The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER XI THE SHADOW LEARNS

CLARK BROSSET looked up from his desk. He closed the record book that he had opened, and arose to greet the gentleman whom Bosger had just ushered into the room.

“Mr. Cranston?” questioned Brosset.

“Yes,” replied the visitor. “You are Mr. Brosset, I presume.”

Clark Brosset acknowledged his identity. He studied his visitor as he motioned Cranston toward a chair. In very short time, Brosset had realized that this visitor was a man of keen intellect. Cranston’s calm face and keenly penetrating eyes were impressive.

“You came to see Warren Barringer?” asked Brosset.

“Yes,” returned Cranston. “I am on my way to New York. I inquired at the Century Hotel, and learned that Barringer was here. The doorman told me that he was in this office.”

“He was here, until a few minutes ago,” declared Brosset. “Perhaps you passed him on the way from the hotel. He may have stopped there.”

“He will be back?”

“I hardly think so. Will you be in town overnight, Mr. Cranston?”

A slight sparkle showed in Cranston’s eyes. That, alone, indicated that the visitor had sensed a hidden motive in Brosset’s sudden question. The president of the City Club had spoken in a casual tone; at this moment, he was picking up the record book from the desk.

“Not overnight,” responded Cranston quietly. “There are two trains — either one suitable to me. The first” — he glanced at his watch — “leaves in about twenty minutes. I shall take it to New York unless I have an opportunity to see Warren Barringer for a few hours. In that case, I can wait for the later train.”

“Too bad,” murmured Brosset. “If you had only arrived ten minutes ago you—”

“Why?”

“Warren Barringer told me that he was going to Wynndale — a town some thirty miles from here. Driving with friends. Unless some delay occurred, he has probably started.”

“And will not be back here?”

“Not unless the trip has been called off. One moment; I can find out all about it.”

Clark Brosset lifted the telephone. He told the club operator to call the Century Hotel. In another minute, he was talking with the hotel clerk.

“Mr. Barringer, please… Yes… He is? I see… When do you expect him back? Yes… Yes… Very well, then… Never mind… I can call him tomorrow.”

Over the wire, Clark Brosset had heard the clerk stating that Warren Barringer could be found at the City Club. But in his own statements, intended for Cranston’s ears, Brosset had given no such indication.

“Barringer has left,” declared Brosset, as he laid down the telephone. “The clerk says that he started for Wynndale nearly ten minutes ago. He left word that he might not be back tonight. Wynndale is a very popular resort that attracts many visitors from Newbury.”

Picking up the record book, Brosset carried it to the safe, deposited it there, and closed the door. With hand turning a knob, he spoke again to Cranston.

“There will be no need of your waiting for a later train,” stated Brosset. “You can make the station in three minutes from here. There are cabs out front. I am mighty sorry that you missed Barringer. He is an old friend of yours?”

“I met him abroad,” explained Cranston, rising. “He visited me upon his return to New York. I appreciate your interest, Mr. Brosset; I am only sorry that I missed seeing my friend.”

“I shall tell him that you were here,” said Brosset. “He is a member of the City Club, and spends a great deal of time here.”

Brosset strolled toward the door as he spoke. His manner was leisurely, but effective, designed to draw Cranston with him. The visitor followed, and together the two descended the stairs. Brosset glanced at his watch; there was still ample time for the New Yorker to make his train, but Brosset professed a worried air.

“Sometimes traffic is bad, Mr. Cranston,” he remarked. “A slight chance of a delay. The train is usually on time.”

Stepping through the door, Brosset hailed a cab; he beckoned to Cranston, and ushered the visitor into the vehicle. He also gave prompt instructions to the driver, while the doorman was handing Cranston a light briefcase which he had left at the door.

“To the station,” ordered Brosset. “Avoid the traffic. This gentleman wants to catch the New York Limited.”

The president of the City Club extended his hand in parting, and gave Lamont Cranston a courteous smile. The cab shot away, and Brosset returned through the portals of the club. He did not go back to his office; instead, he remained in the lounge, to await Warren Barringer’s return.

CLARK BROSSET was congratulating himself upon this quick disposal of a stranger who, while undoubtedly a friend of Warren’s, might cause complications through his presence in Newbury. He knew that Lamont Cranston’s cab would certainly reach the station in time for the train.

Had Clark Brosset been able to visualize the events that were happening on the way to the station, he would have lost his smile of surety. In the back seat of the cab which he had taken, Lamont Cranston was drawing a dark object from the briefcase which he carried.

The folds of a long cloak slipped over the passenger’s shoulders. A flattened slouch hat developed into a broad-brimmed headpiece. The figure in the cab became obscured in darkness. Only a white hand showed; it protruded through the front window, and dropped a bill upon the driver’s arm.

“Have the change ready when we reach the station,” came the voice of Lamont Cranston.

“Right, sir,” responded the driver. “We’re at the last traffic light now.”

The cab was standing beside another which was waiting to make a left turn. The driver did not hear the door open softly. The light turned green; the cab shot ahead. It whirled along the last stretch, and swung up before the railroad terminal. The driver, leaping to the curb, pulled open the door and held out a handful of change. His face went blank in amazement.

The interior of the cab, showing plainly in the light from the station, was entirely empty! The passenger who had boarded the vehicle at the City Club was gone!

This cabby was not the only taximan in Newbury who was experiencing a succession of creepy chills at that moment. The driver of the cab that had been set for a left turn at the traffic light was receiving a much more startling surprise.

Driving up a broad avenue, he gripped the wheel in terror as a white hand appeared before his eyes and let a bank note flutter from its finger tips. Managing to regain control of the car, the driver nodded instinctively as he heard a quiet voice give him an address on another street.

It was the sight of the money, the feel of the paper bill, that made the taximan regain his confidence; yet he wondered as he turned from the avenue. When and where had this mysterious passenger entered the cab?

The driver shrugged his shoulders. He would look at the man when he got out. That might give the explanation.

The cab sped on and slowed at a stop street. The door opened softly; the driver did not hear it.

The cab shot on and rolled along the silent avenue past Delthern Manor. A block farther on, the cabman stopped. This was the address that his fare had given him. He, too, alighted to the curb to open the door and make change.

There was no response from the interior of the cab. The driver pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and flooded the back seat with illumination. The cab was empty!

The strange personage who had performed these silent mysteries was completely gone. Like a shadow, he had flitted from cab to cab; a phantom of darkness, he had dropped from the second vehicle.

Lamont Cranston no longer, he was moving through the darkness beneath a row of trees, a creature invisible. The only token of his presence was a whispered laugh that blended with the creaking of the tree branches above the sidewalk.

Undeceived by Clark Brosset’s pretense that Warren Barringer had left Newbury, the visitor from New York had garbed himself in black. Still in the city, he had hastened to the spot where his keen brain had divined that trouble might be in the making.

Silently invisibly, The Shadow was approaching the gray walls of mysterious Delthern Manor!