The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER IV A TRAVELER RETURNS

THREE days later, Warren Barringer, the one absent heir to the Delthern millions, found himself riding along a thronged New Jersey highway in the back seat of a luxurious limousine. Idly puffing a cigarette, the returned traveler considered the sequence of events that had brought him to this state of glory.

It was two years since Warren Barringer had left the United States, as the representative of an American oil concern.

In Java, he had made the acquaintance of an American traveler named Lamont Cranston. In the course of their friendship, Cranston had warmly requested Warren to call on him, should the young man reach New York.

Warren had smiled at the invitation then. He had not expected to come back to America for several years at least. But fate had decreed differently.

In Hongkong, not long ago, Warren Barringer had been notified that he was the heir to a considerable portion of his grandfather’s fortune. Planning to return, he had cabled Lamont Cranston, requesting the friendly American to take charge until he could reach New York.

At the pier, in New York, Warren had been met by a man in uniform, who had introduced himself as Lamont Cranston’s chauffeur. Customs formalities over, Warren had entered the waiting limousine, and was now on his way to Cranston’s New Jersey home. Through the Holland Tunnel, across the heavy-traffic highways — now they were in the country, nearing the destination.

Stanley, the chauffeur, suddenly turned from a main road and drove along a narrow highway. It was late afternoon; in the fading light, Warren Barringer caught sight of a large house set back from the road. The chauffeur turned the car into a driveway, and pulled up before Cranston’s abode.

Warren Barringer knew that Lamont Cranston was a wealthy man; nevertheless, he was amazed by the splendor of this edifice. A brilliant light shone above the front steps. There, on the porch, Warren spied his friend. The young man leaped from the car and advanced to shake hands with Lamont Cranston.

BEFORE him, Warren saw a man who had not changed a whit since that meeting in Java, more than a year ago. Tall, well built, Cranston was a man of imposing appearance. His firm face was a chiseled countenance, almost immobile in expression, save for a slight smile that played upon the lips. Warren stared into keen eyes that studied him with quiet but knowing gaze.

“Glad to see you, Cranston,” greeted Warren. “Mighty sporty of you to have me met at the pier. You haven’t changed a bit since I saw you last, old top.”

“Nor have you changed,” came the quiet response.

The lips retained their smile. The eyes studied Warren Barringer.

They saw a strong, vigorous young man, who showed the bearing gained by strenuous life. They saw a frank, well-molded face, bronzed by southern suns.

“Come in,” suggested Cranston. Then, turning to an attendant who had arrived upon the porch: “Bring in the luggage, Richards. Mr. Barringer is staying overnight.”

Lamont Cranston led the way to a sumptuous living room. He waved Warren Barringer to a chair, and took a seat for himself.

“What about the estate?” was Warren’s first question.

“Excellent,” responded Cranston, still wearing his slight smile. “You are the heir to something more than a million and a half.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Warren; then, with a note of sadness: “It hits me, though, to think that grandfather died before I came back to the States. Still, I never expected him to live until I returned. He was close to one hundred years old.”

“Ninety-six,” remarked Cranston. “When did you see him last, Warren?”

“When I was a child,” said the young man. “I’m twenty-eight now — I guess the last time I was in Newbury was when I was six years old. Twenty-two years ago.”

“You do not recall your other relatives?”

“Just dimly. We moved to California. After my father and mother had both died, I went to the Far East. Mother seldom spoke about her relatives. Grandfather didn’t like it when she married father. The Deltherns are a rather proud race, you know.”

Cranston nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he remarked. “I corresponded with the family attorney, Horatio Farman. I offered to appear as your proxy at the family meeting. He said it would be unnecessary.

“I received a letter from him later, stating that you were recognized as a lawful heir by the provisions of the will. You will have to go to Newbury, of course.”

“Certainly,” agreed Warren. “I’ll start there as soon as possible. Say — it was lucky that you were here when I cabled. A globe-trotter like yourself might be anywhere.”

“Yes,” agreed Cranston. “I go and I come as I please. So much so that I often confuse events in my mind. I remember people; but time and places are often troublesome. Let me see — when did I first meet you—”

“In Java,” said Warren. “You remember that night at the American Club in Surabaya—”

“Go on,” urged Cranston quietly, offering Warren a cigarette.

WITH this suggested topic, Warren began a complete resumption of the events that had led to his friendship with Cranston. The millionaire smoked and smiled, nodding his recollection of the events that Warren was recounting. As the discourse ended, Richards entered to announce that dinner was ready.

“Yes,” observed Cranston, as he and his guest sat down to their meal, “all comes back to me in detail as you discuss it, Warren. This is my permanent residence. The servants are always here, but I am apt to be anywhere. I cut loose from these surroundings and travel as I please.

