GUARDIAN OF DEATH ...................................................................................................................................1

Maxwell Grant........................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I .............................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER II ............................................................................................................................................4

CHAPTER III..........................................................................................................................................7

CHAPTER IV........................................................................................................................................10

CHAPTER V.........................................................................................................................................14

CHAPTER VI........................................................................................................................................17

CHAPTER VII .......................................................................................................................................21

CHAPTER VIII.....................................................................................................................................25

CHAPTER IX........................................................................................................................................29

CHAPTER X.........................................................................................................................................32

CHAPTER XI........................................................................................................................................35

CHAPTER XII .......................................................................................................................................39

CHAPTER XIII.....................................................................................................................................42

CHAPTER XIV.....................................................................................................................................45

CHAPTER XV......................................................................................................................................49

CHAPTER XVI.....................................................................................................................................52

CHAPTER XVII ....................................................................................................................................54

CHAPTER XVIII ...................................................................................................................................58

CHAPTER XIX.....................................................................................................................................61

CHAPTER XX......................................................................................................................................64

LIGHTNING streaked the sky with a jagged flash, and Graydon Towers mushroomed like an Aladdin's castle

The sight was so fantastic that Harry Vincent still couldn't believe it when he flung his arm across his eyes.

The glare had left an after image of a vivid object against a blackened background, a lurid collection of

bloody yellow turrets fashioned by some architect whose nightmares must have been his guiding talent.

Smashing thunder delivered a deluge of rain that pelted the top of Harry's halted coupe and licked in through

the crevices of the tightclosed windows. Guardedly, Harry opened his eyes and blinked as another belt of

lightning slashed the horizon. The Towers itself blocked off most of this zigzag dazzle and Harry saw that the

Roughly, Graydon Towers was a chunky pile rising like an irregular pyramid, three stories high, or more, if

the various towers were included. The whole motif was square, more on the order of a French chateau than an

English castle, though there was a resemblance to both. This wasn't strange considering the varied tastes of

Gifford Graydon, the strange man who had built the stone monstrosity and died within its walls a

Without doubt this was Graydon Towers, for there could be no other mansion of similar size along this

isolated countryside. Besides, the pillars of the great stone gate by which Harry had drawn his car for shelter,

bore the stately gryphons which old Graydon had borrowed from some heraldic source to form a synthetic

It would have taken a gryphon in full wing to clear the huge wroughtiron gates that barred the private

driveway leading to the Towers. But the bars were wide enough for human passage and that fact enticed

The storm was just the excuse that Harry needed for a visit to the Towers. If he could find the front of the

place and bang on the door, Harry could plead admittance on the claim that the sudden rain had stalled his

motor. The heavier the rain, the better the argument. Harry wasn't pleased when the downpour suddenly

It began with another sharp lightning flash, which caused Harry to shy instinctively from a clump of trees

near the final curve of the driveway. His black slicker drawn tightly about him, Harry went rigid at what he

There were shrubs flanking the last stretch of the drive and from one of them came a tiny stab of flame like a

puny leftover from the lightning. It was timed, that jab, to the pound of the ensuing thunder and so was the

answering spurt that tongued from a corner of the massive mansion. The accompanying sounds were

Those were gunshots, flung through the teeth of the storm, an exchange between two unknowns who like

Cutting through the clump of trees, Harry made for a corner of the mansion. He was traveling diagonally

opposite the direction of the feud and his process promised quick shelter with a chance of gaining admittance

indoors, before anyone within Graydon Towers learned of outside trouble. Reporting such an event might

There was one point however that he did overlook. Harry was forgetting the lightning flashes.

One came when Harry was just past the man who was shooting from the shrubs. The flaring sky etched Harry

clearly, and the man at the house corner mistook him for an extra enemy cutting across to try a flanking job.

Along with the thunder, the man at the corner took a pot shot Harry's way, and, despite the mighty rumble,

Harry heard the whine of a bullet much closer to his head than the storm clouds.

Another flicker from the sky and with it, the man by the shrubbery turned and fired after Harry. Now that the

sound of gunfire had been heard, the rival shooters didn't worry about covering up their future shots. Each

Harry had reached shelter, too. Hurriedly timed to lightning flashes, those wild shots could have clipped him

only through some freak of illchance. Harry was past a corner of the mansion; which corner, he didn't know,

there were so many of them. He certainly wasn't at the front door, for a reflected waver of lightning showed

him only an angle formed by two stone walls. One had a barred window, some fifteen feet above the ground;

How safe this spot was, Harry wasn't sure, but at least he could do something to improve it. He drew his

automatic. If either of the fighters who had included him in their feud should choose to ferret him out, Harry

Harry peered past the corner from which he had arrived. Immediately he was rewarded with a better view

than the lightning flashes provided; what the present glow lacked in brilliance, it had in constancy.

This light came from windows of Graydon Towers, giving Harry one fact that he had been sent here to learn;

namely, how well occupied the place was. From the number of lights that appeared, the house must have

It was obvious, too, that the windows were all barred. He noticed crisscrossed lines in the light that was cast

to the ground below them. But what Harry particularly wanted to know was what had happened to the

With one sweeping glance, Harry spotted them by those window lights. One, the man from the shrubbery,

was loping over toward the cluster of trees. His was a long, lean figure, conspicuous with hipboots, baggy

trousers, a leather hunting jacket and what looked like a hunter's cap. This impression was welletched by a

glare of lightning from the receding storm; then the lean man was lost among the trees.

As for the other, Harry saw him sneaking back toward the far corner of the house, stooping below the level of

the windows. The man was blocky, but that could have been due to his crouch, for he lengthened somewhat

This man was wearing a dark raincoat and an oilskin hat, about all that Harry could remember for future

reference. Then, as the lights in the house began going out slowly, one by one, some sudden thoughts struck

First; the chap in the hunting outfit could well have stayed among the trees, waiting an opportunity to

approach the house again. More important, the fellow in the raincoat had unquestionably started a sneak

toward Harry's corner, otherwise he wouldn't have been forced to such a long retreat when the window lights

He could still reach Harry without crossing open ground. The route would be longer but safer; in fact, the

man in the raincoat could already have covered much of it. His route would be simply to come around the

Turning full about, Harry gripped his automatic and shifted around the corner, intending to keep close to the

wall and spring a surprise of his own, the moment that the man appeared. The storm was distant now and a

glare of sheet lightning, mostly a refection from the clouds, revealed the figure that loomed suddenly through

Only a few yards from Harry's elbow, turning toward his very corner, came the stocky shape in raincoat and

Catching that glimpse in the last moment of the lightning flare, Harry saw the glitter of a gun that was

swinging in his direction and knew that he was spotted, too. Shots in the dark weren't the right policy, not

unless the challenger fired first. Harry sidestepped and lunged in at an angle to meet his adversary's charge.

A gun spurted past Harry's elbow and hard upon that misplaced jab, he landed on the figure in the darkness,

his own gun lifted for a downswing. But Harry's drive was potent in itself; under its force, his opponent

sprawled and lost his gun. Pulling his gunswing, Harry turned it into a glancing blow against the head that

A few moments later, Harry Vincent was stooping beside this crumpled foe who had capitulated almost

without a struggle. The broad hat had rolled aside, while he fished in his pocket for a flashlight.

No flashlight was needed. Another sweep of reflected lightning gave Harry a full look at the face on the

ground. It was Harry's strained imagination, plus the illusion caused by the drizzle that had made him picture

What Harry had bagged in the darkness was a very lovely girl whose looks were good enough to stand the

effects of the drizzle that had marred her makeup. Her charm was increased by the wealth of red hair that

had tumbled from the oversized hat and her build was anything but stocky, considering how the coat had

RATHER difficult, talking in the drizzly darkness and waiting for lightning flashes to see what effect your

words had on the person who heard them. Better though than bringing a flashlight into the conversation,

which would have been not only impolite but dangerous, when you didn't know who else might be stalking

Harry Vincent wished the conversation could have been less onesided. In sense, he was doing all of it, for

the girl's responses were merely nods and headshakes that showed when the sky glared.

The lightning obliged just as Harry finished that question and the girl gave a headshake. She was sitting up,

The girl lost no time in answering that one. Her nod was emphatic; if brief, it was only because the lightning

The answer was a long time coming. When it did, it was worth it. The girl shook her head, and there was

plenty of sincerity in her silent reply. Her lips were solemn and her eyes, meeting Harry's squarely, carried a

plea that she seemed almost ready to express verbally. Until that moment, the redhaired girl had maintained

an attitude that could have been classed either as pride or challenge, but now she was willing to forego both.

Harry was reaching toward the girl with one hand, pocketing his gun with the other, just as the lightning gave

way to another blackout. Finding the girl's hand in the dark, he drew her to her feet and planted her lost

"All right, Reds," laughed Harry. "There's your gun and here's your hat" stooping, he recovered the

oversized oilskin and swung it in the girl's direction "so since we've come to an understanding, why not let

it be the beginning of a friendship? Not necessarily a beautiful friendship," Harry added, "but at least a

A flare from the sky interrupted, and with it the girl did say thank you. Her lips were just as tight as ever,

though now they had begun to smile. It was her eyes that spoke, and nicely. Her hands dangled a .32 revolver

and an oilskin hat, so she had to toss her head to clear away the copper tresses from her forehead. That

"You're weakening, Reds," began Harry, with a touch of mock rebuke, "but after all, why shouldn't you? I set

The girl was starting a slow nod, and Harry's hands were resting on her shoulders, as though inspired by

protective duty. After all, Reds had a right to be terrified in the midst of a dark and dangerous night, and

At that moment something said "Whsssssooooo" directly overhead and punctuated its thud with a crackle. It

was a sound that meant the same in any language, the whistle of a sniper's bullet from somewhere yonder in

Harry shoved the girl to the rainsoaked turf. Turning about, he took a sidehop that ended in a crouch.

"Duck for it, Reds," snapped Harry, "and stay there. I'll handle this show. Don't shoot, you'll only give

A flame spurted from somewhere out on the blackened lawn and Harry blasted a shot in return. Two hops to

the right, then another jab from Harry's gun in answer to a pair that talked together. Apparently the feud boys

were ganging up on Harry at least so he thought until his next shot. Harry took three hops before he fired

and three guns crackled in return. Bullets whined high and wide, but they had a nuisance value, coming in

"There's a mob of them; Reds," declared Harry, coolly. "Keep close to the wall, before the lightning flashes.

Over against one wall, Harry turned for a look at the girl the moment that the lightning blinked. His hand was

raised in beckoning gesture, ready to point the way they were to run, when Harry very suddenly forgot those

guns out on the lawn. Something so singular had happened that the whole situation seemed a fabric of Harry's

He waited for the next few lightning flashes to make sure that his eyes had not completely betrayed him.

There wasn't anywhere that the girl could have gone in this angular nook of solid stone, unless she had

The only other possibility was that she had darted out to the open; this, though surprising in itself, was far

more feasible than the ivy route. But Harry had no time to weigh such considerations.

Bullets were winging from the open, whining dangerously close, whacking hard against the stone at Harry's

back and bringing chipping echoes from the walls. The girl had been smart to take to the open spaces and

Harry decided to do the same. Amid another lightning blink, he darted from the alcove and started a dash

It was a blind run in more ways than one. Not only did Harry lack an objective, he couldn't have found one in

the blanketing blackness that was broken only occasionally by the lightning flashes. Besides, Harry didn't

Either those shots weren't meant for Harry or the men in the dark were becoming worse in their aim, for no

longer did Harry hear the whine of bullets. What finally stopped Harry's flight wasn't a leaden slug; it was a

After covering about half an acre of the Graydon premises, Harry had blundered squarely into the little grove

Landing suddenly upon the soggy ground, Harry took time to breathe and turned his face into the drizzle to

recuperate from his collision with the tree clump. Lightning was blinking only faintly from beyond the

hilltops surrounding Graydon Towers and the rumble of thunder had been demoted to an occasional dull

growl. Yet Harry still heard gunshots, distant and spasmodic, receding as though drawn along by the storm.

It was then that Harry remembered something. The first man that he had spotted, the one in a hunter's

costume, had taken to the shelter of these very trees after ducking away from the shrubbery.

The fellow couldn't be around here any longer, not with the shooting happening elsewhere. He was probably

stalking some other prey through the drizzle. Harry came from beneath the sheltering trees and began a

personal prowl in the general direction of the gunfire, which was well away from the mansion and down a

A few final shots were all that Harry heard. From then on it was a blind hunt across the sodden lawn until he

came to a stone wall. Beyond the wall were trees, dank and dismal, visible only as a jetblack bulk. Then,

while Harry listened amid the drip of the rainfall, he heard the sudden snort of a motor somewhere among the

That car had obviously been waiting on an old road in the woods, and its departure represented the

withdrawal of some participants in the recent fray. At least the terrain was safer, but since Harry had come to

As Harry turned away from the stone wall, intending to trace the way back to his car, the glare of a flashlight

poked in his direction. Licking along the wall the beam would have found Harry within a few more seconds,

Harry hit the ground, staying motionless, when the flashlight's glare skimmed the tops of the weeds that hid

Lifting his head, he caught a good glimpse of this prowler just as the fellow swung the flashlight toward

himself. He was the lanky man in the hunter's costume and his face showed a scrubby black beard. It was the

Crawling from the long grass, he stole after the bearded man guided by the constant squdge of the

heavybooted footsteps. One riddle was enough for a single night and Harry had experienced his quota in the

disappearance of the redhaired girl. The bearded man wasn't going to get away as easily as she had.

Whatever the riddle of Graydon Towers, this bearded prowler might have the answer. Gun in hand, Harry

Vincent was prepared to put the question in no uncertain terms, the moment the proper time arrived!

IF Harry Vincent had guided the footsteps of the man ahead, he couldn't have directed them better to his

liking. Even in the thick blackness of the drizzle, Harry could gauge the route from the slope of the lawn, the

drip of tree branches overhead, the slap of wet shrubbery and finally the tone of the mushy grind of

The bearded pacemaker was leading his stealthy trailer right back to the big gates that fronted Graydon

The climax, Harry decided, would come when the bearded character found the strange coupe parked on the

road in front. It would then behoove Harry to become forcible, though he didn't want to overdo it,

At least the thought was pleasant, despite its lack of likelihood. However, the whole idea evaporated like the

fading drizzle by the time they reached the gate. The man ahead didn't even see Harry's car; instead, he

veered to the right as he wormed his way through the gate bars and turned his flashlight on a decrepit old car

parked across the road. Harry heard a muffled chuckle as the lanky huntsman hurried in the direction of the

Harry hadn't spotted that other car at the time of his own arrival for the rain had been coming down in

pitchfork style. But since the bushfaced gentleman had evidently decided to go somewhere in his antique

car, Harry decided to let him have a try. Getting into the coupe, Harry sat patiently at the wheel while he

heard a starter wheeze repeatedly from the darkness just across the road. Then a motor coughed, fenders

began to rattle, and dim headlights moved along the road. Starting his own car smoothly, Harry put it into

It was easy enough on the straightaway, but the business became tough when the other car began taking dips

and bends. Harry let it gain some distance, then turned on his own dimmers and followed along. Harry knew

where this road led. It was taking both cars into the town of Kanakee Junction, some four miles from

Judging by the rattley condition of the bearded man's car, it couldn't be traveling much farther than the

Junction and Harry's guess proved correct. As he neared the sparse lights that represented the town, Harry

saw the other car jounce into a driveway that looked like an entrance to a coalyard. Keeping ahead, Harry

parked under some large elms that obscured the nearest street lamp and in a few minutes, he was sneaking

A slat flipped up from the wooden fence and out from the space poked the bearded man, whiskers first. His

eyes, squinting craftily front side to side, were too late to spot Harry who, at the first clatter of the fencepale,

In stoopshouldered style, the lanky man sneaked across a strip of treesheltered grass and disappeared into

an alley between two dilapidated buildings on the far side of a narrow street. By then Harry was stalking him

The bearded man's caution inspired Harry to the same, particularly as the alley was a blind one. It was a

perfect lurking spot for anyone who wanted to spring an ambush and Harry didn't doubt that he would be on

the receiving end if he moved unwisely. The alley mud was soft and carpeted Harry's footsteps, but he was

A squash from Harry's footsteps would be bad enough, but even worse was the fact that none were coming

from ahead. Remembering the swishswash that had preceded him across the Graydon lawn, Harry was

disturbed. The complete silence gave the definite effect that he of the stoopshoulders and blackbeard was

Harry groped with the utmost care, working himself along one blank wall, intending to try the inwards of the

alley and come out by the other wall. At the deepest part of the alley, Harry was probing what he thought was

a fence when a portion of it gave with a sharp, warning creak. Instantly alert, Harry whipped around, gun in

readiness to meet a sortie from the alley's outlet, which he could dimly see by a reflected street light. Backing

at the same moment, Harry tripped across a low threshold and landed at a slant within a door that shrieked on

Harry had struck a stairway leading upward. Gripping a step with one hand, he came to his feet, gun thrusting

from his other fist. Then, sensing something cold and clammy, he pocketed his gun, drew out a blueheaded

The clammy stuff was just what Harry expected, mud from one of the boots worn by the bearded huntsman.

