The Silver Scourge

CHAPTER XVIII THE GOVERNOR’S PARDON

IT was early the next evening. Two men were seated in a room of the governor’s mansion. One was Foulkrod Kendall; the other was Hiram Landow, the governor. A dignified, gray-haired man, Landow displayed the integrity which had enabled him to gain election on a ticket supported by reformers.

The room was a lonely one, furnished with old-fashioned chairs and tables. The darkness of the woodwork, the deep shades of hanging curtains, gave the place a gloomy effect. Neither Kendall nor the governor seemed to notice this. They were too busily engaged in discussing an important matter.

“The time limit is nearly ended,” declared Kendall, in a persuasive tone. “Your messenger can reach New Avalon in time to prevent the death sentence at the penitentiary.”

“Kendall,” returned the governor seriously, “my patience is at an end. I have studied Doctor Guyon’s report from beginning to end. It is an excellent plea for pardon, but it does not convince me.”

“I am positive that Elverton is innocent.”

“I, in turn, am sure that he is guilty.”

Hiram Landow arose and went to a table in the corner. This piece of furniture served as a writing desk. It was set by heavy curtains which concealed a small alcove. Reaching to the table, the governor pushed aside a small bottle of ink that he had used as a paperweight, and picked up a sheaf of papers. He brought the bundle to Kendall.

“You may keep Guyon’s plea,” said Hiram Landow. “I have no use for it.”

“Governor,” asserted Kendall, “you are making a great mistake. You have absolute authority in this case—”

“Granted,” interposed the governor. “That, in a sense, is unfortunate. The chief executive wields the power of an autocrat, so far as executions are concerned. That does not privilege him to misuse his power. He must not become a tyrant.”

“I ask this as a favor.”

“I refuse. I would violate my oath of office.”

“You have nothing to lose.”

“You are wrong there, Kendall,” returned Hiram Landow. “I have not considered this matter from a selfish viewpoint, but since you bring it up in that light, I can assure you that my political future would be at stake, should I pardon Ronald Elverton. Popular feeling is decided. The man is accepted as a convicted murderer.”

“You are passing it on to Doctor Guyon,” asserted Kendall. “Let him take the blame. He will not object. He is independent. He does not care for politics.”

“There is no use, Kendall,” declared Hiram Landow. “My decision is final. In fact, I disapprove of your having come here. I might readily suppose that you had a hidden interest in the affairs of this man Elverton. I advise you, Kendall, to say nothing of this foolish plea. It does you no credit.”

FOULKROD KENDALL said nothing. His face hardened. Hiram Landow noticed the look and wondered. He had a feeling that something was foreboding.

“You suggest,” declared Kendall, after his pause, “that I am interested in Elverton’s affairs. Very well. I am. I demand his pardon.”

Hiram Landow’s gaze was cold.

“What is more,” resumed Kendall harshly, “I can convince you that Elverton’s welfare is to your interest. Let me mention that your son’s engagement to my niece will be ended if you do not grant this pardon.”

“You are showing your colors now,” returned Hiram Landow, in a rising tone of restrained anger. “Your craven statement is futile, however. I have every respect for my son’s happiness. Nevertheless, I shall not allow its culmination to interfere with justice.”

“You mistake me,” said Kendall, with a sour smile. “The engagement will be broken for a very fair reason. Your son — not yourself — will be the cause.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the governor.

“That your son,” responded Kendall slowly, “your son, Clayton Landow, is guilty of embezzlement, and that I can produce the proof!”

Hiram Landow clenched his fists. Foulkrod Kendall was unperturbed. He drew a paper from his pocket, and handed it to the governor. With staring eyes, Hiram Landow read the report.

“This morning,” said Kendall, “I had my private auditor go over your son’s books. Clayton’s own record was all that we requested. But, during his absence — he went out on business which I gave him — we checked the old books which came in from the theater managers. You will observe the discrepancy.”

“Eight thousand dollars,” gasped Hiram Landow.

“Not much money,” observed Foulkrod Kendall, “but enough to put Clayton in prison for ten years. I might add that I have a man watching his office to see that the books are not removed from the safe. Clayton may suspect—”

“This is terrible!” Hiram Landow seemed stupefied. “My son — a thief! I cannot believe it! It must be a lie!”

“I did not like to tell you of this,” said Kendall quietly. “I have revealed these facts only because of this crisis. Governor, Ronald Elverton was my friend. I cannot believe him guilty of murder — any more than you can believe your son guilty of embezzlement.”

“What do you intend to do?” questioned Hiram Landow.

“That is up to you,” returned Kendall quietly. “I can simply tell Clayton that we need the old books no longer. He will then destroy them. All will be forgotten. He will have a chance to make amends by living a righteous future. But” — an evil smile flickered on the speaker’s lips — “the price that I demand is the pardon of Ronald Elverton.”

“Never,” gasped Hiram Landow weakly. “Never—”

“Your political future?” queried Kendall, in a meditative tone. “Do you think that this will help it? Would it not be better to lay the act of pardon upon Doctor Conrad Guyon than to lay the act of embezzlement upon your son?”

Hiram Landow made no reply.

“Like father — like son,” remarked Kendall dryly. “A good rule works both ways. Like son — like father.”

The governor remained silent.

