The Shadow's Justice

CHAPTER VIII THE SECRET MESSAGE

IT was eight o’clock that evening. Carter Boswick, back in his father’s old mansion, was pacing the floor of the gloomy hall. He spied Headley walking morosely toward the dining room. The servant turned as Carter spoke.

“Has Mr. Westling called?” inquired Carter.

“No, sir,” answered Headley.

“Very well, then,” said Carter, with a tone of impatience. “I shall go ahead with dinner.”

“It is ready, sir. Mr. Westling is usually quite late—”

The front door opened by way of interruption. Carter Boswick turned. His keen eyes studied a man who was entering. He saw a young fellow of slight build, whose carriage and pale features marked him of the lounging type. The arrival was holding a long cigarette holder in one hand. This added to his listless appearance.

For a moment the two faced each other. Then a light crept over the features of the man who had just entered. His eyes showed an unexpected sparkle. He sprang forward with hand extended.

“Carter!” he cried. “Carter!”

The enthusiastic greeting seemed genuine. Carter Boswick caught Drew Westling’s hand, and grinned at the cousin whom he had not seen for years.

They had been boys together — these two — and the physical superiority of Carter Boswick was even more marked than before. Drew Westling seemed pitifully frail beside the stalwart form of his newly returned cousin.

A few minutes later, the pair was seated at the dining-room table. The spontaneous meeting had brought a quick bond of unrestrained cordiality. They were talking over boyhood events with real enthusiasm. To Carter Boswick, this get-together had taken an unexpected turn.

“Do you remember that game we used to play so often” — Drew Westling’s voice had assumed a reminiscent tone — “and how exact we were in every detail?”

“You mean the duel between D’Artagnan and De Guise?’ smiled Carter.

“Yes,” nodded Drew. “We used those short billiard cues for swords, and chalked the ends of them so we could count the thrusts.”

“We must have played that battle a hundred times.”

“Right out of the pages of ‘The Three Musketeers’. We used to read the old volume of Dumas for inspiration — then change them into action. We passed that stage of life, though. Funny thing, Carter” — Drew paused wistfully — “I never could think of reading a Dumas story again, after you went away.”

Carter made no reply. His cousin was thoughtful then returned to his reminiscences.

“The old duel,” he recalled. “The one game that Uncle Houston would tolerate about the house. Perhaps that’s why we played it so often. Remember how he used to watch us, Carter? How he used to criticize each thrust?”

Carter Boswick nodded. Drew Westling had brought back the one boyhood memory that was indelibly, impressed upon his mind. Only when he and Drew had fought their duel had Houston Boswick shown the real interest of a proud father and an indulgent uncle.

“Say, Carter” — Drew was on a more immediate subject — “it was pretty small of me not to meet you at the boat today. I knew you were coming in, and I should have called up Farland Tracy about it. But somehow, I’ve been pretty blue since my uncle — since your father — died. I was afraid you wouldn’t know, and I didn’t see just how — just how I could tell you. I thought if Tracy was there alone—”

“That’s all right, Drew,” interrupted Carter quietly. “I understand. I did feel mighty broken up. I’m glad I didn’t see you until now.”

DESPITE a resentful antagonism that he had held earlier in the evening, Carter Boswick now felt a warmth of kindliness toward Drew Westling. He recognized that his cousin was a weakling, but the sentiment in Drew’s nature did much to excuse that fault.

Just as dinner was ending, the doorbell rang. Headley answered it, and returned a few minutes later to announce that Farland Tracy was calling to see Mr. Boswick.

“Finish your dinner, old top,” Carter said to Drew. “I’ll see what Tracy wants. Probably a friendly call. You can join us later.”

Reaching the hall, Carter found Tracy standing with a warning hand uplifted. Carter nodded, and led the lawyer upstairs to the study. The room was lighted; the shade was drawn. Carter closed the door. Tracy motioned for him to turn the key. Carter complied, and the lawyer brought out a bundle of papers.

“We must go through these,” he stated.

The inspection began. Most of the papers were of purely legal nature. But at the bottom lay two envelopes. One was addressed to Carter Boswick; the other to Drew Westling; each envelope bore the statement that it was to be destroyed intact, should the other be the heir.

“These are letters which your father wrote,” explained Tracy. “Their contents are practically identical. He showed them to me before he sealed them. One for you — one for Drew — whichever might inherit the estate.”

Carter nodded and opened his envelope. He drew out the letter, and read it slowly, holding it so that the lawyer could also see the careful handwriting.

The letter read as follows:

Carter Boswick studied the written lines. He checked each paragraph as he reviewed it. Finally, he laid the letter on the table, and turned to Farland Tracy.

“Is this the only communication that my father left for me?”

“Yes.”

“He speaks of a great sum of hidden wealth.”

Yes,” declared Tracy. “Something in the neighborhood of ten million dollars, if his statement is correct. But the clew to its hiding place is one that you must find.”’

“Have you any inkling of it?” questioned Carter.

“None at all,” admitted Tracy. “Your father was convinced that you would learn it after his death. How he arranged to lead you to it is beyond my comprehension. This letter is very vague; it turns from business to sentiment at a most unfortunate point. My only theory is that your father may have arranged for some communication to reach you from another source.”

“Perhaps.” agreed Carter.

“Should you learn more,” stated Tracy, “I advise you to be very careful. This letter is a private one. Another communication, if received, should be guarded. I am speaking now as your father’s attorney — also as your attorney pro tem.”

“You will continue to be my lawyer,” said Carter.

“I appreciate that,” responded Tracy. “But now that my mission is completed, I shall leave you. It is most advisable that no one should know of any purpose in this visit.”

“I understand.”

Carter Boswick folded his letter, and placed it in his pocket. He took up the envelope addressed to Drew Westling, and tore it into four pieces, letter and all. He dropped the fragments in the wastebasket.

Farland Tracy was ready to leave. Carter Boswick accompanied him from the study. The door closed, and the room was empty.

That condition did not long exist.

THE window shade slowly arose, guided by a black-gloved hand from without. A tall form slid through the opening. The Shadow stood in the study. Softly, he lowered sash and shade. With quick stride, he moved toward the desk. Stooping, he plucked the torn letter from the wastebasket.

Listening outside the window, The Shadow had heard Farland Tracy’s statement that the two letters — one to Carter, the other to Drew — were couched in similar phraseology. Hence, when The Shadow had quickly assembled the fragments of the torn letter, he possessed a practical replica of the epistle which Carter Boswick had so recently perused.

There, on the table, before the keen eyes of The Shadow, lay a note from uncle to nephew that carried the same theme — even to the dash of sentimental conclusion — that had appeared in the letter from father to son.

A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. To the black-clad being, this letter had a definite meaning. Where Farland Tracy had seen nothing more than a mere statement of existing wealth that lay hidden, The Shadow was picking out a definite clew.

The subtlety of old Houston Boswick was manifested in this letter. The Shadow’s black finger rested upon one vital phrase:

That sentence was a key to the part of the letter that followed. With Drew Westling, as with Carter Boswick, the dead man had made a definite effort to guide the reader’s thoughts!

Again, The Shadow laughed. Here, in this reclaimed letter that had never been delivered, he was finding the clew to Houston Boswick’s secret!