With all his caution the gunner from the Graydon preserves hadn't tried to cover his tracks. The muddy

footprints led right up the stairs ahead of the flicker of Harry's match. Blowing out the flame, Harry drew his

It was totally dark at the stairtop. Groping about, Harry found different doors and wondered which the man

had used. Listening, Harry heard slight thuds from beyond one door. A match flame proved the lock to be a

simple type, the sort made to order for the average skeleton key. Having a few such samples in his pocket,

Harry tried them quietly and the lock soon yielded. After that, there was no need for a match; enough light

came through the low windows beneath a sloping ceiling at the opposite side of the room.

This looked like a storeroom, poorly stocked, and it had two other doors, one in each side wall. Boldly,

Harry tried the one on the left; it gave and he yanked it wide, keeping his gun in readiness. At sight of a pair

of boots standing on the floor, Harry dropped back with a low, quickvoiced challenge; then paused.

They were the hunter's boots, all right, but they were empty as was the rest of the costume. All the stooped

man's regalia was hanging in a closet. Dripping a small quota of drizzle dampness was the black beard that

Closing the closet door, Harry stalked across the room and opened the door on the other side. He used a few

matches and found he was in a large room devoted to grain and feed, packed in sacks and barrels. Over in one

corner was a squarecut hole with a ladder leading down to the floor below. Harry took that route and found

himself in a grain store which consisted mostly of a counter and a potbellied stove. There were windows

here, so rickety that their catches couldn't hold. Harry opened one, and then dropped out to the ground. No

footmarks being visible, he decided that his unbearded predecessor must have used the door.

In the front street, Harry was almost caught in the huge glare of a locomotive searchlight. The depot was just

across the street and a big freight engine was doing some shifting chores. Entering the station, Harry found

the ticket window open, with the agent busy at his telegraph key. Picking up some telegraph blanks, Harry

The agent consulted a book and named the charge without turning from his table. Harry addressed a telegram

Clanking the right change on the counter, he waited while the agent came over and took the telegram.

With his pencil he crossed out the words "I think" and asked how that was. The agent nodded.

"All right I reckon," he said. "No law against crossing out words instead of adding them. Kind of neat, the

With his pencil, Harry crossed out "You had" and the agent chuckled in appreciation. Then, to show that he

was impartial, Harry marked off another pair, the words "At once." That really impressed the station agent.

"Say, mister," he declaimed, "I reckon that's about the shortest message ever went out from here."

Harry put his pencil through the word "Better" and left the agent gawking at a telegram that consisted of the

It wasn't until Harry was going out the station door that the agent looked up and saw only his customer's

"Guess you don't need them other nine words, mister, but there's something you've forgot. Most people put

"I'm an Indian;" called back Harry. "Named after a famous chief. My name is Rainintheface so just sign

The station agent was scratching his chin by the time the door slammed; then, methodically, he wrote

Rainintheface under the word "Come." Going to his table he sent the message; then shook his head. After

brooding considerably over the strange telegram and its even more unusual signature, the agent opened a door

There, the station agent interrupted a tall, brawny man in overalls who was helping two others load some

"About this telegram, Rufe," explained the station agent. "Being as how you're sheriff in your offtime, I

"Guess I can take a few minutes from my railroad work if you say so, Jerry. You're talking to Sheriff

Dodson" drawing back his overalls, Rufe gave a flash of his badge "so let's see the telegram."

Jerry obliged and Rufe scratched his chin as the station agent had earlier, but in broader style.

"Rainintheface, only I didn't get a look at his face, sheriff. Talked like a stranger, though."

"Guess he's staying at the Junction House," supplied Jerry. "He ain't the first new guest as has arrived today.

Another nod from Sheriff Dodson. Then, indifferently, he passed the slip back to the station agent.

"All right then." Sheriff Dodson turned to help heave another crate. "If it was paid for, why bother me about

Such was the sheriff's official verdict, but it wasn't final. Under the misty glow from the freight shed lights,

the face of Rufe Dodson underwent a series of changes as he continued piling crates into the box car.

At last a gleam came from the keen eyes that were the conspicuous factors of the sheriff's long,

sharpchinned face. As representative of law and order in this county. Rufe Dodson wasn't worrying about

That question would solve itself and soon. All Sheriff Dodson had to do was wait.

KANAKEE JUNCTION was one of those quaint little towns that had everything except a main street.

Harry Vincent discovered this in the light of a bright and pleasant morning when he took a prebreakfast

stroll around the hamlet. Whoever had done the city planning for Kanakee Junction just hadn't; and the reason

As its name implied, Kanakee Junction was formed by the crossing of two railways, the station which Harry

had visited serving for both. The town had sprung up around that focal center and sprawled in every

direction. Nobody lived on the wrong side of the tracks because the railroads were the only reason for the

town's existence, but it was considered good form to reside some distance from the station.

Hence the buildings that looked like tictactoe marks around the cross formed by the railway lines were

mostly business places. The hotel was one; so was Hatwood's Grain and Feed Store, which flanked a

newspaper building bearing the name of the Junction Junto. Over across the tracks was a large general store

while at a diagonal Harry saw a town hall and a few assorted buildings including a barber shop.

There were trees all around, with green sward under them, one sector representing a park where there was a

church, library and school house. An oldfashioned cannon stood on that green together with a statue that

looked like a Minute Man. But Harry was more interested in the strip of grass that lay between two dirt

Beyond the other side was the Junction Coalyard, its far end jutting to one of the railway lines and receiving a

spur track along which coal cars could be shunted. That stretch was the one that Harry had crossed when

After such a survey it was only natural that Harry should stroll past the grain store. He did and found that the

front was boarded up, indicating that Mr. Hatwood had gone out of business. By then, Harry was conscious

of another stroller, a limber man with a roundish face that was both quick in looking places and in turning

So instead of hovering around the closed store, Harry sauntered back into the hotel and glanced over his

shoulder to see the stranger right behind him. Then for the first time Harry noticed the stoop of the man's

As a guest at the Junction House, this stranger might have had as much reason as Harry for visiting Graydon

Towers the night before; perhaps more. But before branding him as a gentleman who preferred black

whiskers, Harry decided to sound him out. In the hotel lobby he gave the man an inquiring look that brought

Serving Harry a broad grin, the roundfaced man became quite genial, even to the point of introducing

"Neither," replied Harry. "Just a salesman who stopped here because he couldn't find any place else."

Gerster chuckled at that one. With a flip from his vest pocket, his fingers extended a card to Harry. The card

bore the man's name with the title "Insurance Investigator." Not to be outdone, Harry produced a card

identifying himself as a writing paper salesman, which fitted a load of stationery samples that he carried in

"I know a lot of people in your line," nodded Gerster. "They have fires and other claims, just like everybody

"Say" affably, the man waved toward the door of the dining room, which was being opened "how about

Harry agreed, silently deciding that Gerster had a lot to tell. At the same time he recognized the reason for the

garrulous trend. Men who talked a lot could learn a lot, if they listened between times.

Something, whether intuition or just good common sense, warned Harry that Gerster was checking on last

night's events, seeking to learn if Harry had participated in the fray near Graydon Towers. That in itself

would justify Harry's gathering conclusion that Gerster was the bearded prowler. So Harry let Gerster talk

A neat trick, Gerster's question. If Harry had recognized the name Graydon it would have gone without

saying that he should have heard of the Towers. So Harry's square face kept unchanged, except for a slight

"Gifford Graydon," explained Gerster. "They named Graydon Towers after him. He was the famous art king

"Why didn't you say that in the first place," put in Harry, deciding not to play dumb too long. "You mean the

"It isn't a castle;" he said, "and they aren't going to tear it down. What they intend to do is open the crypt so

"What did he do, buy the place?" "No. Hybart is an antiquarian who was appointed custodian of the Graydon

art collection. He doesn't own Graydon Towers but he lives there and probably always will. When he dies the

treasures will go to various museums while the Towers will be turned over to the heirs."

"But it's those archives that are worrying people," continued Gerster. "Certain people like art dealers." His

eyes narrowed, as though suspecting Harry of belonging to that clan. "I guess you don't remember how a lot

of people were gypped after the first World War, by phony art treasures that were peddled in from Europe.

"Well, they were," affirmed Gerster, "and old Graydon was one of them. He saw to it that he wouldn't be

hooked again. Put a whole crew of experts and researchers to work checking the history of every art buy that

came his way. They used xray photographs, added their own secret marks. In fact they didn't overlook a

"Only it doesn't apply just to Graydon's collection, Vincent. Do you know how much in the way of art

"I mean it," asserted Gerster. "Of course Graydon never owned anything like that amount all at once. I doubt

if he ever tied up more than ten million at a time. But he was always buying and selling, more like a mania

than a hobby, and there was lots of stuff he just considered but never did take. But everything he looked at

All this was known to Harry; it concerned his visit to Kanakee Junction, but the figures that Gerster talked

belonged on the box cars down by the depot. Still, the fellow might not be greatly exaggerating, for the art

buying activities of Gifford Graydon had unquestionably run into the fabulous. However, it was policy for

"Old Graydon spent a fortune in tabulating art stuff," Gerster declared, "and he called those records the

Graydon Archives. Gave orders that they were to be buried with him and never dug up unless "

With that, Gerster paused to glance at some other guests who had entered the dining room. His pause was

purposely timed so that Harry would pick up the statement and give himself away, but Harry didn't fall for

"Unless there was another World War," resumed Gerster, his eyes back on Harry. "Well, one came along and

it knocked the art business a hundred times sillier than the first war did. Why, the stuff that has been

"Plenty. Here's the question." Gerster's gaze narrowed shrewdly. "How much of that smuggled stuff would

"Neither has anybody else. That's what old Graydon foresaw and his Archives will tell the tale. Some of the

dealers who have peddled questionable stuff are going to be in a bad jam, maybe. One of them is sitting right

Harry looked and saw a crabfaced man whose baldish head was lowered toward a newspaper which he

wasn't reading, as was evident from the change in his eyes, every time they took a furtive, sidelong look

"Hugo Atmore," undertoned Gerster. "He's unloaded a couple of million dollars' worth of art stuff brought in

by refugees, always at fancy commissions. He's watching Elliot Huxford over at that other table."

Gerster's wigwagging thumb pointed out a heavyjoweled man with shocky gray hair and beetly eyebrows

to match. Huxford wasn't trying to subdue the glares that he gave at Atmore. Apparently Huxford felt that

Atmore's presence contaminated this dining room. Since Harry wasn't supposed to know who Huxford was,

"No, a collector," corrected Gerster. "The kind that Atmore would like to have on his sucker list. Only

Huxford knows too much to let Atmore trim him. What's more" Gerster emphasized this with, a chuckle

Gerster's chuckle ended abruptly as a tall, longjawed man entered the dining room and took a table close by.

Shoulders erect, he let his coat flap back sufficiently to reveal a badge, though the action was purely

coincidental. It was just a habit with Sheriff Rufe Dodson, this silent way of proclaiming his authority.

"Let's talk about your line for a while," suggested Gerster, leaning across the table toward Harry. "How's

Accepting the change of topic, Harry Vincent felt a silent satisfaction. Whatever his purpose in Kanakee

Such at least was Harry's verdict, but his guess was very wide. Things began to pop when the threefifteen

Harry was strolling toward the depot at the time, with the talkative Mr. Gerster at his elbow. Several

passengers alighted from the local, among them Lamont Cranston. A tall man, calmfaced and leisurely of

manner, Cranston glanced around languidly as though viewing some strange land, which was appropriate

Cranston's stare was careless only in appearance. He looked right through Harry Vincent as though his friend

wasn't there. This was a regular policy of Cranston's under uncertain circumstances and Harry's abbreviated

A large limousine was parked near the station with a uniformed chauffeur standing in attendance. The big car

formed a contrast to the ramshackle vehicles owned by the towns folk, so Cranston strolled in its direction.

At Cranston's nod, the chauffeur opened the door and bowed Cranston into the car, which already contained

two passengers, Hugo Atmore and Elliot Huxford, who were sitting as far apart as space would allow.

The chauffeur accepted the two new passengers without question and the limousine started for the Towers

with a full load. The man who analyzed the case more critically was Rufe Dodson, who was staring from the

"Reckon I'll be going up to the Towers shortly, Jerry," commented Rufe. "Looks like old Hybart is receiving

When the limousine rolled through the open gates, Harry gained his first daytime view of Graydon Towers

and was more than surprised. Last night the building had looked fantastic; today, the word hardly described

it. Instead of gaining a more normal look, Graydon Towers loomed like a monstrosity.

Conceivably every house was built to some sort of plan, but the Towers stood as a noticeable exception.

None of the windows were on the same level nor were any of the jutting roofs. The mansion looked precisely

as if some giant hand had taken blocks of assorted sizes, piled them hit or miss, and poured a mass of

From last night, Harry remembered fanciful chimneys that had pencilled themselves against the flashing sky.

He'd attributed the weird effect to the lightning, but the sunlight produced an effect that was even more

grotesque. For a final touch, Harry noted that nearly every window had an outside balcony jutting from it;

that was, all the windows above the irregular line that roughly represented the ground floor. The windows on

To reach the front door, the limousine went clear around to what should have been the back of the house.

This tour gave the passengers a view of more architectural irregularities, but it didn't include the side of the

house where Harry had found an ivygrown nook inhabited only by a redhaired girl.

What he now saw of the weird mansion, Harry decided that the girl in question was probably the resident

banshee. Certainly her uncanny disappearance had marked her as anything but human.

Entering the house the visitors formed a hushed throng as they came into a great hall. All the effect that the

outside appearance had promised was gathered here in full. Through stained glass windows, the sun's rays

cast a myriad of colors across the floor, producing fanciful patterns. Most curious was the fact that when the

visitors advanced, the patchwork effect remained, though they blocked off the shafts of light that formed the

Bothered by this mystery, Harry suddenly realized that the floor itself was colored with many tiles that

matched, or more properly replaced, the rainbow galaxy that the stained windows cast. Yet somehow, the

footsteps echoing over that stony floor were absorbed into the hush that predominated this high chamber.

The sounds must have carried, for a man in smock and skull cap appeared from a large door above a short

flight of steps. Descending, he approached the visitors and eyed them with a tilted head above a pair of

shoulders that slanted in the same direction. The man's eyes looked immense and owlish through the

largelensed glasses that he wore and his smile was one of the most peculiar that Harry had ever seen.

It gave the effect of a smile, but it wasn't one. It was a slant of the man's lips, contrasting diagonally to the tilt

of his head, so that his lips were actually level. When he spoke, the man retained his unique smile.

"I am glad to meet you, gentlemen." The tone was high, but firm and not unmusical. "I am Jerome Hybart,

the custodian of these premises. I take it that you have come to learn about the Graydon Archives?"

There were nods along the line and Harry noticed that Cranston's was the most casual of all. In fact, Cranston,

standing just beyond Gerster, was the one person who was taking this scene as a matter of course, which

In another life that he frequently led, Lamont Cranston was known as The Shadow, a master of mystery in his

own right. This setting was quite to his liking, indeed the sort that he preferred. With brief side glances, Harry

observed that Cranston was taking in the numerous nooks and alcoves that the great hall provided and also

sizing up the assorted stairways and oddly shaped balconies that were common indoors as well as out.

Now Hybart was introducing himself to his visitors. Shaking hands with Atmore, he learned the man's name;

then studied the crabfaced visitor. There was a glint from Hybart's tilted eyes, as he remarked:

"So you are Hugo Atmore, the noted art dealer. May I ask your particular interest in wishing to see the

As Atmore hesitated, Elliot Huxford bulked forward from the other end of the line. Introducing himself

"If Hugo won't tell you, I will. He's worried about what's in those records. He's afraid he's going to find some

genuine examples of the fakes he's been selling suckers. It will be bad news for you, Atmore."

