo Morales and Lucien Partridge? What cross-purposes and counter-plots were reaching their culmination here in the peaceful vicinity of Westbrook Falls?

Only The Shadow knew!