“Nevertheless, I always seem to be at home when something important happens. I have an uncanny faculty for that, Warren. I was very glad to be of slight service to you in this matter of your legacy. As a matter of fact, I did not appear in Newbury at all.

“At the same time, there may be complications ahead. I have the very definite opinion that there may be friction among the heirs of Caleb Delthern. I advise you to study conditions.

“Should you find that because you are alone in Newbury — and a total stranger — that forces there are working against you, be sure to notify me at once.”

“Thanks,” responded Warren.

“Not at all,” returned Cranston. “I do not make many friends. Those that I do gain are permanent.”

Dinner finished, Lamont Cranston showed Warren about the huge house. A radio-sending station on the top floor brought the young man’s enthusiasm, but this was surpassed when Warren visited Cranston’s curio room, which contained rare objects from all parts of the world.

“I prize these possessions highly,” remarked the millionaire, “but of all the curios that I own, this is the most precious.”

Thus speaking, Cranston extended his left hand. Upon the third finger, Warren Barringer observed the most remarkable jewel that he had ever seen.

It was a large, translucent stone that seemed to emit tiny sparks. Glowing like living coal, the gem changed in hue as Warren watched it. Crimson, mauve; then rich purple — the jewel seemed imbued with undying power.

“A girasol,” explained Cranston. “It is a variety of fire opal; and this particular stone is unmatched in all the world. It is one of the genuine jewels of the Romanoffs.”

Even when he gazed at the gem no longer, Warren Barringer still remembered its glittering rays. A mysterious object, that girasol; and Cranston seemed to share its mystery.

At times, Warren studied Cranston’s inflexible features. The millionaire was wearing a face so firm that it might be other than his own, yet it was exactly as Warren had always remembered it. Strangely, Warren could make no estimate as to Cranston’s age. The man might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty.

IN the morning, Cranston informed his guest that he had made a sleeper reservation for Newbury, and that Warren could leave after dinner. During the day, they went to an airport where Cranston owned several ships. They went for a flight over New York City, then landed at the airport, and returned to Cranston’s home.

Evening arrived rapidly; with it dinner. Promptly at eight o’clock, Stanley appeared with the limousine, and Cranston informed Warren that it was time for him to leave for New York. The millionaire accompanied his guest to the car, and expressed his regrets that he would he unable to drive into the city with him.

“But you can reach me here,” stated Cranston quietly, “any time within the next month. I do not intend to go away for a while. Perhaps a short trip — but nothing more. I seldom mention such facts, even to my friends. As a matter of fact” — Cranston laughed softly — “so far as most of my friends know, I might be in Timbuktu at this very moment!”

When Warren Barringer had driven away in the limousine, Lamont Cranston still stood upon the porch, wearing his strange smile. A soft, mysterious laugh came from his immobile lips. That laugh was significant. It depended upon the final words that Cranston had spoken.

Timbuktu!

ACTUALLY, Lamont Cranston was in Timbuktu at this very moment. This personage who stood upon the porch; this one who wore the very countenance of the globe-trotting millionaire, was not Lamont Cranston!

Those eyes which burned as they gazed after the departing car had never beheld Warren Barringer until the young man had arrived at this house. This person whom Warren had accepted as Lamont Cranston was not Lamont Cranston!

Instead, he was a strange unknown: a masquerader so remarkable that even Stanley, Richards, and the other servants believed him to be their master. He was a being of strange abode, a master of disguise who found it convenient to play the role of Lamont Cranston during those periods when the traveling millionaire was far away from home.

Fiends of the underworld had long sought to find the spot where their most relentless enemy kept vigil, unsuspected. They had never succeeded. They had never managed to unveil the shroud of mystery that clung about The Shadow’s whereabouts.

Had any supercrook been here at this New Jersey mansion tonight, he would have suspected the truth. But no mind of crime was present. That was the reason why the personage who stood upon the porch, alone, gave audible clew to his identity.

A soft laugh came from unmoving lips. The weird tones of that laugh were a whisper that carried a strange touch of mystery. Such a laugh had never come from the lips of the real Lamont Cranston.

This amazing impostor who bore the countenance of the absent millionaire was The Shadow!

He it was who had received the cable from Warren Barringer. The Shadow had recognized that Warren must be a friend of the absent millionaire. He had taken up the mission; but not as Lamont Cranston. As The Shadow, he had visited Delthern Manor to protect the interests of Lamont Cranston’s friend.

Now, still posing as Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had welcomed the returned traveler and had sent him on his way to the town of Newbury. Still as Lamont Cranston, The Shadow stood ready to respond to any requirement that Warren might impose.

The ghostly laugh of The Shadow had echoed through the reception hall of Delthern Manor. The presence of The Shadow had served Warren Barringer well. The way was clear for this young man to gain the wealth that was rightfully his own.

Was the laugh of The Shadow prophetic? Did it indicate new barriers that might obstruct Warren Barringer’s path?

Only The Shadow knew!