Savagely, Atmore wheeled toward the accuser, then relaxed as Hybart stepped between.

"I may have made a few mistakes." In contrast to his challenging air, Atmore's tone was a plaintive whine. "If

I have, I intend to rectify them. That is my only purpose here, Mr. Hybart. I felt that I should be the first to

"You should be," sneered Huxford in basso style. "Those few mistakes might cost you the half million that

they say you've stacked away. If you find out first, you won't stay long in this county." Pausing, Huxford

"As a famous collector, Mr. Huxford, you have a right to be critical," declared Hybart. "I know that you have

"I have at that," interrupted Huxford. "That's why I've never been one of Atmore's customers."

"I can understand your interest," continued Hybart. "Having been impeccable in your own choice of art

treasures, you will find further satisfaction in learning how closely your findings tallied with those of

Huxford bowed his acknowledgment of Hybart's statement. Having soothed this guest with flattery, Hybart

turned to Lamont Cranston. The moment that he learned the calmfaced visitor's name, Hybart became

"Why, the world of art owes you its deepest gratitude. You are the traveler who brought the famed jade Iota

from the Black Hat lamasery in Tibet! You are the man who furnished a firsthand description of the silver

coffin of Temujin, otherwise Genghis Khan, whose bodyguards, descendants of those originally appointed,

still carry the remains of their great master through the dunes of the impassable Gobi! It is an honor in itself

Hybart's voice rang out as he extended a thin hand to this esteemed visitor. In fact the utterance of Cranston's

name was so strong that it drowned the heavy footsteps that approached from the outer door. Then, as Hybart

was extending his hand as though to invite his visitors through the premises on the strength of Cranston's

Sheriff Dodson stepped in from the flank, gave the line a sharpeyed stare and turned to Hybart with the

"Don't you think it would be better to ask permission before showing people around this place?"

"Permission?" demanded Hybart in a quick tone. "Why should I ask permission from you, sheriff?"

Again, footsteps interrupted. This time they were light; audible only because they came from one of the

quaint stairways that flanked the great hall. The footsteps halted as the visitors turned and a girl's voice said

"Mr. Hybart is still the custodian here, sheriff. He has a right to do as he chooses."

Turning with the rest, Harry saw the vision that addressed them. She was standing on a little landing at just

the right elevation to catch the sunlight from above the stained glass windows, so that she received its

Fancy colors weren't needed to increase the girl's beauty; they would merely have masked it. Only pure

sunlight could have given that auburn hair its coppery iridescence and furnished those eyes with the clear

blue sparkle that was rivalled only by the delicate ruddiness of the girl's lips and cheeks.

She was the girl that Harry had met the night before and she wasn't any banshee, of that Harry was quite sure.

The Graydon Archives could stay in their crypt for all that Harry Vincent cared. He'd found something of

HYBART'S reaction to the girl's arrival was typical of the man's quickchanging moods. First he bowed most

"This is Miss Linda Graydon," announced Hybart. "She is a grandniece of my benefactor, Gifford Graydon,

and his nearest relative. This house is her home, even though I am its custodian."

Finishing that profuse statement, Hybart turned his straightlined smile toward Rufe Dodson and inquired:

"Did you hear what Miss Graydon said, sheriff? I have a right to do as I choose."

Looking past Hybart, Rufe saw Linda nod. In the same steady tone, the girl declared:

Instantly Hybart swung about, gratitude fading from his face as he snatched the full right of the authority that

"Then go back to your room, Linda!" snapped Hybart. "Go back there and stay until you have my permission

to leave. You accepted my authority when you came here. I demand obedience to the letter!"

The glow of the girl's cheeks grew to the deeper color of her tightened lips and Harry could see her fists

clench in the sunlight. Then, suddenly yielding to Hybart's order, Linda turned and halfstumbled up the

"Poor child," expressed Hybart, indulgently. "She was caught in the rain last night. Our housekeeper, Mrs.

Moffitt, has been looking after her, and decided she should stay in bed. If I spoke sharply, it was for her own

Then, dismissing the Linda question instantaneously, Hybart turned to Gerster and inquired abruptly:

"The name's Jeff Gerster," came the reply. "Insurance investigator. Here's my card."

"Because lots of companies insure art treasures," stated Gerster, "and for big amounts. Thought I'd make a

general checkup and then go the rounds. You see" Jeff looked around the group "if somebody pays

something like fifty thousand dollars for a work of art, he usually insures it for that amount, doesn't he?"

"But suppose it turns out to be worth fifty bucks instead of fifty thousand," suggested Gerster. "Wouldn't the

insurance company pay something to find it out? Of course it would and that's my business, telling insurance

Hybart shrugged and turned to Harry who introduced himself by name and modestly styled himself an art

"This way, all of you," said Hybart. "I shall show you through the music room, then down to the crypt. But

you are early arrivals, gentlemen. The crypt will not be opened before a few days from now, when the other

The music room was a few steps down from the great hall and was approximately at ground level. At the far

end was a large organ set in an immense alcove; to the right was a small hallway leading to an open elevator.

"This way," repeated Hybart. "I shall take you to the stairway that leads down to the crypt. But first" he

paused and gave his hand a wide sweep to include the entire floor "I think you should notice this tiling. It

It would have been impossible to imagine a finer piece of mosaic work than that tiled floor. Its border

outmatched the intricate pattern of an Oriental rug, while the field consisted of beautifully hued designs as

perfectly fashioned as if they had been woven. But the center tiling was the real prize.

The center was circled by a tiled border about eight feet in diameter. The circle itself was of three colors,

each about an inch across, consisting of garnet, jet and jade. Those simple colors of red, black and green were

There, the tiling ran riot, forming a modernistic picture that both astonished and confused the eye. According

"Gifford Graydon was a man of unusual vision," spoke Hybart in the manner of a lecturer. "He called this

work 'Eternity' because it symbolizes past, present and future. In its pattern you will observe a blending of all

those factors, depicting a single moment which can be said to include all time."

Under such interpretation, the design made a certain amount of sense. Great stabs of red and orange tiles

unquestionably represented volcanic forces of the world's creation. Drifts of graystreaked white were either

heavenly clouds or the smoke from those same volcanoes, perhaps both. There were jagged lines of yellow

representing lightning, great twists of green that might be either prehistoric reptiles or masses of vegetation.

Faces were present, but none were more than partly formed and some of steelblue hue looked like robots

Hybart gave his peculiar smile when the visitors were loath to tread upon the conglomerated floor. He

remarked drily that this pattern, like everything else designed by Graydon, was meant to last forever.

Shuffling his own feet across the tiles, Hybart invited the others to do the same and learn for themselves how

"Mr. Graydon had a weakness for concrete," declared Hybart, "probably because concrete has no weakness of

its own. Like all the other floors in this mansion, this one has a concrete base. As a matter of fact, Graydon

"Directly beneath here" Hybart was pointing downward "is the front wall of the crypt, a great concrete

bulkhead. It serves as a center beam for this music room and no one could ask for a stronger foundation."

The others were treading on the center tiling, noting the firmness that Hybart mentioned; but there was one

Looking from face to face, the sheriff was comparing them. To begin with, he knew that Atmore and Huxford

were at total odds; that fact had been rendered quite clear. Also he correctly classed Harry and Gerster as

chance acquaintances. Otherwise, the members of the group appeared to be total strangers. As dealer and

collector, Atmore and Huxford apparently had never met Gerster, the insurance investigator. But that was all

The sheriff was anxious to learn who knew Lamont Cranston and so far nobody qualified. As a matter of

policy Cranston hadn't greeted Harry and their policy of nonrecognition was keeping Dodson quite

"Now let us descend to the crypt," suggested Hybart, gesturing toward the door at the left from which he had

detoured to exhibit the tiled circle. "Be careful going down the stairway. It is fanshaped and has no rail."

Past the doorway the visitors found a circular staircase looming up from the lower darkness. The concrete

stairs gave a ghostly effect, which was not dispelled when Hybart turned on lights above. The glow that then

As the visitors reached the bottom of the stairs they saw something that they wouldn't have viewed in

darkness. It was a great formidable figure, bulking its giant form in the center of an ante room fronting the

The figure was a statue at least eight feet tall. It was made of bronze and it was mounted on a concrete base

that bore a hemisphere that might have represented the top half of the world, except that it was drilled with

This statue represented an angel, with one hand raised in peacegiving fashion the other clutching a bronze

staff as a warlike symbol. Most noteworthy of the angel's features were its wings; rising at angles from the

statue's back, they didn't stop until they reached the line where the front wall of the crypt met the ceiling,

Though only partly spread, those great bronze wings had a span of nearly eight feet and formed a onesided

archway under which Hybart conducted his visitors, to show them the massive steel door that formed the only

"The statue represents Graydon's guardian angel," stated Hybart. "But if you will examine the steel door, you

will observe that he relied on other protection. This door is fitted with intricate multiple locks, including a

time device set in years as well as days. No one can possibly enter this crypt until the exact hour appointed by

Even Sheriff Dodson was interested in the bulky door, enough so to forget the men about him. That was when

Harry brushed past Cranston, who deftly drew away an envelope that poked from Harry's pocket. Not even

the Guardian Angel could have witnessed this transfer that took place beneath its very wings, for like the

THERE wasn't any doubt that Gifford Graydon had taken sufficient precautions to guard his private tomb.

That combination of steel and concrete was quite enough to settle any doubts. It left only the question of the

Jerome Hybart seemed to know that thoughts were concentrating on the Graydon Archives.

"If you will come up to the library," spoke Hybart, "I shall let you see samples of the archives those of you

Those words came back with whispered echo from the solid walls of the dim ante room. There was a metallic

tone to the whisper, as though the bronze wings had caught it and added an echo of their own. Hybart's eyes,

canted into the light, carried a knowing glitter, as though he had put the offer as a test.

"Specimens of the records?" he inquired. "You mean data on the art treasures that Graydon kept as his own?"

"Of course I'd like to see them," asserted Atmore. "As an art, dealer I am always interested in anything which

"As an art collector, Atmore," put in Huxford, "I am interested in watching the reactions of dealers like

yourself. I would prefer to wait until the crypt is opened and see the archives which may have a bearing on

The others being similarly inclined, though nonexpressive, Hybart led the way up the fanstaircase, through

the music room and into the great hall. The library was at the rear, through the doorway from which Hybart

had originally appeared, so the group went in that direction. But by the time they went through the doorway

In the shelter of an alcove, Lamont Cranston had read the note handed him by Harry Vincent and was now

It was Harry who first learned of the absentee. Like the other visitors, Harry was in the library, a sizeable

room with many nooks and crannies, all lined with shelves of books, except one corner where Hybart's desk

stood with a stack of filing cabinets beside it. The library had a balcony with ladders leading up to it and the

balcony in turn had book shelves thus taking advantage of the wall space clear to the high ceiling.

In looking for Cranston, Harry had competition. The thing that started Harry's quest was a restlessness on the

part of Sheriff Dodson. After wasting ten minutes watching Hybart dig some musty volumes from a file

cabinet and spread them in front of Atmore and Huxford, Dodson had begun to get bored. Knowing that the

Responding to a prompt thought, Harry personally left the library and went down the few steps to the great

Time had gone rapidly and it was almost sunset. Everything was etched in vivid colors and the hall had lost

its effect of emptiness. It seemed furnished and peopled, for now a multitude of art objects, previously

overlooked, stood out in sharp relief and among them were statuary and suits of armor which seemed in

Oddly, Harry had noticed these things before but hadn't given them second thought; now, he knew why.

The various alcoves were built on the bias; perhaps it was from studying them that Hybart had gained the

habit of keeping his head at a slant. Whatever the case, you couldn't appraise the contents properly when

coming from the front of the hall. Only a small portion of the lamps, vases, armor and statuary were visible

from that direction; the rest were hidden in their nooks as were most of the woven tapestries that Harry now

Amid the cathedral silence, Harry felt the curious impression that the standing figures were not only alive but

had crept from impossible hiding places, drawn by the sunset. Like ghosts, were these creatures ready to

welcome nightfall. Striding abruptly toward the front of the hall, Harry turned full about and saw to his relief

Just deep crannies, nothing more, for the immobile shapes were now hidden by the jutting, angular corners.

Footsteps carried from the library doorway, and Harry knew it must be Dodson. There was a stairway handy,

leading up to a halfstory above and Harry immediately ascended it. Rufe heard the footsteps on the

"Gerster?" queried Harry. "In the library, I suppose. He said something about looking at the books on the

"The name is Cranston not Crandon. The fellow that Hybart said had been to Tibet."

"Oh, yes." Harry nodded as though recalling the comment. "Maybe he went back there."

"Forget that stuff," retorted Rufe. "If you were out here, you should have seen where he went."

"I'm a stranger around here myself, sheriff. I was just looking around at the armor and the statues. Maybe

Coming down the stairs, Harry turned at the bottom and joined the sheriff. As he did, he caught a stir from a

higher balcony and took a quick glance, thinking it might be Cranston. In that glance, Harry recognized

A brief flash of a green negligee, the momentary blaze of red hair; then the girl had withdrawn from sight.

The sheriff turned, glanced up toward the balcony, but saw no one. Gruffly, he decided:

It didn't take long to look. The household numbered half a dozen servants and they began arriving before

Dodson could even start to hunt them. The servants were bringing wax tapers on the ends of long lighting

sticks, so they could ignite the candles that stood in high wall brackets and in hanging lamps. After watching

the procedure briefly, the sheriff began asking the servants if they'd seen Cranston, only to receive

"Maybe we ought to be leaving," remarked Harry. "It's getting pretty late. How about driving me down to the

"Hybart's car will take you," returned Rufe. "It's out front and it's on call unless Cranston took it."

At the front door when he spoke, Rufe opened the door and looked out to see the limousine in the driveway

with the chauffeur dozing at the wheel. Striding back through the hallway, Rufe passed Harry, and finding

that he no longer counted, Harry shrugged and decided to make the trip to town. He was turning from beneath

the higher balcony, when something fluttered down past his shoulder. Catching it, Harry found it was a piece

Among the servants going elsewhere with the candles, Harry noticed a woman who could only be the

housekeeper, Mrs. Moffitt. Harry lost no time. Taking the steps to the higher balcony, he looked along a

A few moments later, Harry was again face to face with the redhaired girl of the lightning flashes.

Sunset was quite as much to Linda's order. Her hair was fluffy, rather than streaming; she was willowy

"I want you to help me," the girl said softly. "You heard what Hybart said. He didn't quite admit it, but he's

The girl gestured from the barred window and Harry saw another pair on a slightly higher level; two windows

under one of the squareroofed towers. Studying the ivied wall, Harry made mental note of that particular

"I came here a month ago," Linda continued. "And I haven't been free since." A momentary pause, then

"Yes." Linda lowered her face as she completed her nod. "I didn't mean to lie to you. I was just exaggerating.

"It isn't as bad as all that," she declared, frankly. "About Hybart, I mean. He said I was welcome to stay, but

he insisted that I shouldn't meet anybody until after his own business was settled."

"Of course. That's why I mistrust Hybart. I think he should make an exception in my case."

Looking at Linda, Harry began to feel that anybody should. Those eyes of hers were a sufficient reason.

Linda was the sort of girl who needed to be considered detail by detail, and those captivating eyes demanded

their full turn. All that Harry wanted was cause to linger, so he parried for it.

The blue eyes went wide as though to take in more of the fading light. In a surprised tone, Linda asked:

"Why, there wasn't any reason," laughed Linda, softly. "You said to run for it and I did, toward the trees of

She halted, catching a look that must have told her that Harry had taken off in that precise direction.

"Of course the lightning frightened me," picked up Linda, quickly, "so I turned back, thinking the trees might

Her gaze was directed out through the hallway window and Harry casually looked that way himself. What he

A man was dodging rapidly across the lawn, trying to keep in the streaky blackness wrought by the growing

dusk. He was over a slope that must have hidden him from the ground floor of the mansion, but he could still

With a side glance at Linda, Harry saw the girl's eyes turn and knew that she had spotted something else. Her

"You've got to believe me," Linda pleaded. "You are the only friend I have. I'm so afraid afraid of what

Over Linda's shoulder, Harry saw Rufe Dodson striding across the lawn and from the sheriff's determined

stalk, Harry knew that he was going straight along the path set by Jeff Gerster. More important, both were

In his note to Cranston, Harry had mentioned that spot and was sure it was where his chief had gone.