“You will be elected to the Senate,” continued Kendall, after a pause. “The governorship is but a step in your political career. The pardon of Elverton will be forgotten. The conviction of your son will always be remembered.”

HIRAM LANDOW paced the room. At last, he turned and faced Foulkrod Kendall.

“This has been a terrible shock,” admitted the governor, in a quavering voice. “It is dreadful, Kendall. I appreciate your generous offer so far as my son’s future is concerned. I do not want to pardon Elverton, but you have set me thinking. I can believe anything, now that I have proof of my son’s criminal action. I can believe, therefore, that Elverton is innocent of murder. There are points of reason to Doctor Guyon’s plea.”

“I am convinced of that fact,” affirmed Kendall. “That is why I brought the matter to your attention. If I am willing to be lenient so far as your son Clayton is concerned, there is every reason why you should show clemency for Ronald Elverton.”

Hiram Landow was a beaten man. A deluge of miserable thoughts swept his brain. He slumped in a chair. Foulkrod Kendall, watching the governor with a gloating smile, saw that the psychological moment had arrived. He was ready for it.

From his pocket, the millionaire extracted another paper. He passed it to the governor. Hiram Landow studied it with a vacant stare.

“The pardon for Ronald Elverton,” announced Kendall quietly. “It awaits your signature. That will make it effective.”

The governor hesitated. Kendall added smooth persuasion.

“Here is the envelope,” he said, “in which you may seal the document. I have a trusted chauffeur awaiting me. He can take the pardon directly to the warden of the State penitentiary. The execution will be prevented.”

“It will arouse tremendous disapproval—”

“You have Doctor Guyon’s plea,” said Kendall, interrupting the governor’s weak protest. “You can issue it as a statement tomorrow. Come, governor. Time is short!”

Hiram Landow took the unsigned pardon toward the writing desk by the curtains. He turned as he neared that spot and spoke to Kendall.

“Send for your man,” ordered the governor.

Foulkrod Kendall stepped to the door to summon a servant. Hiram Landow paused before turning to the writing desk. Neither he nor Kendall were looking toward the little table. No one saw what happened there.

THE heavy curtain trembled. From its depths came a black projection which developed into the vague shape of a human arm. A black fist approached the center of the table. It placed an object there.

The hand lifted. The article which it had produced was a bottle of ink, similar in size and shape to the one which already rested on the table. Then, with the same easy motion, the black hand plucked up the original bottle and carried it away through the curtain.

Hiram Landow reached the writing desk. He laid the document beside the bottle of ink which the hand from the dark had put there. He uncorked the bottle, dipped the pen in ink. With a sweeping flourish, the governor applied his signature to Silk Elverton’s pardon.

Blue ink glittered upon the white paper. The governor surveyed his handiwork. With a gasp and a shake of his head, he applied a blotter to the paper, and folded the pardon so that he could no longer view the name that he had signed. He was acting under pressure. He regretted it.

Foulkrod Kendall was coming in from the doorway. With him was a man in uniform — Tim Mecke. The governor was putting the pardon in the envelope which Kendall had provided. As the two men neared him, Hiram Landow sealed the envelope.

“Here is the message to the warden,” announced Hiram Landow, in a feeble tone. “Take it, Kendall — send it by this man of yours. He can he trusted?”

“Absolutely,” declared Kendall. The millionaire turned to Tim. “Mecke, drive immediately to the penitentiary at New Avalon. Give this envelope to Warden Barringer. You must get there before midnight.”

Tim Mecke nodded.

“I shall remain in this city over night,” added Kendall. “I shall return to New Avalon by train tomorrow morning. Stop at my home after you have delivered the envelope to the warden.”

Tim Mecke left on his appointed task. Foulkrod Kendall turned to look at Hiram Landow. The millionaire smiled as he saw the governor’s look of dejected resignation.

“Good night, governor,” said Kendall.

The manufacturer departed. Governor Landow remained alone. He was staring at the doorway through which both Tim Mecke and Foulkrod Kendall had gone.

Again, the curtain trembled. The blackened hand stretched forth to replace the bottle of ink upon the writing table. The same hand took away the bottle which had been substituted — the one into which the governor had dipped his pen.

When Hiram Landow arose to leave the gloomy room, his eyes fell upon that bottle. The governor did not suspect the substitution. He stopped at the writing table to lay down the sheaf of papers which constituted Doctor Guyon’s plea for clemency.

The governor went out. The curtain moved. Blackness — this time in greater mass — emerged. The tall form of The Shadow developed into a sinister shape. A low whisper came from the lips beneath the slouch hat.

A black-gloved hand picked up the papers which lay upon the governor’s table. The white sheets crinkled as they disappeared beneath the crimson-lined cloak. The walls echoed softly with the reverberations of the Shadow’s suppressed mirth. The phantom being glided across the floor and passed through the door beyond.

Sobbing echoes lingered weirdly. They seemed to cling to those curtains from which The Shadow had emerged, as though they regretted the departure of the master. Through those curtains, the hand of The Shadow had stretched forth upon a strange mission.

Doctor Guyon’s statements would not be needed on the morrow. Hiram Landow, to save his son, had signed Silk Elverton’s pardon, but an explanation of that deed would not be necessary.

The Shadow, by his unseen action, had counteracted the governor’s momentous signature! He — The Shadow — had thwarted the scheme of Foulkrod Kendall!

The governor’s pardon was nullified — by The Shadow!