The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER XXII THE SHADOW ORDERS

WARREN BARRINGER staggered toward the door. He leaned against the barrier that separated this scene of crime from the outside world. He listened. His only hope was that the shots had not been heard.

Long minutes passed. Each was a moment of horrible waiting. At last, vague footsteps sounded in the hallway. Someone tapped upon the door. Warren gave no response.

“Mr. Farman is here, sir,” said the voice of Holley. “Do you wish him to come up?”

Warren ventured no reply. He felt a momentary relief. The shots had evidently passed unheard. That was quite logical. If all the people had been in the living room, the thickness of the door, the great distance to the floor below, could easily have kept the shots from ears below.

“Mr. Delthern!” Holley rapped sharply on the other side of the door. “Mr. Delthern! Are you there?”

Warren tried to suppress his heavy breathing. He stared wildly toward Jasper Delthern’s body, as though expecting it to rise and cry out to the knocking servant.

“Mr. Barringer!” Holley was crying Warren’s own name now. “Has anything happened?”

Warren offered no response. He could sense that Holley was listening for some sound. Then stumbling footsteps went hurrying along the hall, and Warren could hear Holley’s shouts to those below.

What could be done now? The others would be here — Gorson and Farman — and Holley was outside blocking the only avenue of escape. Warren leaped to the revolver and plucked it from the floor. For a moment he was determined to fight his way out of here; then he realized that such a course would change his innocence to guilt.

Confronted by an incredible dilemma, Warren could only grope mentally until he found a middle course. He would remain here, hoping for the best. But he would not let the invaders through the door!

The young man’s mind was dazed. He wanted to seize the telephone and call Clark Brosset; but now he heard new footsteps in the hall. To call Clark might incriminate his friend.

“Open this door!” Police Chief Gorson was shouting as he pounded on the portal. “Open this door! In the name of the law!”

Still holding the revolver limply in his right hand, Warren advanced step by step, moving like a somnambulist. He paused as he neared the door, sensing rather than hearing Gorson’s new shouts.

AGAIN, the room was plunged in darkness. It came so suddenly that Warren merely accepted it as a natural occurrence. The clock on Jasper Delthern’s desk had ticked a full ten minutes since shots had echoed through this room; but Warren’s groping brain had no sense of the time that had elapsed since the former period of darkness.

“Open the door!”

A light switch clicked close by the spot where Warren stood. Turning, the young man staggered in new terror. Standing before him was a tall being clad in black! Like a ghost, this phantom shape had appeared. Warren, bewildered, took it for a living portion of the blackness that had remained after the dark was gone.

Sensing a menace, Warren raised the hand that held the revolver. A long arm shot forward. A black-gloved hand gripped Warren’s wrist. Finding himself staring into a pair of blazing eyes that glowed from beneath a broad-brimmed slouch hat, Warren let the revolver drop from his clutch.

The Shadow had arrived. Heedless of the pounding blows that were falling upon the door, the black-cloaked master calmly released Warren Barringer’s wrist. He drew the glove from his left hand. Upon a long white finger, he revealed a glittering gem that shone in sparkling hues.

Warren Barringer tottered. The scene seemed to shift. He fancied almost that he was back in Lamont Cranston’s curio room. For he was staring into the ever-changing depths of the spark-emitting girasol, that mysterious stone that could never be forgotten by anyone who had felt its spell!

A low voice whispered into Warren’s ear. Its tones were commanding. The sight of the girasol made Warren know that a friend had come to aid him. The words impressed themselves upon his brain as effectively as if they had been his own secret thoughts.

“Be calm.” The Shadow’s tones brought confidence. “Whatever has happened, speak the truth. Protest your innocence. Demand that Clark Brosset be brought to testify in your behalf. His presence — the facts he knows — they alone can aid you.”

The whispered voice paused as a shattering stroke shook a panel in the heavy door.

“Remember,” resumed The Shadow. “Have Clark Brosset aid you. Here, in this room. At once. Insist upon his help to prove your statements. When I have gone, open the door. Submit to arrest without a struggle.”

Warren Barringer nodded. Staring at the girasol, he saw the black glove slide over the finger that wore it. He turned his gaze upward after the strange gem had gone from view. He watched the eyes of The Shadow; but in his range of vision, he could see a black-gloved hand reach for the light switch.

Darkness. The swishing of a cloak, audible despite the heavy pounding on the door. Warren Barringer’s ears caught the tones of a whispered laugh that crept weirdly through the blackened room.

On came the lights. Moving mechanically to the door, gripping the key with one hand, and the knob with the other, Warren Barringer prepared to admit the men who were pounding from the opposite side.

But his eyes were wandering about the room, wondering as they looked for the strange personage who had worn the talismanic ring of Lamont Cranston — the circlet with the mystic girasol.

There was no sign of The Shadow. The black-clad master of darkness had vanished completely with the coming of the light!