"Did you say inside?" demanded Harry. "I thought the real trouble was outside Graydon Towers."

"No, no," began Linda. "Why, I've been looking out my window ever since I came back to my room and I

She had seen someone; the way she tried to cover it was proof. So was the quick turn of her eyes; the sudden

Linda's protest was useless. Harry was already striding to the stairway where Linda didn't dare to follow.

Face buried in her hands, Linda didn't see the look that Harry threw back when he turned at the top of the

Explanations were still in order where Harry Vincent was concerned. He was classing this abrupt parting with

AMONG the things that Lamont Cranston managed inconspicuously, carrying a brief case was one. Today he

had taken his brief case in and out of Graydon Towers without anyone realizing that he had it with him.

Carrying a brief case was something of an art and Cranston had cultivated it for occasions such as this.

At present the brief case was parked against a tree down in the woods where an old dirt road disguised itself

as a gully. Ordinarily such a road should have revealed plenty of traces of any recent vehicle, but last night's

Of course the road itself was something in the way of testimony and now, as darkness grew beneath the trees,

a sound had disturbed the silence that came with the approach of night, the brief throb of a laboring motor.

It ended, that sound; then Cranston caught another, that of a scuffly stumble among dry leaves, slightly up the

Instantly the brief case came into use. The center of the brief case opened like a V and from a secret

compartment between the dividing section, Cranston drew out a black cloak of thin material and a felt

Sliding the black cloak over his shoulders, planting the slouch hat on his head, Lamont Cranston became The

A blink of an eye would have caused a person to miss sighting him, for The Shadow's passage could have

been mistaken for the waver of a tree. His stride was silent, practically a glide. It was simple business for The

Finally blundering to the road, the man paused to mop his forehead with a handkerchief. Deceived by the

quiet all about him, he didn't bother to stay out of daylight. One glance at the man's face and The Shadow saw

More stumbles from the woods above. Hearing them, Gerster turned along the road and took it on a halfrun.

Behind him came The Shadow, holding an easy, silent footing among the stones and ruts.

Having given himself away by his stumbles, Jeff sensed that the man up in the woods was taking a shortcut

Not for an instant could Jeff have suspected the cloaked figure that was so closely on his trail. If he had, Jeff

wouldn't have done the thing he did when a car coasted into sight, casting dim lights ahead of it. Sidestepping

rapidly into the car's curving path, Jeff did a wild imitation of a jackinthebox, waving his arms to halt the

The driver recognized Gerster and stopped the car. Only a brief patch of fleeting blackness flickered across

the glow from the dimmers as The Shadow, keeping to the side of the road, reached a vantage point within

Lights clicked off and with them the motor. Unearthly silence took over, only to be broken by a crackle from

By then, Gerster was over beside the driver's door, almost within arm reach of The Shadow, whose figure did

nothing more than give an added bulge to an old tree stump on the bank behind his shoulders.

"Is that what's eating you?" came the croak. "You're letting the jitters get you, Jeff. Sounds like a deer on its

"Just keep listening, Frisco," undertoned Gerster. "What you're hearing is an old fox starting out for the

Frisco's last words were to his companions in the car, which was a low rakish roadster, built to order for its

occupants. Doors opened, disgorging four men who came around to the front, one almost brushing The

Shadow when he passed. Trickly lights showed Frisco and his three followers fixing bandana handkerchiefs

"You turn the car, Jeff," croaked Frisco, "only don't start until we've rounded up this fox of yours."

"You are," acknowledged Frisco, tactfully, "only they come from a guy higher up, don't they?"

"And he's given them, according to what you told us. Guys like this hick sheriff are to be brought in to him."

"Only it isn't coming," reminded Frisco, "not while this tin star yap is blocking it."

"And so will we. What's wrong with keeping our sheriff friend on ice until then?"

"All the better. Maybe he'll get the schedules mixed and be walking over a trestle where he don't know a

Leaving Jeff no further chance to argue, Frisco and company began to spread, working gradually up the

slope. They maneuvered it craftily and silently, for they had a marked advantage. Here where the trees were

thin, the slope was still soggy from the rain and it was steep enough for the crew to advance on hands and

A muffled slam of the car door told that Jeff had taken the wheel as Frisco suggested. The Shadow heard that

slam while making a flanking trip past Frisco's tribe and knew it might be misinterpreted.

In trailing Jeff Gerster, Sheriff Dodson could presuppose that the questionable investigator was getting into a

car that he had personally left in the woods. That surmise would call for rush action on the sheriff's part,

making him a target for Frisco's stalking mob. This called for rush action by The Shadow, but Dodson didn't

The foxy sheriff had been creeping closer all this while, much closer than even The Shadow suspected. His

Out of darkness blazed a flashlight, its path to the car blocked by the masked faces of Frisco's tribe, all of

them squarely in the glare. Before Rufe Dodson could whip up his gun at pointblank range; the mobbies

swarmed upon him, smothering him without a shot. Finding Rufe's gun with the flashlight that the sheriff

dropped with it, Frisco dangled both together in his left hand, letting the gleam play along the row of masked

"You're up against it, guy," informed Frisco, in a tone more gruff than his usual croak. "There's a friend of

"Guess you don't know I'm sheriff here," he barked. "Acting on authority of the law in this county."

"We thought this was Indian Territory," sneered Frisco, "judging by the primitive characters we've seen

Enlightenment crept into Dodson's stare. Raising his head for a better look at Frisco, he exclaimed:

Frisco didn't understand the reference. He thought Rufe was getting smart and what was more, he didn't like

the bold way the sheriff poked his chin out in an effort to see what lay behind the mask. However, the

"SmackinthePuss!" snarled Frisco. Suiting the name with action, he gave a sideslash at Rufe's face.

It wasn't good judgment, using the hand that held the flashlight. The glow wigwagged Frisco's intent, better

than anything else could have. Rufe snatched for the flashlight with both hands and got it and his gun into the

At the command, Frisco's crew copied their leader's ferocious lunge. Restrictions were off regarding gunplay,

now that Rufe was proving himself tough stuff. The county was due to lack one sheriff, or would have been,

if the members of this murder squad hadn't been so sure they could beat Rufe to the shot. All wanted to

deliver a pointblank bullet, so they sought the victim with their gunpoints before pulling their triggers.

Splitsecond business this, a thing in which another personage specialized; usually with bullets of his own.

Only this time, The Shadow suited his action to counteract a mass attack. Crouched behind a boulder

loosened by the storm, The Shadow was already heaving forward when Rufe made his wild break.

Before a single gun could stab, the rock was ploughing squarely into Frisco's tribe and riding with it, like a

surfboard expert topping the crest of a wave, came a gunswinging mass of living blackness whose strident

IT was like a preview of vengeance, that fierce taunt of The Shadow. Chimed with the crash of the rock that

swept past Dodson and slanted into Frisco's charging crew, it produced an effect before the cause.

In saving the sheriff's life, The Shadow did more. He gave Frisco's squad a chance to save their own hides,

slim though the opportunity was. Luck went with the scattering four as they hurled themselves from the path

Somersaulting men slid through the muck and coasted headlong to the road where Gerster was madly

swinging the car around in the narrow space of a turnout. Taking a sidebounce the hurtling boulder missed

Frisco by mere inches and with its hop, skipped over a crook who was hitting the mud facefirst. Hearing the

boulder coming, Gerster jammed the brakes just as the rock went clouting across the car's front fender.

The boulder's eccentric ricochet flung The Shadow at an unexpected angle, where he struck sidelong and

rolled right down to the road. In his slide, The Shadow overtook the other pair of thugs and in their turn they

overtook him. Stabbing blind shots in the darkness, they received The Shadow's answers, but his aim in turn

was wide. The Shadow wasn't taking time for accuracy, not while Sheriff Dodson was still at large. Rufe was

Rufe did blunder into something and it was just as well he did. Waving his gun and flashlight, shouting the

authority vested in him as sheriff of Beaverwood County, Dodson was lurching down to the road a few

What Rufe met was a figure that came spurting down the road into the swinging glare of the sheriff's

flashlight. Rufe didn't stop to reason that this couldn't be one of the masked gang; instead, he slashed with the

hand that bore the flashlight and brought his gun to bear with the other. The man from the road met both

This could only be Harry Vincent who quite logically had kept an eye on Sheriff Dodson, knowing that Rufe

had one on Lamont Cranston. Sacrificing an ace agent in a mistaken brawl wasn't worth the chance of

So The Shadow turned course with a running drive up the embankment and a long leap as he veered back

near the top. The muddy hump was like a springboard that launched him into the private feud between Harry

and Rufe, a conflict that The Shadow settled by the sheer weight of his arrival. Both men sprawled and with

his twist, The Shadow saw to it that Rufe landed the harder. As the sheriff flattened in the road, his gun and

The touring car was away, with Gerster at the helm. Finding all hands on board, Frisco and his gunners were

firing back, but their shots were futile. The car was already jouncing around a bend and even a stray bullet

couldn't have winged the human targets who had sprawled under the shelter of the embankment, The Shadow

Darkness had really settled in the woods. Coming to his feet, Harry heard the fade of the touring car's motor

as it crossed a distant hump. The sound was replaced by the rhythmic chorus of frogs, starting their evening

anthem. More important was the flashlight that was focussing on the center of the road.

In the circle of light, Harry saw Rufe Dodson stirring groggily, muttering as he rubbed his mudstained hand

through his matted hair. The Shadow acknowledged Rufe's efforts with a low, whispered laugh; then stooped

to lay the flashlight beside the sheriff's hand, putting Rufe's gun in the glare. A hand plucked Harry's shoulder

"He'll be all right." The reference was to Rufe. "Let him report back to the Towers if he wants."

"Why won't he?" queried Harry. "It's the only way he can round up that mob, isn't it?"

"Too late for that," returned Cranston. "The servants wouldn't be much help as a posse, not with the headstart

Cranston's slight laugh at Harry's question was very much like The Shadow's mirth. Somehow it stimulated

"I get it!" exclaimed Harry. "The big proposition is to get at those Graydon Archives, the big stack that is in

"And Frisco is qualified to do it," added Harry, grimly, "if he can find the right spot to crack. Only from the

way that crypt is fixed, he'd just about have to wreck Graydon Towers to get into it."

"It would take time," conjectured Harry, considering the prospect literally, "but Frisco has plenty of it on his

hands. He could play it cagily, too, provided Sheriff Dodson hasn't found out who he is and guessed what he's

"The sheriff hasn't," assured Cranston. "In fact Frisco put him on the wrong track by giving him the right

"He told Dodson that a friend of his wanted to see him. Frisco meant it, too. Murder wasn't the issue, not

"No, he's just a friend of the friend that Frisco doesn't even know. Jeff rates as what is technically termed a

"I should have known it," he asserted. "Somebody wants to get at that crypt; some outsider "

"Say, that's right! I was thinking of Hugo Atmore, the art dealer. But if Jerome Hybart has been playing a

"That's right," admitted Harry. "I talked to Linda Graydon. She wanted me to help her out, just the way Jeff

Gerster did. Only she was holding back on what she had to say and when she tossed the helping hand to Jeff,

"By trying to hang on to me after I saw him sneak down this way, with the sheriff on his tail. Look, chief"

Harry became very earnest as he trudged along "if we head back to town right now, we'll find that Jeff has

switched to that jalopy he used last night. He'll be there ahead of us, staging the fake beard act, like he did

There was no reply from the darkness, unless The Shadow's action could be counted such. They had reached

the hump in the road and The Shadow was drawing Harry toward the summit of a ledge that reared its gray

At the crest, they paused, and in the dim twilight from the spreading sky, Harry could make out Cranston's

figure, brief case in hand. The Shadow had gone back to his other self, but he was still following a trail that

It was Cranston's hand that pointed to the trail and traced it, off along a slope that rose among the

There, tiny lights were bobbing, disappearing, only to come in sight again, until finally they veered off into

blackness. Looking up to the stars, Cranston checked the direction by them and gave Harry a quiet summary.

"We'll trace that road by a local map," stated Cranston. "It will tell us where Frisco Karlin headed at least

so far. Now suppose we go back to the junction and look into this question of disguises."

There was just a trace of The Shadow's sibilant tone in the words that Cranston uttered.

THE big limousine hauled up in front of the Junction House and discharged two passengers who still weren't

on speaking terms: Hugo Atmore and Elliot Huxford. Their visit to Graydon Towers had widened the natural

No sharper line could have existed than between that pair. There wasn't any doubt as to the status of each.

The whole art world knew Atmore for an utterly unscrupulous dealer whose guarantees were worthless. His

whole technique consisted in covering his dishonest practices. It was common opinion that Atmore had the

making of an outright crook, but had managed to avoid circumstances that would force him to commit

In contrast, Huxford bore a reputation for absolute integrity which he had made every effort to maintain. In

any question over art objects, he gave the other man all benefit of doubt, which was why he would have no

dealings at all with Atmore. Indeed, Huxford had frequently questioned the ways of certain art dealers whose

Evidently these passengers had left the Towers before any excitement was reported there, for they separately

dismissed the limousine and walked into the hotel to go to their respective rooms. The limousine pulled away

The next change in the local aspect came when two men appeared alongside the coal yard, pausing when they

neared the corner of the fence. They took a careful look across the green and after that survey, one man

"Wait here, Vincent. I'll coax your friend from behind his slat, false beard and all."

Placing the brief case in Harry's hand, Cranston sauntered out to the open. Over his arm draped a loose

bundle that might have been a light topcoat. Just furtively enough to excite suspicion, Cranston started

toward the hotel; then, turning his face into the light, he drew back among the trees.

Another figure copied that quick withdrawal. From his corner, Harry saw a bearded face poke from near the

broken fence paling, then, like its owner, flattened back against a darker stretch of boards. The disguise was

Under the trees, Cranston's shifting figure was making what seemed futile efforts to slide out of sight. The

bearded watcher took the bait and began a crafty maneuver along the fence, finally finding his chance to work

It was hideandseek clear over toward the schoolyard where the children played the same game in the

daytime, but after some five minutes of this, the thing became a strict reverse. From his vantage point, Harry

saw the bearded man come dodging back among the trees, veering wide of his original course.

Nobody could trail Lamont Cranston, not when he carried The Shadow's cloak and hat. Around some chance

corner, the original fugitive had made one of his patented transformations. Harry could easily picture the

consternation of the trailing man who had suddenly found he was no longer stalking anyone.

After the encounter in the woods, Jeff should know that this again meant The Shadow. Either Jeff was just

ignorant or had enough confidence in his bearded disguise to trust to shifty maneuvers rather than mad flight.

Then, as if playing a last card, the man with the bushy makeup made a quick dart into his favorite alley

Watching the blackness of the alley's outlet, Harry saw no change in it, but within the next few minutes, he

became confident that The Shadow had merged with the same gloom. Harry himself was sidling over past the

hotel to reach the side window of the abandoned store, which he was sure could be Jeff's only exit.

Crouching there, Harry expected to play a hand when Jeff dropped from the window minus his disguise. It

would be easy then, to stop him before he could sneak in the back door of the hotel. However, the drifting

Maybe there was trouble upstairs; perhaps Jeff had been smart enough to lay a trap for The Shadow!

Worried by that possibility, Harry worked the window open, crawled through and took the ladder up to the

loft. Moving cautiously, but steadily, he reached the door to the little store room and worked it open.

At the creak of Harry's door, a figure turned from the closet and Harry caught an impression of

leatherjacketed shoulders with hands that held the false beard. There was nothing else but to make a lunge

As Harry sprawled, a low tone warned for silence; then Harry was being brought to his feet by Cranston's

hand. But it wasn't his chief's face that Harry saw when he looked up. Cranston had just put on the false

"You shouldn't have become impatient, Vincent," said Cranston, coolly. "After I trailed our friend here, I

"But he didn't come out!" exclaimed Harry. "I was waiting down by the window and there wasn't a sign of

Adjusting the beard, Cranston gestured to the window at the front of the storeroom. Along with his

falsebearded chief, Harry looked out and saw a narrow roof that formed a catwalk to the second floor of the

"Those offices over the print shop!" expressed Harry. "Say I never realized that Jeff might have gone out

Parking his hat and cloak back in the brief case, The Shadow turned it over to Harry; then, in his new guise of

a bearded hunter, he beckoned his agent along the catwalk. Only one office had a window and it was the one

The Shadow opened; a few moments later, he and Harry were among the desks and chairs.

