The Eyes of the Shadow

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.