"I wonder how Jeff got in here in the first place," mused Harry. "Somebody certainly should have been

The Shadow had reached the door and was opening it. He turned his bearded face toward Harry and gave a

soft laugh as he gestured toward the name upon the door. Harry stared in new amazement as he read the

"Who wore these whiskers?" Cranston's voice came through the thing he spoke about. "Of course not. He

"But Rufe Dodson was," admitted Harry. "I should have guessed that he saw that telegram."

"That's right, he didn't. Since he didn't know who Rainintheface was, he had only your name to go on. He

must have been checking on you instead of Gerster when he went down to the woods."

"Precisely." The word was odd, spoken from that bushy beard. "It's time we gave Dodson one of his own

treatments. We'll start over to the depot, only you're to stay out of sight, Vincent."

They were down the stairs and out on the street when Harry realized that the chugs weren't imaginary. A

passenger train was pulling into the station where Rufe Dodson had returned to his nightly railroad job. Like

the rest of the freight loaders, Rufe glanced across the platform to see who boarded the local.

From where he waited, Harry watched the erstwhile sheriff gape at sight of a stoopshouldered man who

stepped on the train wearing Rufe's own disguise. Dropping the end of a crate, Rufe came tearing across the

On the train steps, Rufe encountered a burly brakeman holding a leather jacket and a hunter's cap containing

"Hello, Rufe," greeted the brakeman. "Fellow just said to hand you these. Kind of flung 'em at me when he

Grabbing the garments Rufe started through the car looking for anybody who resembled Cranston. It didn't

occur to him that Cranston might have doubled back to the rear car while the brakeman was unsnarling

himself from the hunter's outfit. It wasn't until the train was pulling out that Rufe jumped off, deciding it was

useless to follow a man against whom he had no tangible complaint and who was clearing town anyway.

There were a few passengers who had stopped off at Kanakee Junction and they were all walking over toward

the hotel. Overtaking them, Rufe noted a solitary stranger among them and followed the man into the hotel.

Bent of shoulder, withery of face, the newcomer was an elderly man whose voice had a high cackle as he

Leaning on a heavy cane, the old gentleman signed the hotel register with a shaky hand and looking over his

shoulder, Rufe saw his name: Isaac Twambley. Much annoyed at finding someone close to his elbow, old

Twambley turned and gave Rufe a sharp, indignant stare. With a mumbled apology, the sheriff turned and left

The missing man was already found and lost again. As the clerk stepped away to find a room key, a

HARRY VINCENT sat on the veranda of the Junction House chatting with Jeff Gerster. It was another

afternoon and they were exchanging ideas just as if nothing had happened in the meanwhile, which rather

limited their conversation. Neither Harry nor Jeff saw fit to discuss the twilight fray that had occurred in the

There was no way in which Jeff could know that Harry had been mixed in that imbroglio, whereas Harry

knew the entire part that Jeff had played. Though the hints that Jeff tossed were directed toward the subject of

"Funny the way everybody dropped out of sight yesterday," observed Jeff. "First that fellow Cranston was

gone; then I couldn't find you. Next it was the sheriff and finally there weren't any signs of Atmore and

"Looking around the place. Appraising the art stuff for one thing, to make sure it wasn't overinsured."

"I don't know. Old Hybart wouldn't give me any figures. Acted kind of sore over the way I'd been browsing

"I'm glad I didn't run into him then," remarked Harry. "I was browsing around too."

"In and out. I finally took a walk down to the big gate and while I was there a truck came along and offered

"If you mean Linda Graydon, yes. I'd gone up to a balcony to have a close look at a tapestry when I ran into

"Mostly doubletalk about Hybart keeping her a prisoner in what ought to be her own home. I let it pass."

"Because anybody could walk out of that place if they wanted. If she was really in a jam, she could have told

"Look at it this way. A lot depends on those Graydon Archives. I saw the few volumes that were in the

library and from what Hybart says, there's a whole coffer of them in the crypt."

"They're practically priceless, aren't they?" inquired Gerster. "The sort of thing for which a bidder would pay

There was a slight wince from Gerster at mention of the art dealer. Jeff gave a quick glance toward Harry,

"But Atmore has," argued Gerster, "and that's enough for Huxford. He's branded Atmore for the fraud he is

It sounded fair enough, even from Jeff Gerster. Of course it was part of Jeff's act to discuss matters openly

and logically as a means of covering what he didn't want to talk about. How long Jeff could be kept at it was

"About the archives?" returned Gerster. "They're part of the estate, aren't they? Naturally she's interested.

It made good sense. If the archives were worth a price to the right bidder, there wasn't any reason why Hybart

couldn't handle the bidding privately, if so inclined. The question was how Hybart could manage to turn them

"Maybe Linda wants somebody to check on Hybart," suggested Gerster. "I'd like to help the lady out, if

Hybart would only let me in. But I don't seem to rate so well since yesterday. Atmore and Huxford were

"Why should I be?" inquired Harry, bluntly meeting the question he was sure was coming. "I'm neither a

dealer nor a collector. I'm just a salesman who's waiting for a new coil for a car that won't run until it gets

"All the better," replied Gerster, with a nod. "It means you can make the grade again." Turning, he gestured to

the hotel door and the droopfaced proprietor stepped out. "Say, Mr. Swink," spoke Gerster. "what about this

"Says he's got letters introducing him to Hybart, only he can't walk that far. Says his cane would stand it, but

"To Graydon Towers. Invite old Twambley to go along and stick with him like you were his guardian. If he

Thus by suggestion of Jeff Gerster, Harry Vincent was soon bound on a new trip to Graydon Towers, driving

a car that ceased its sputters as soon as it was out of sight of town and carrying a grateful passenger in the

person of old Isaac Twambley, whose happy cackle took on a sibilant laugh as they sped along the highroad.

"Don't thank me, chief. Credit Jeff Gerster. He's the fixit boy in these parts."

"Time is what Gerster is playing against," analyzed The Shadow, in Twambley's crisp tone. "Your first

night's misadventures are sufficiently explained, Vincent. Jeff was trying to find a way into the Towers and

"Precisely." The word fitted Twambley's cackle. "Yesterday, Jeff got into the mansion for the first time.

While he was there, I checked the old dirt road for tire tracks. I expected Jeff would contact his crew again,

"And we can believe him. He's pulling every string to work Frisco's outfit in there, even trying to use you."

"Yes. He's getting desperate. Let's hope the same will soon apply to the real brain behind the attempt to reach

"Not as an actual hand in crime," confirmed The Shadow, "but for some other purpose. Let us say to divert

Those possibilities were more than likely. In fact, Harry had already been played to some extent by Gerster's

stringpulling. Summed tersely, Jeff was all piefingers. That thought brought Harry's next suggestion:

"Because if Jeff didn't lie out of it," replied The Shadow, "the big brain would. There's not a lot of evidence

against the man we want. There will be, though, after he shows his hand, which will have to be quite soon."

The Shadow showed his own hand in Twambley style by giving it a gesture toward the side of the road, not

Harry didn't ask "to do for what" because he knew he was going to find out. As he halted the car, he saw

First, Twambley pointed back toward town and Harry saw the peculiar cupola that represented the top of the

Junction House, an excellent landmark hoisting above the trees. With a pencil, Twambley drew a straight line

that direction; then another to the right spot on the old wood road that was shown on the largescale map.

Other lines followed, forming a triangulation to the distant road where The Shadow and Harry had seen the

lights of Frisco's disappearing car. Around that spot, Twambley drew a circle, including all road ends.

"That was once called Quarrytown." Twambley's sharp eyes studied the fine print on the map. "Any houses

still there are probably abandoned. A nice safe place for Frisco and his crowd. They may even have found an

There was more than speculation in the distant gaze that Twambley turned toward the greenclad hill. The

verdant setting showed a streak of jagged gray, representing the ancient quarry. It wouldn't be long, Harry

Twambley's hand waved the car onward. The big gates were open and Harry drove right through. Ahead

loomed Graydon Manor, fantastic as ever, but somehow less ominous to Harry. Maybe if Harry had been

thinking in terms of crypts and such, he would have felt the urge to shun the horrendous mansion.

But Harry's gaze kept drifting toward a far corner of the building, where the windows of a tower room were

catching the sparkle of the sunlight. Turning Gerster's game against him wouldn't be unpleasant work for

OF course Isaac Twambley had to be shown to the crypt. What with his letters of recommendation, he

couldn't be denied the privilege. For Twambley was neither an art dealer nor a collector, like Atmore and

Huxford, who also happened to present at Graydon Manor that afternoon. He was an antiquarian, like Jerome

It seemed that antiquaries formed an unlisted fraternity of men who spoke the same language, a jargon which

no one else understood. They cared not who owned art treasures for they neither bought nor sold. It wasn't the

The great bronze Guardian Angel wasn't very old; in fact it had been cast especially for Gifford Graydon, but

it had been designed to last forever, a thing that would impress the true antiquarian. For the first time, Hybart

had found a visitor who really understood the sentiment behind the great winged statue. Here was antiquity in

the making, a product that was meant for generations of a thousand years to come.

Leaning on his sturdy cane, old Twambley clanged his knuckles against the bronze and beamed as he reached

higher to tap the spreading wing that carried his admiring gaze clear to the upper corner of the antechamber.

He began to chatter in terms of ancient sculptures, Egyptian tombs, Assyrian basreliefs and statues of Atlas

Separately, of course. Elliot Huxford wouldn't tread the fanstaircase at the same time when Hugo Atmore

did, so he let Harry Vincent serve as a stopgap. When they reached the great hall, they went different ways;

Huxford to examine art treasures because of their legitimacy, Atmore to wish that he could counterfeit some

Alone, Harry Vincent let his eyes rove up a certain stairway and stopped his gaze half way.

Linda Graydon was already coming down and she had never appeared more beautiful. Perhaps it was because

the simple black dress that she wore had all the effect of a velvet background against a galaxy of jewels. The

myriad hues of sunlight coming through the stained glass panes produced a scintillating effect that added to

Linda's striking charm, and it couldn't be denied that the black dress befitted her trim contours better than any

Yet Linda certainly wasn't creating this effect for Harry. Her eyes, when they met his, lacked the warmth that

"Up and around again, I see," remarked Harry. Bowing as he stepped aside, he gestured toward the front

"If you are referring to that other night," returned Linda, icily, "I can assure you that it was purely accidental.

"Because I had caught a cold. I really should have stayed in bed. I am up today only because "

The girl stared as though she had never heard the name. It was quite possible that she hadn't, for Hybart had

"I talked to Jeff today," stated Harry. "He convinced me that there might be much in what you said."

"I am asking favors from no one," she asserted angrily. "I gave you a chance to believe me, Mr. Vincent "

"And I asked a simple question," interrupted Harry. "How and why did you disappear so suddenly? If you'll

Whatever Harry's promise, he was unable to express it, for Linda turned very hastily and hurried upstairs. She

was passing the turn of the upper hall when Harry saw Hybart arriving with Twambley from the crypt.

Sidling into a convenient alcove, Harry was admiring a suit of armor when the two men passed. He was quite

sure that Hybart didn't notice him, but he was equally certain that he couldn't have escaped Twambley's

amazing eyes. The two went into the library and Harry, about to leave the alcove, stepped back again as

It was Sheriff Dodson arriving for another visit and he was going straight to see Hybart. Confident that

Twambley would cover Hybart's interview with Dodson, Harry resumed his stroll around the hall,

When the rotund Mrs. Moffitt appeared and trudged up the stairs in the fashion of someone making regular

rounds, Harry decided that Linda must have gone back to bed, rather than become involved in further

argument about her state of health. If Harry could trust his judgment of persons, the amiable Mrs. Moffitt was

The most that Harry could say in Linda's favor was that as a liar, she wasn't a practiced one. By her own

admission she'd needed a rest cure for the cold that she had caught while voluntarily going outside a house

Meanwhile Sheriff Dodson was relating some outside facts to Jerome Hybart. Rufe didn't mind discussing

them in Twambley's presence, because he didn't know that the new visitor was in the library. Twambley had

literally buried himself in the massive volumes that gave the full history of all the art objects still in Graydon

"Came up to talk to you about the shooting," said Dodson to Hybart. "Thought you may have heard it."

"Of course I heard it," returned Hybart. "I reported it to you after it happened two nights ago."

"Early. Just about dusk. Too far away I reckon, otherwise you'd have heard it. Anyway, Mr. Hybart, I'm

"Kind of a big job though for one man," continued Rufe. "considering how I'm working for the railroad part

"They're really needed indoors," considered Hybart. "Still, if I sent them out around the grounds, they would

"I'll take care of the woods. Only I'm asking you one favor, Mr. Hybart. If I disappear suddenlike, I'd want

"Because it nearly did last night. I met up with a gang of masked men that threatened to take me to see a

"That's right. Only who he was, they didn't say. But I'm reckoning what he's after that bunch of papers

"That's what people say about most everything until after it happens. Maybe with me as a hostage, they'd try

to make you come to terms. Or they might knock me off, just as an example. It all depends on the man behind

"Search me, Mr. Hybart. Thought sure I had him labeled, only he didn't stay around. It must be somebody

Seating himself at a reading table, Hybart let his tilted head rest on his hand. His eyes sparkling keenly, he

"I'll invite them to stay here, sheriff," decided Hybart. "That is, the ones who are really interested in studying

"Then I'll see that he's watched. Never mind about Vincent; he's just a salesman, stopping over while he gets

"Very well, sheriff." Lifting his head sufficiently, Hybart extended his hand. "Let me assure you of one

thing." There was a steady, pointed emphasis to Hybart's tone. "Whatever I do will be with one purpose; to

That declaration brought a nod from Dodson along with his firm handclasp. Rising, the sheriff strode out

through the great hall and through the front door, without once turning to look back. But during that progress,

You could see the alcoves going out, better than when coming in, and Rufe hadn't needed more than a glance

WHEN Jerome Hybart showed his new guests to their rooms, he took Harry Vincent along as a matter of

courtesy. After all, Harry had brought Isaac Twambley here and Sheriff Dodson had later spoken a good

word for Harry. Indeed, Hybart was very tactful in avoiding an invitation for Harry to stay.

Hybart phrased it as a proposition for those who were interested in the art treasures, which excluded Harry.

He added that the guests would be welcome to remain until the Graydon Archives were brought from their

crypt, a point which caused Huxford to accept the invitation a moment after Atmore did.

It was obvious that Huxford intended to watch Atmore as soon as the archives came back from their tomb.

His beady eyes made sidelong darts the moment that this hint was given and without realizing it, he delivered

What might eventually happen between these two men was something Harry Vincent wanted to be back in

Through all this, Isaac Twambley beamed and talked in a happy quaver about the delights of being an

antiquary. He was so anxious to be shown over the whole house that he scarcely noticed the room that Hybart

It was a noticeable fact that Hybart chose the most remote room in the house for Atmore. He softened the fact

"This is called the Oak Room," stated Hybart. "Notice its fine old furniture, the product of three generations

back. It has a fireplace, you notice, in the far wall. The paintings are all portraits of the Graydon family. A

trifle severe, the gray rug and window curtains; but they all make for simplicity."

Outside Atmore's room a stairway led directly to a side door of the house, heavily bolted on the inside.

Leading the way down, Hybart threaded a course to the other side of the house, where he picked a room for

Huxford. It was a modern type, furnished in mahogany, and it lacked the mellow effect of the Oak Room. It

had one merit, however, that Huxford didn't overlook. It was just as far from Atmore's room as it could

To be thoroughly polite, Hybart showed the visitors his own room, which was fairly close to Linda's tower.

On the sunny side of the house, the room produced a dazzle the moment that Hybart opened the door.

Furnished entirely in bird'seye maple, the room couldn't help but be bright, even this late in the afternoon.

The yellow wood glistened everywhere, from massive bookcases, bureaus, even the narrow picture frames

"The Maple Room," stated Hybart, as though nobody knew. "I prefer it bright in contrast to the library. The

Chinese rug with all its yellow patterns is appropriate, don't you think? Too vivid, though, those golden

curtains. I must have them changed. Or perhaps I shall move to the Oak Room for the winter. I like an open

Harry thought he caught a stir at Linda's door when they passed along the hallway, but it couldn't have

opened any wider than a crack. Then Hybart turned to take them to the elevator, which was a large one,

evidently built to accommodate bulky items like furniture and statuary as well as people.

It was an oldfashioned elevator and very slow. Hybart handled it so clumsily that he went waist deep below

the first floor and had to work it up again. They stepped from the elevator into the music room and as they

"Sorry you aren't staying overnight, Mr. Vincent," said Hybart, "but you'll have dinner with us, of course."

Catching a glance from Twambley, Harry accepted the invitation and in doing so hoped for another meeting

with Linda on the chance that it might straighten out a few complications. But when one of Hybart's drab

servants tapped the dinner chimes and ushered them into a huge dining room, the girl did not appear.

Through a pantry door, Harry saw Mrs. Moffitt preparing a tray to take upstairs and Harry was struck by the

sudden recollection that he had parked his car where it could be seen from Linda's window: That was how the

girl had learned of Harry's arrival and he now had the very unpleasant hunch that she wasn't coming down to

What softened that opinion was the fact that Linda might be playing policy. To keep up her pretense of

Hybart's tyranny, she couldn't well afford to appear at the dinner table. If so, Linda had brought it on herself

and Harry hoped that she was fuming over the fact that she had to play sick and stay in bed as a result of her

After dinner, Harry found a chance to join The Shadow in the library. There, as Twambley, The Shadow

mentioned brief facts concerning the sheriff's visit, chiefly concerning the fact that Hybart's servants might be

on ground patrol and should therefore be avoided, if Harry found reason to return after leaving the Towers.

Having sized those servants during dinner, Harry wasn't worried, for they looked to be a patient, almost timid

lot. Harry simply nodded, while looking over Twambley's shoulder at the big volumes that listed the Graydon

"Interesting, these," cackled Twambley, suddenly, referring to the books. "Look, Vincent! Here are

photographs of every art item, with enlargements to show secret marks and other special features. Notice how

thoroughly their history is listed. Gifford Graydon certainly had a pedigreed collection."

In answer to Harry's question, Twambley gestured to Hybart, who had just entered and was the cause for the

"Exactly like them," stated Hybart. "There are at least two dozen volumes filling the great coffer in the

"Something more for the Guardian Angel to look after," laughed Harry. Then, with a gesture to the books, he

added: "Is he listed here, as to size, weight, wingspread and other specifications?"

"The great bronze is not an item in the art collection," declared the custodian, coldly. "Mr. Graydon had it

cast to order, along with the other fixtures. I suppose it would be found in the architect's plans, but I believe

Harry could have tossed more banter at that one, but desisted, since Hybart wasn't in a mood for it. Indeed,

Harry was dangerously close to wearing out his welcome, the way Jeff Gerster had.

"We are locking the mansion," declared Hybart, "and since you aren't staying over night, I must ask that you

Hybart's pause was expressive. It seemed to say that Harry could come again, if he didn't overdo his present

sojourn. So Harry bowed a polite goodnight and strolled out through the great hall. At the front door, a tired,

drabfaced servant was standing ready to close it, so Harry didn't tarry. There wasn't anything creaky about

that huge door, the way it shut behind Harry. Maybe the creaks were in the old servant.

Harry was chuckling at that thought as he groped toward his car. The night was cloudy and very dark, there

being no moon to trickle through the overcast. But as Harry paused beside his car, he could make out the

mansion very plainly. One jutting corner particularly interested him, the tower where Linda resided.

The windows of that high room were dark, indicating that Linda had probably decided to sleep off her mad.

Or maybe she hadn't; for all Harry knew, she might be watching from the window. Maybe she'd relented and

Most important, of course, was that matter of Linda's disappearance on the stormy night, which still rankled

Harry because it had the elements of an unsolved mystery. So Harry slammed the car door loud enough to

attract Linda's attention should she still be awake and as a followup, he began to blink the car lights thinking

It didn't occur to Harry that be might be overdoing it. That notion belonged to someone else.

From the darkness of the seat beside him, Harry heard a stir. Before he could swing from the wheel, the cold

hard snout of a revolver pressed against his neck. The icy sensation poured thoughts into Harry's startled

Having once slipped from the Towers without the knowledge of its other occupants, Linda could be staging

the act again, gun and all. What a fool Harry had been not to guess that she could and would ambush him

All Harry hoped now was that Linda was in a forgiving mood, ready to be talked out of anything too drastic.

Whether she was or not, remained a question. Before the chill of the gun had eased, Harry learned that the

weapon wasn't Linda's. The voice that spoke from the darkness was low, but gruff. Harry recognized it.

"Get moving," it said. "Drive right out through the gates and do it natural. Keep going where I tell you and

Harry Vincent wasn't in the mood to argue; not with Rufe Dodson, sheriff of Beaverwood County!

GRAYDON TOWERS seemed to settle itself for a night's rest after the lights of Harry's coupe had twinkled

out through the gates. Maybe the hush that gathered over the bizarre mansion was an outgrowth of the scene

No longer were the great hall and its adjacent rooms alight with the flicker of the numerous candles that

amplified the sparse electric lights. The wicks had been snuffed by the stolid servants who never seemed to

tire, despite their many rounds. Night lights were burning from a few electric lamps, but their glow has

Graydon Towers had become a manse fit only for ghosts to tread. Then a figure as noiseless as the darkness it

matched, was moving invisibly throughout these weird preserves, the cloaked figure of The Shadow.

Occasionally, a tiny flashlight twinkled in odd nooks and alcoves, on stairways and beside the elevator door.

More important, though, were the pauses that The Shadow made, for it was during one of those that he heard

sounds so distant that only his keen ears could have caught them. Likewise it took The Shadow's keen sense

of direction to locate the cautious footsteps that were descending one of the many stairways.

Threading a silent and unseen path through rooms and corridors that he remembered as though he had

designed them, The Shadow indulged in the lightest of whispered laughs when he noted the sound of drawing

bolts. Continuing his course he reached an obscure door that led outside, just in time to see it close.

Shortly The Shadow opened that door himself and closed it silently behind him. Next he was trailing a

huddled figure that was hurrying out along the driveway, a shape that a cat's eyes could hardly have traced.

The Shadow saw the man ahead at intervals only; mostly he checked the course by crunches from the

Outside the gate a car with dimmers was waiting and it wasn't Harry's coupe. It was the rattletrap that

belonged to Sheriff Dodson, but tonight its driver was the man that Harry had first pictured as the owner of

The Shadow saw Jeff step into the glow to greet the arrival from the Towers, who promptly revealed himself

in the same style and proved to be the man The Shadow thought he was: Hugo Atmore.

Encroaching blackness enabled The Shadow to move close enough to overhear the guarded conversation of

"You've done nothing, Gerster!" Atmore's voice was tense. "Nothing that I paid you to do and there are only a

"Less than a few, maybe," returned Jeff, with a shrug. "I've got a hunch that Hybart can open that crypt any

"He's watching me," returned Atmore. "Checking everything I do, listening to every word I say."

"Not where Huxford is concerned. He wouldn't stay within a hundred feet of me ordinarily. But he's even

"Not now he isn't. Climb into this trap and enjoy a trip that doesn't include snoopers."

Atmore accepted the invitation. So did The Shadow, without mentioning it. The clatter of the front doors

Then the car was starting toward the Junction with The Shadow listening to the further conversation that

"I still say Huxford doesn't rate," argued Jeff. "It's Hybart who has charge of those archives. Talk to him."

"The things you expected me to tell him. That he has no right to hurt the reputation of people who acted in

"It wouldn't wash," he said. "Not coming from me, after the way Huxford has spread what people think about

"Certainly. Look at the stew I'm in." Jeff gave a laugh as though he liked it. "If the archives prove that a lot of

phoney art stuff was sold, what about the people who bought the junk? They've overinsured, haven't they?"

"So I'll have to accuse them." Jeff's head wagged sadly. "I wouldn't want to do that, Atmore. Poor, innocent

"Then tell them so. Wire them and sign my name. Ask them to express confidence in you. Say that I have it

"I'll turn the telegrams over to you. Better still, you can pick them up yourself. The station agent won't know

The rattles of the old car predominated for a while; then Atmore picked up the subject with a nod.

"It ought to work," he decided. "Provided that yap sheriff isn't at the depot. He knows everybody."

"He's off tonight," chuckled Jeff. "If he wasn't I wouldn't have borrowed this junk pile that he keeps in the

coal yard. I'll drop you near the depot and you can do the rest. How long will it take?"

"At least an hour, to write all those telegrams. I'll have to word them according to the people who are to get

"Anything you say, Atmore. Only don't worry. I still have a few more ideas in the back of the bean."

The rattles were lessening for the car was pulling into Kanakee Junction, where the road was better. Easing

the speed, Jeff aimed for the coal yard and The Shadow dropped off before they reached it. What Jeff thought

was a jolt that made a fender clatter was simply The Shadow's weight leaving the car.

Knowing exactly what Atmore intended, The Shadow was soon beginning his return trip to Graydon Towers,

this time on foot. He saw no need to visit the hotel and contact Harry Vincent, who by proper calculations

Not that Harry had tried anything spectacular with Sheriff Dodson. Quite to the contrary, he had obeyed

Rufe's orders to the letter. Having traveled half a dozen miles over some very bad roads, Harry was ready for

Harry stopped on a hump in the dirt road, somewhere up in the hills. Rufe put another question:

"On the other side, it's different," declared Rufe. "It says Romeo County. Leastwise I think it does" with his

free hand, the sheriff stroked his long jaw "but it may be Havelock. Funny, I never did bother to find out

Harry's surprised tone brought a gruff laugh from Rufe. Right from his chin, he brought his big hand

"Listen, Rainintheface," complimented Rufe. "You're all right. I play hunches, so I ought to know. You

don't have to tell me it was you who helped me out of a bad jam on the wood road, last night."

"I'm a man who trusts my own judgment," continued Rufe, "and I don't give orders or ask questions except in

Beaverwood County, where I've got to act official. But if you'll just take that foot of yours off the brake "

Up came Harry's foot and the coupe slipped a dozen yards past the signpost beside the road. Squinting

"Can you beat that!" exclaimed Rufe Dodson. "Tain't Romeo or Havelock, neither one. I'm busted if this isn't

a corner of Swamp River County, poked right into where it never ought to be. Anyway" with a flourish,

Rufe pocketed his gun and thrust a brawny hand to Harry "I'm not the sheriff here. I don't care, do you?"

"On the contrary, I do," returned Harry. "It's better for both of us to be unofficial, if we're going to work

Harry paused, without defining them. He left that to Rufe, who knew a word that fitted.

QUARRYTOWN consisted of just one house, quite visible from the edge of the quarry. The rest had gone the

way of all houses in which nobody lived. But there were still shacks near the quarry proper, because, as Rufe

recalled, it had been worked for a good many years after the settlement had been abandoned.

There were lights in the house, showing through chinks in the windows, and that was enough for the sheriff

"A couple of hundred yards," Rufe calculated. "Not too much for a sneak across the open."

Drawing his gun, Rufe paused. Harry wondered why until he noted that his companion's head was tilted,

listening to a distant sound. That sound was the heavy chug of a locomotive, carrying far from the valley that

"Don't bother to look at your watch," declared Rufe. "We know just when we're starting this little expedition.

"Ten fifteen?" inquired Harry. "Shouldn't you allow about an hour for it being late?"

"Not Number Three," returned Rufe. "She's a slow freight. They're what we set the town clock by."

Harry was drawing his automatic as a mate for Rufe's revolver. Why he happened to glance down the slope,

A light was blinking slow but definite flashes from beyond the lower slope. It gave the effect of a distant

"From Graydon Towers!" voiced Rufe. "It's right on a line from here. I laid it on the map today!"

Harry had seen it laid on that same map, only he didn't say so. On Twambley's map, the line had just grazed

the Towers and Harry knew which corner. Much though he didn't like it, Harry realized that the blinking

Hardly were Rufe and Harry starting toward the old relic of a house when its door swung open and disgorged

the crew in question. Too distant to be recognized, Frisco and his mob dashed around to the other side of the

house. Taking it on the run, ready to match their two guns against four, Harry and Rufe were only half way

Rufe's favorite word was drowned with the blast of his own gunfire, which Harry accompanied but to no

avail. The car was out of sight and gun range so fast that there was only one thing to do. Rufe said it:

"Back to your car, Vincent! Here" as they were starting, Rufe fished in his pocket and shoved an object into

Harry's hand "you can wear this deputy's badge. Only don't put it on until we're back in my county!"

It was a strange chase this, around by one road while the other car was taking another, through terrain where

maps referred to conditions of twenty years ago. Who would reach the Towers first was a wideopen

question, but Harry hoped to be the winner. He used the bright lights to make better time, but when they

They pulled up underneath the hulking mass of Graydon Towers, which, except for dim trickles of light,

could have been a mausoleum in its entirety, rather than having that term apply solely to its impenetrable

"Take to the shrubs," he said. "Then dodge over to the little grove. And after that "

"Down toward the stone wall," supplied Harry, "with the woods on the other side."

"You know your way around," conceded Rufe. "But it's still right with me, Rainintheface."

"Hold it here." Rufe preferred the grove. "Work over to the house and they won't see us if we play it right."

"That's right!" Rufe was beginning a half circle, bringing Harry along. "We'll pop right out from nowhere "

The men who popped wore masks and there were four of them. The masks were scarcely visible in the dark

but the guns had plenty of glitter. They might have come right out of the mansion's wall, this crew, after

managing to be on the ground ahead of Harry and Rufe. But they didn't waste time talking about what they

This wasn't the woods, where Frisco Karlin felt free to speak his piece. Without ceremony, the masked outfit

did to the prisoners what should be done to prisoners. So rapidly that they didn't like to think about it, Harry

How far they circled around Graydon Towers, Harry couldn't tell, but the parade finally turned into a healthy

pair of shoves that sent both prisoners across a stone threshold. Sprawling, they were hauled to their feet by

their captors and forced to climb a concrete stairway, with Harry counting every one of the sixteen steps.

Sweet sixteen, thought Harry, a more youthful age than that of the redhaired girl who had flashed the word

Through a doorway at the top and there the blindfolds were whipped off so that the prisoners could recognize

The room was thoroughly familiar to Harry, although Rufe stared in a way that proved he had never seen it.

It would have been a nice room under different circumstances, the Oak Room that was perhaps the greatest

pride of Graydon Towers. Gray rug and curtains were plain in the flicker of the candles that had been lighted

specially for this reception, but there was a greater glow from the crackling fire in the open fireplace.

Those heavy furnishings, all of deepstained oak were augmented by the largeframed portraits that glared

from the wall as though the Graydon ancestors were awaiting jury duty to decide the fate of two unwary men

who had fared too deeply into the premises of the late Gifford, last of the direct Graydon line.

The four masked men who flanked the prisoners no longer counted. That crew, including Frisco, were only

stooges in Harry's estimate. Most important was the master of the show, who stood with folded arms as

This was the Oak Room, where Hugo Atmore belonged, since he was the guest assigned here. But nobody

Over his head, the man with folded arms wore a hood, formed of a baize bag cut with eyeslits. Draped from

his shoulders was an improvised robe in the shape of an oversized topcoat that could have been picked from

any closet in the house. Probably it had belonged to old Gifford Graydon, which was appropriate, because its

"I wanted to see who your prisoners were." The eyes from the slits turned toward the masked captors. "I have

That was all, except that the masked men still awaited the drop of their master's hand. He held it, letting

Harry and Rufe drink in every detail of the surroundings that they were to leave before they met an ominous

fate. Then, as the hand descended slowly, the blindfolds were again applied to the eyes of the two prisoners.

It was truly a death march this time. Out through the door, down those fatal sixteen steps, with only a pause

on the threshold below. Then the slow slogslog across the turf on a circuit that gradually led downward to

Off in the distance came the trilling blare announcing that the night freight had loaded and would soon be

Maybe Graydon Towers lacked a ghostly banshee, but that wail from the distant dark was a satisfactory

It was the weird repetition of that locomotive whistle that gave her the shivers, but Elliot Huxford thought

"You are very foolish," asserted Huxford, with a shake of his bushy head. "You shouldn't have come down

from your room wearing only that flimsy dressing gown. At least you might have had sense enough to put on

"I couldn't find them," retorted Linda, "and besides, they make a lot of clatter on concrete."

"You're telling me!" Linda was momentarily indignant. Then, with a smile, she said: "I still don't like clatter.

"So did I," he said. "That's why I got dressed and came downstairs to look around. The only part of the house

The girl halted in new alarm. Those footsteps were becoming real again, approaching with a solitary shuffle

that was accompanied by a strange tapping that she hadn't heard before. Coming up from her chair, Linda

tightened her dressing gown and clutched Huxford with trembling hands. Against Huxford's wrist, the girl's

gripping fist felt as icy as the metal of one of the silent knights that stood in their empty suits of armor.

The footsteps arrived as Linda spoke and with them Isaac Twambley, whose cane was responsible for the

peculiar taps. Apparently old Twambley hadn't been sleeping either, for his face showed anxiety until he saw

"It couldn't have been you, Mr. Twambley," said the girl, apologetically. "These were a lot of footsteps that I

"I'm not sure they did go out," spoke Linda, quickly. "They were mostly in these lower rooms, but I was sure

Huxford was rising as he made the suggestion; he halted as a sharp tone interrupted him.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Huxford." It was Hybart who spoke; he had come from the stairway leading up

to the Maple Room. "The servants have had a heavy day. They deserve some rest. We shall look into this

Rather than risk another tiff with Hybart; Linda was leaving her chair to sidle up the stairway to her room,

before Hybart could summarily order her there. But this was an occasion demanding a different treatment.

"I suggest that you come with us, Linda," said Hybart. "I want you to be sure that nothing is amiss in

"I give no orders here," returned Hybart, patiently. "If I have spoken summarily in the past, it was for your

own good. So suit yourself" Hybart gave a shrug "and take my word for it when I say there are no

prowlers in this house. Come, Huxford, let us see if the elevator is at the ground level where it belongs. I am

afraid Miss Graydon is running a slight fever that is increasing her imagination."

As Hybart turned with Huxford following him, Linda glared fresh indignation. It was worse to be ignored

than to be ordered about, so she decided to go along and call this bluff. By the time Hybart and Huxford had

reached the elevator to find that it was actually where it belonged, Linda had paddled through the music room

"You see?" queried Hybart. Turning to Huxford, he noted Linda and raised his tilted eyebrows in feigned

surprise. "Nobody was using the elevator. Nevertheless, we may as well search the other rooms to make sure

By "we" Hybart no longer included old Twambley. He had hobbled off somewhere with his cane; probably

back to the security of his own room where he could bolt the door and shudder until he was sure that all was

There was something about the shudder business where Twambley was concerned. However it was his policy

to dish them out, those shudders, instead of experiencing them personally. To do that, Twambley had to

become his other self. As The Shadow, he was on his way out through the door that Atmore had earlier left

In picking up his hat and cloak from behind a door where he had parked them, The Shadow didn't leave his

cane. Instead, he telescoped it with a crushing move between his gloved hands and dropped it, a cylinder

some three inches in length, into a pocket underneath his cloak. That cane, styled like the conventional

drinking cup, but in elongated pattern, was one of The Shadow's neat disguise tricks when switching

Now The Shadow was crossing the sloping lawn, toward the ledge by the hump in the old dirt road. Talk of

prowlers in and out of Graydon Towers was quite enough to call for rapid action, for The Shadow, returning

Considering the area occupied by the ivied pile called Graydon Towers, The Shadow's own return through

the mansion could have allowed time for a prowling crew to move out, taking at least one prisoner along.

And now to intercept what might be a death crew, traveling along the old dirt road!

The best place was the lookout ledge, but when The Shadow reached it, he saw no sign of car lights

anywhere. A few minutes of observation convinced him that Frisco and his murderous mob couldn't be

driving back to Quarrytown; but there was the other possibility that they had trudged somewhere on foot,

A strange reply came to The Shadow's mental question, a weird proclamation that he had heard not long

before, but now instead of coming from a set position, it was speaking on the rove.

The long shrill whistle of a locomotive was followed by the echo of approaching chugs, increasing in their

Number Three on the L and M was pulling out of the Junction and steaming with accumulating power toward

the railroad cut that was marked on the local map as lying just beyond the most distant corner of the Graydon

Instantly, The Shadow started a swift course from the ledge; reaching a remote section of the stone wall that

flanked the Graydon grounds, he cleared it and raced like a living whirlwind through the long, uncut grass

that marked the forgotten portion of the mansion's land. Again the locomotive wailed, this time for the

A few minutes more and that howl would be sounding ravenous and hollow when the night freight poured

There was no telling which of the four masked men was Frisco Karlin, since all had been silent. Again,

whatever anyone might have shouted could not be heard above the onrushing freight as it entered the cut.

On the very fringe of that manmade ravine, Harry Vincent and Rufe Dodson were faced by aiming guns.

When those weapons blasted, their sound too, would be lost, but the result would not be changed.

Literally, a hail of bullets would wilt the two prisoners who were facing their execution squad without

blindfolds. Along with those bandages, their bonds had been removed. Ropes wouldn't be the proper things to

find with two mangled bodies hit by the night freight. Bullets would be bad enough, if located during an

inquest, but they were necessary to wither the prisoners from the brink where they stood and topple them

Deluged with thoughts, Harry saw only one way to beat the shots. He took it as he saw the leader of the death

squad slowly raise his free hand as a preliminary signal. Wheeling full about, Harry made a mad grab for

Rufe and at the same time pitched himself headlong down the steep embankment toward the rails that

The same idea had struck the sheriff and he was snatching for Harry in a simultaneous dive. Missing each

other they went spinning downward through the soft dirt, carrying a miniature landslide with them. Amid

Then, into the clay cushion that their own slide had provided, they struck the ditch and staggered to the

middle of the track, landing there on hands and knees. Fast work, this, with plenty of time to spare. Ominous

though the locomotive was, Harry and Rufe had beaten its plodding pace and only wished that the freight

What they needed was a line of cars between themselves and the brink that they had left, in case their

excaptors started pecking at them in the brilliant setting that the searchlight afforded. As they came to their

feet, Harry not only shoved Rufe to the ditch on the far side of the track, but started him along that narrow

pathway toward the locomotive, so that they could gain protection sooner. Rufe took the hint and went with

During their spill, the escaping prisoners had looked like crippled men, tumbling helplessly to doom. That

was why another figure had started a similar slide from a further section of the brink. The Shadow was

coming along the edge, intent upon taking a lastmoment hand when Harry and Rufe acted for themselves.

Seeing them appear like tumble bugs in the great eye of the locomotive, the cloaked rescuer had started down

Digging hard into the dirt, The Shadow stopped his slide half way. He was still slipping gradually as he

jabbed shots at an angle toward the brink above, aiming to clip any sharpshooters who might be leaning over

to take potshots at the two men below. Maybe the whine of bullets scared the murder squad; at any rate,

Hearing no more shots, The Shadow went champing upward, fighting his way against the sliding clay as the

whole freight lumbered along beneath him with Harry and Rufe safely on the far side. At the top, The

Shadow caught only a glimpse of disappearing flashlights, off among the trees that fringed the old stone wall

between this spot and Graydon Towers. The squad that hadn't delivered was making itself scarce and in a

At least one thing had been gained. The Shadow had recognized Rufe Dodson along with Harry Vincent;

both were very plain in the mighty glare. That recognition was the reason for the singular laugh The Shadow

For the present, The Shadow's policy was to let Rufe Dodson and his new friend, Harry Vincent, unravel

existing riddles in their own way. After the caboose had clicked past them, they came clambering up from the

cut and started for Graydon Towers, followed by The Shadow. By the time Rufe and Harry reached the

Going to the side door that offered access to the stairway leading up to the Oak Room. They found the door

bolted, which to The Shadow watching from the darkness was sufficient proof that Hugo Atmore had

returned. Circling the mansion, Harry and Rufe passed the inner corner where Linda had disappeared that

The pounding had aroused the sleepy servants, who came in sight while Jerome Hybart was opening the front

door. Behind Hybart was Elliot Huxford, ready to help in case of trouble. Linda was there too, her face very

worried, but she joined the general relief when she saw Sheriff Dodson. In fact, Linda almost gave Harry a

Then the whole story was being told; how the masked mob from the Quarrytown hill had captured Harry and

Rufe and taken them to meet a hooded chief whose headquarters was in the Oak Room. Hearing this, Jerome

It was just what might be expected. Hugo Atmore, unreliable, unscrupulous, unethical, had overshot his mark.

Rating as the brain who wanted to get at the Graydon Archives, Atmore needed only to be accused of having

ordered a double death warrant which his masked mob had been too slow to carry through.

As custodian of Graydon Towers, Jerome Hybart led the march to the Oak Room and knocked on the door.

Scarcely had Atmore opened it, before the group pushed through and the crabfaced man saw himself

"It's not true!" exclaimed Atmore, hoarsely. "I never heard of these masked men you mention. I never

"They brought us to Graydon Towers," stormed Dodson, "and Vincent recognized this room. I recognize it

"And the only Oak Room in the mansion," put in Hybart. He turned to Linda. "I am sure Miss Graydon will

"A preposterous argument," put in Hybart, "but even if true, it could hardly shift the blame. Neither Huxford

nor Linda could have been here, for they were in the great hall." He turned, looked around the group, and

"As for myself" Hybart was stating his own case methodically and impartially "my room, the Maple

Room, is so located that it would be impossible for me to come here to the Oak Room without passing

through the great hall. The others will testify that I came from there when I entered the hall and found them.

"And so," put in Rufe Dodson, "as sheriff of Beaverwood County, I am placing Hugo Atmore under arrest.

Compressing his lips very tightly. Atmore decided to go along. But as he reached the stairs, he turned around

"You'll regret this, all of you!" stormed back Atmore. "You think you can prove a case against me, but you

Finishing his shout as he reached the bottom step, Atmore was dragged along by Rufe, who gestured for

Harry to unbolt the outside door. With their prisoner between them, Harry and Rufe started for town in the

Back at Graydon Towers, the occupants were returning to their various quarters with one exception: old Isaac

Twambley. Again, the elderly guest was switching to his character of The Shadow; clad in his favorite guise,

he glided out through the same door by which Harry and Rufe had left with Atmore.

The Shadow was a full minute ahead of the servants who came to bolt that door, and as he crossed the lawn

he heard the peculiar chug of an old motor starting from somewhere off the driveway. It was Rufe's car, with

Gerster at the wheel; having delivered Atmore back at the Towers, Jeff was taking the borrowed vehicle

Continuing across the lawn, The Shadow took his own short cut toward the Junction.

The first was sprung by Atmore. As Harry's car neared the depot, the prisoner began a long and healthy

"Better talk to the station agent," Atmore told Rufe. "He'll tell you that I wasn't up at the Towers. Ask him,

Rufe ordered a stop at the depot to learn what this was all about. There, Jerry the station agent acknowledged

"Reckon he's right, sheriff," nodded Jerry. "He was here from ten o'clock on past eleven. Sending this batch

Staring at the telegrams Jerry shoved through the window, Rufe saw the signatures. All bore the name of Jeff

"So you're in cahoots with Gerster!" exclaimed Rufe to Atmore. "What's the game?"

"I will!" retorted Rufe. "And you'll be there when I do! Come on, we're going over to the hotel."

"Haven't seen him, sheriff," said the clerk. "Not since he went upstairs about quarter past ten. He was acting

kind of funny though. That's why Mr. Swink went up and he didn't come down nuther."

Jeff wasn't in his room, nor was there any sign of Swink, at least not until Rufe noticed an open door with

steep stairs beyond it. As the sheriff recalled it, that door was seldom open, so he decided to investigate,

The stairs led to the oddshaped cupola that marked the top of the oldfashioned hotel and there they found

why Tobias Swink, proprietor of the Junction House, had not returned downstairs.

Tobias Swink was lying crumpled in the cupola, very dead from a bullet through his heart.

FURTIVELY the figure crossed the open stretch from the clustered trees near Graydon Towers. Nearing a

corner of the mansion, it paused. A flashlight blinked, not in code, but merely with quick, repeated signal.

It wasn't long before a faint, grating sound came from amid the ivy of an inset wall.

The ivy itself spread with the sliding door that opened and the furtive figure hurried across the threshold into

the glow of a lighted candle. The furtive man was Jeff Gerster and his voice was excited but low:

Another figure had entered during that brief interval, an invisible shape that arrived with a glide. The Shadow

Jeff's query came anxiously as the sliding door went shut under Linda's pressure of the wall switch.

"Of course it is," laughed Linda, lightly. "I couldn't have come through Hybart's room if he'd been there.

Waiting in the lower darkness, The Shadow checked his facts. He didn't blame Linda for cooperating with

Jeff. The news of Swink's death hadn't yet reached Graydon Towers. All Linda wanted was someone to help

her check on Hybart whom she almost openly mistrusted. Having doubted that Harry would help her, Linda

had put the same proposition to Jeff, the time he had come back to the Towers after Frisco's mob had tried to

All that had pieced itself from Harry's reports to The Shadow, who had added some analysis of his own while

Singular elements were at work within those agestained walls. Down in the great hall, Jerome Hybart was

standing in the dim light of an alcove, his hand raised to the shoulder of a suit of fancy armor. The custodian's

head was at its habitual tilt but the sharp gleam from his keen eyes told that he was listening attentively for

Hybart could hear them; the sounds he didn't like, muffled scrapes like the gnawing of so many rats, but

almost impossible to locate. Then, stealing from his alcove, the custodian crossed the floor to the music

room. He was strangely crablike, this man with owlish eyes. No longer wearing the big lensed glasses that

seemed part of him, Hybart was relying more on hearing than on sight. He was still wearing his skull cap,

however, and like the rest of him, it was swallowed in the darkness of the music room.

Almost immediately, Jeff Gerster came tiptoeing down the stairs from the direction of the Maple Room.

Having glimpsed Hybart, he followed after the man, but half way through the music room, Jeff halted.

Conscious of something bulking toward his right, Jeff squinted into the darkness. His eyes, widening, showed

Then, with a low intake of breath, Jeff groped to the fan staircase that led down to the antechamber outside

the famed Graydon crypt. On those steps, Gerster listened and what he heard, he understood. Drawing back,

Jeff was waiting in the upper darkness when Hybart came plodding upstairs. Never suspecting Jeff's presence

Soon, other footsteps clicked on the concrete. By the light from a door that he opened in a corridor, Elliot

Huxford entered the music room from the far side and strolled across, pausing only to admire the colorful

glitter from the tiled mosaic in the center of the floor. Coming into the great hall, Huxford glanced casually

"I'm afraid not," replied Linda, wearily. She drew back into the darkness so that Huxford wouldn't see that

"No thanks," said Linda. "It might mean another reprimand from Mr. Hybart. He was forgetful, not giving me

Around the corner of the upper hall, Linda hurried toward her own room. Pausing for a moment by the

hallway window, she looked out and stared into the first faint glimmer of the dawn. Figures were weaving, so

Linda thought, until she decided she must have been deceived by the motion of the clustered trees.

They couldn't have approached the mansion and vanished. The only people who could manage that were

those who were in the know. Outsiders weren't familiar with the secret portal leading into Graydon Towers. It

had taken Linda a long while to learn that riddle for herself and then only because she had once caught

Thanks to The Shadow, two men had just gained entrance through the sliding door which lifted the segments

of ivy with it. As they heard the door go shut with a muffled grate, Harry Vincent and Rufe Dodson turned on

"No wonder Linda disappeared that night!" exclaimed Harry. "I should have known that she used some stunt

He didn't add that somebody else had reasoned it out for him, namely The Shadow, at whose order Harry had

"Look at those steps!" Rufe threw his flashlight upward. "Sixteen of them. That's the number you counted,

"Which means this is the way those maskies brought us in," declared Harry. "There were more than twenty

coming down from the Oak Room. Remember how Atmore practically counted them with words when we

Harry could have said that he had told all this to The Shadow in a secret meeting outside the Junction House

"There's our door, right at the top," asserted Rufe. "Come on, Vincent let's learn who's behind it!"

At the top of the stairs they shouldered the door open, swinging a heavy object with it. A man came lunging

at them with tigerish fury only to be met by the swing of their guns. A few moments later, Jerome Hybart was

sagged in a chair, his bald head glistening where his skull cap should have been.

A strangely whispered laugh came from the doorway through which Harry and Rufe had barged. Into the

Maple Room stalked The Shadow, gesturing back at the doorway where none should have been. The Oak

Then, with Hybart glaring from his chair, The Shadow began a transformation that was the custodian's own

The thing that had swung with the door was a maple bookcase. Unhooking it from the door, The Shadow

closed the latter. The back of the maple bookcase proved of oak, with dummy doors that gave it the

That was just the beginning. Swinging other bookcases The Shadow changed them into oak furnishings.

Taking chairs, he tipped them back and the spaces beneath appeared as oaken seats. Rolling the rug and

unrolling it, The Shadow brought up its underside, drab gray instead of bright yellow. The window curtains

proved reversible, losing their golden glitter for a darker hue. The pictures on the wall, when turned around,

The payoff came when The Shadow converted a sizable maple desk into a high oak secretary by swinging it

to another wall and raising a folded back that had been hanging out of sight. Instead of a solid wall where the

The sheriff was clamping handcuffs on Hybart; locking him to the only chair that still looked like maple. The

glare fading from his eyes, Jerome Hybart sank back in the fashion of a man who had run a race and lost.

TELL all, Hybart did, so far as he wanted, which at least covered the mystery of the hooded master and the

"I was afraid for the safety of the archives," insisted Hybart. "I was sure Atmore was the one man who would

"At least they were framing something," put in Rufe, "but it didn't seem to be criminal, not where Atmore is

"Gifford Graydon fixed these interchangeable rooms as a hobby," proceeded Hybart, "so I saw a chance to

use them. When you spoke about masked men down in the woods and suggested that my servants help patrol,

I decided to frame Atmore. The men who trapped you and Vincent were the servants; they brought you here

"They had orders to let you go, which they did at the railroad cut, though maybe they overdid it. I wanted you

to come back safely, sheriff, so you would arrest Atmore when you recognized his room. With Atmore in jail,

I felt sure the crypt could be opened and the archives produced without any interference."

"Atmore is in jail all right," asserted Rufe. "Now we're looking for Jeff Gerster. Have you seen him?"

Hybart stroked his head with his free hand. He glanced about for his skull cap so Harry picked it up for him.

"I've heard odd sounds around the house," admitted Hybart. "Odd sounds, like rats "

"Look at this map, Hybart." Rufe spread it. "See how the old quarry is on a line with the Towers? Who

flashed the signals that came from here? Vincent and I saw them up in Quarrytown."

There was a whispered laugh from The Shadow; one that made Hybart give a nervous blink as he looked up

from the map. Oddly, though, it was Hybart who caught the real significance of the tone. It called for truth

without expressing doubts of Hybart. Staring at the map again, Hybart understood.

"Those contours, sheriff?" exclaimed Hybart. "The curved lines that represent slopes in the ground."

"Notice how thick they are just above Graydon Towers? There's a ridge at that spot. It hides the Towers from

the quarry. If you saw signals blinking, they must have come from somewhere down near the Junction."

"The cupola!" exclaimed Rufe to Harry. "That's what Jeff was doing up there while Atmore was sending

those telegrams. Swink spotted him and got killed for it. Say that clears the girl entirely!"

"You mean you suspected Linda?" Hybart leaned his head back and gave it a slanted shake. "She's entirely

honest, sheriff. So honest that she mistrusts me, simply because I prefer to be mistrusted rather than say too

"It's in your hands now, sheriff." Hybart spoke as though he meant it. "Clean out those rats if there are any.

Turning, Rufe gestured to Harry and led the way out through the proper door, leaving Hybart in The

Shadow's custody. Coming to the stairs that led down into the great hall, Rufe kept on beckoning but

motioned for a minimum of noise. Only momentarily did Harry catch what he thought was a distant rumble

The great hall was empty. Linda, too, noted that fact as she peered suddenly from her corridor and

recognized, with some amazement, the two men who were coming from Hybart's room. Huxford had

apparently retired and Gerster must have slipped to parts unknown. Still not understanding what was going

Both Harry and Rufe had caught creeping footsteps coming from the music room and were pausing at the

bottom of the stairs, waiting for them. Then, out into the great hall stole four men with masks, darting looks

Sheriff Dodson barked an order for the men to halt. Not sure whether they were desperate crooks or

masquerading servants, he found out soon enough. The fierce snarl that came from the leader of the four was

Harry's quick shove sent Rufe into an alcove and Harry himself dived for the next. The arrangement of the

hall was in their favor, giving them a chance to clip the crooks who darted back and forth; but Harry and Rufe

From a balcony came a strident, challenging laugh that made Frisco's men forget the fray below. Aiming

upward they fired wildly at a weaving shape that vanished as their revolvers blazed only to reappear on the

Murderers by trade, Frisco's tribe was ready to fight to the death. And death it was, though not by The

Shadow's design. He wanted to take these rats alive, though they might be damaged in the process, and both

Harry and Rufe were similarly inclined. But when the servants came rushing in to help suppress the invaders,

Earnest though they were, the servants were sure to be outgunned at close range, even though the crooks were

crippled. Rather than see innocent men die, The Shadow, made his shots more telling and the hint was taken

by Harry and Rufe. Added to that were the shots that the servants delivered, easily enough, since Frisco and

When Sheriff Dodson reached the dying crooks and demanded to know why they had come here, all he

In response to a lowtoned command, Harry turned and saw his chief pointing through the music room.

Harry spoke to Rufe and the sheriff left the servants the task of carrying out the remains of Frisco's unsavory

crew. Through the music room, Harry and Rufe reached the elevator and there a riddle was explained.

Earlier, Linda had said something about brief rumbles of the elevator. Harry too had heard such a sound just

prior to the sudden appearance of the missing crooks. Now the elevator was showing itself a few feet above

Frisco's outfit had been hiding out beneath the elevator, down in the lower shaft!

The way to find out was to go below, which Harry and Rufe did. Dropping some six feet, they discovered a

front wall of old bricks, some of which had been removed. Dirt was piled there proving that Frisco's squad

It was Harry who wormed through the hole and came out carrying something which he handed gingerly to

Dynamite it was; enough sticks to blow up the mansion along with the crypt. The job included a fuse with an

old alarm clock set to blow the works at nine. Detaching the fuse and setting the dynamite in a safe corner,

"Take a look, Rufe," he said. "You'll see that the floor of the crypt hasn't stood up as it should. The soft earth

"Cracked," he nodded, "but it's still intact. It can be reenforced after it's opened and those archives are

"So I have," acknowledged Rufe, "and a look at those archives wouldn't be out of turn. Let's try it, Vincent."

Try it they did and with success. Working with tools that Frisco's bunch had left behind, Harry and Rufe took

turns at hacking the concrete until finally a big chunk gave. After hauling it out through the hole, the two men

crawled up through and into the musty silence of the tomb that housed the body of Gifford Graydon.

There was a great stone coffin, sealed like a catafalque that bore Graydon's remains, but of more interest was

the huge iron chest that met the glitter of two flashlights. This was the famous coffer that held the priceless

records known as the Graydon Archives which threatened ruin for certain questionable dealers, most

"It's what Jeff Gerster was after," declared Rufe, "whether or not he was taking orders from Atmore."

"And we've found it ahead of Jeff," rejoined Harry, turning his flashlight all about the crypt. "Look at that

"Let's check on the archives," decided Rufe, "so that we can remember them later."

"A good idea," said Harry. "Get hold of the other end of that lid and let's heave."

Heave they did and up came the coffer lid. In poured the glare from the flashlights to reveal the contents.

Like the men themselves, that glow seemed frozen by the sight that it revealed. The thing was incredible, yet

Until this moment, both witnesses had deemed it impossible that anyone else could have entered or left this

crypt before them. If the Graydon Archives were missing and missing they were it would simply mean

Such would have been the message of an empty coffer; but this coffer wasn't empty.

Twisted within the great iron chest was the body of a man, whose dead face, contorted and glazed of eyes,

It would have been amazing to find a dead body so well preserved after all the years the crypt had been

This was a question of minutes, not of years. The dead face that was glaring from the iron coffer was that of

Another witness had arrived to view this most astounding discovery. Over the shoulders of Harry Vincent and

Rufe Dodson came a whispered, mirthless laugh that carried the solemn tone of a knell.

The Shadow's answer to the riddle of the impossible, a new and singular mystery that he now must solve!

BREAKFAST was at seven thirty in Graydon Towers. The rule held, even though everyone had been up most

the night. Jerome Hybart was present, no longer handcuffed, by special request of Sheriff Dodson, who hadn't

Nor had Linda Graydon been told. She was as much in ignorance as the guest who sat across from her at the

table, Elliot Huxford. Though a bit tired from lack of sleep, Huxford was still his genial self, though he was a

"I'd like to talk to Atmore, sheriff," declared Huxford. "I might convince him that he ought to tell the truth.

After all, the man was desperate, with a million dollars in lawsuits threatening him if the Graydon Archives

The sheriff affirmed that it would be a good idea for Huxford to talk to Atmore.

"I'll have time before I take the train to New York," continued Huxford. He turned toward two other guests.

The other two were Isaac Twambley and Harry Vincent. Old Twambley shook his head as he arose and

"I still have much more to do here," he crackled. "I am an antiquary and I love things that are old even new

Twambley specified no further, but merely went chortling from the dining room, presumably bound for the

"I have my car," stated Harry, "so I won't be going by train. Of course, I can drive you down to the Junction."

"Very good," decided Huxford, accepting another cup of coffee that a servant offered him. "It's now eight

"But Mr. Huxford!" exclaimed Linda. "Don't you want to be here when the crypt is opened and the archives

Linda's question was really meant for Harry, since she felt that he should stay and resume the friendship

which unwarranted events had cut short with a misunderstanding. But Huxford took it literally.

"No need now," smiled Huxford. "I only wanted to be certain that Atmore did not try to steal the archives.

Since he is in jail, he can't attempt it. Those criminals who worked for him are dead and Gerster has

Old Isaac Twambley was seeking truth at that very moment, but he was applying the process elsewhere.

In the center of the music room, old Twambley was tracing pictures with his cane, running its tip across the

fanciful design in the tilework that represented past, present and future as they had befuddled the brain of

the late Gifford Graydon. As he slid his cane out of the circle, he dragged it back again and the ferrule did a

That jump pleased Twambley. He tried it elsewhere and it worked again. Always the loosely dragged cane tip

went clickclack, when it reached the black circle that formed part of the threecolored frame around the

Thinking in terms of Gifford Graydon, old Twambley remembered something else. Going to the fan staircase,

he descended to have a last look at the eightfoot Guardian Angel with the twelvefoot wings. In the dim

light, Twambley chuckled when he saw the statue. It was like himself, in that it carried a cane.

Of course the angel's cane was technically a staff, a long bronze rod that went loosely through its partly

closed fist. Twambley found that the bronze staff turned when he tried it; moreover, he noticed some slight

scratches in the bronze. Collapsing his own cane, Twambley pocketed it in the brisk style of The Shadow;

then, rapid as well as active, he pushed the bronze staff upward until it toppled from the angel's hand.

Catching the staff deftly, Twambley stooped and studied the half globe on which the angel stood. He noticed

shiny spots in two of the opposite holes that pierced the bronze hemisphere. Through those holes, Twambley

Under the angel's feet, the bronze halfglobe revolved. As that happened, the huge statue rose slowly but

with a steady upward glide. The interior of the revolving globe was a screwlift, a powerful jack easily and

smoothly operated by the handy bronze lever. But the Guardian Angel wasn't all that rose.

A circle of the ceiling went with it. That ceiling was solid enough, for it rested on the wall of the crypt, which

cut a straight path across it. Thus it made a firm part of the floor above, but it still remained solid when it

rose. During that process it was supported by the flattened tips of the bronze angel's wings that ran right up to

Reaching the proper limit, Twambley stopped his operations and left the antechamber, going up by the fan

staircase. His keen brain had solved the real riddle of the crypt, by testing the floor above it in a unique but

In the dining room, Elliot Huxford was becoming impatient at the way the others lingered, particularly Harry

Vincent, who was suddenly becoming charmed by the effect of the morning sunlight when it cast it's burnish

onto coppery hair. Harry's admiring gaze was getting a blueeyed smile from Linda and with each

Suddenly suggesting that they go out to the great hall, Huxford started the exodus; thinking he could win his

The way led through the music room and there the whole group stopped. Jerome Hybart was wearing his

thick glasses this morning and his eyes glared angrily at what they saw through the helpful lenses. As for

The eightfoot circle that represented the whole expanse of time, was hanging shoulder high in midair, a

great flat disc of tiling set in thick, but even concrete. Supporting it were two great bronze triangles, canted at

an angle through the floor, like the wings of some Arabian genii jutting from a pit to which the monster had

Wings they were, those of the bronze angel that could come no higher, because its head had reached the

ceiling of the antechamber below. But that was only part of the amazing situation. The pit itself told more.

Directly across the middle of the gaping circle was the top edge of a wall. To the front of that dividing barrier

The Shadow had laid bare the most cherished secret that Gifford Graydon had built into this curious mansion

of his. The crypt, which all the world believed could be entered only when its muchsealed door was opened,

"So you knew this, Hybart! You were the custodian here. You had Graydon's confidence "

"Of course." Hybart hurled back the words. "But I promised never to enter the crypt except in an emergency.

"Deceit?" Hybart shook his head. "The fact that the archives could be reached does not decrease their value.

"I removed them last night. I placed them in the suits of armor in the great hall. I knew that criminals were

"Nothing. What you see below is simply an empty coffer. I did intend to replace the archives so they could be

officially exhumed, but since someone has discovered the secret of the crypt, that is unnecessary now."

Hybart turned as though intending to go to the library; then with a change of mind, he started toward the fan

staircase, planning to lower the statue with which somebody had meddled. Looking at his watch, Harry

It was getting close to nine o'clock. It would probably take Hybart the remaining minutes to lower the bronze

"Come, Vincent!" exclaimed Huxford, suddenly. "We must get down to town. My mission here is ended."

The voice that spoke came from the doorway leading to the great hall. As yet the sunlight had not reached the

"Suppose you open that coffer, Huxford," spoke The Shadow. "Perhaps it is not so empty as Hybart

"Your mission was to see that Atmore did not reach those archives," accused The Shadow, "because you

wanted to reach them yourself. You wanted to destroy them, Huxford, and place the blame on Atmore!"

"Atmore feared that the Graydon Archives would prove that he had sold a vast amount of false art treasures,"

continued The Shadow. "Atmore was a dealer, but you were a buyer, Huxford. Still, what would a buyer's

"You as a collector had as great a risk as Atmore, the dealer and more. He could have fled the country with

the money he had gained; but your money, Huxford, was gone. All you have in the way of a fortune consists

of art treasures genuine or spurious. Your great fear is that they may prove to be the spurious type."

"Not because he talked to Atmore," put in The Shadow. "That was part of the game you ordered him to play."

"But he was to get the archives! If he couldn't, the job was up to Frisco. Last night, Gerster saw this raised

floor" Huxford gestured from his shoulder as he spoke "and he watched Hybart close it "

Hybart was beginning to close it again, for the floor started an inching descent as Huxford spoke, but the

"I told Gerster to open it. He said it would be foolish." Huxford was racing time as he talked. "Frisco was set

to fix things anyway. I made Gerster open it. I went into the crypt with him. The archives were gone."

"Because Hybart had taken them," declared The Shadow, "but you blamed Gerster. You thought he'd turned

them over to Atmore to be used against you, so you murdered him and thus disposed of the only man who

could link you to Frisco. Using Jeff Gerster as a gobetween you had never revealed yourself to Frisco

It was the perfect analysis, founded on the facts that The Shadow had uncovered. Those pointed references,

however, added to Huxford's frenzied sweat. He'd exposed himself by his efforts to be gone by nine o'clock

Now, like a chiming sequel to The Shadow's words, a great clock in the music room was striking nine!

Huxford's frenzy called for deeds instead of words. Sidling madly, he whipped a revolver from his pocket

Other guns spoke ahead of Huxford's. Harry and Rufe were diligent, but too hasty. It was The Shadow's shot,

straight from a gun that pivoted from his cloak with a simple wrist action, that clipped Huxford's own gun

All Huxford wanted was escape. Reeling, he sought it blindly, not thinking of direction. Until he was almost

there, he didn't see that he was lunging toward the space beneath the slowly sinking circle in the middle of the

Head first, this man who still wanted others to die, was pouring himself into the gaping floor. Throwing his

hands wide, Huxford tried to clutch the angel's wings. One hand succeeded, but it was the wrong one. That

crippled gun fist couldn't hold. Before anyone could reach him, Huxford disappeared.

It was only a twelvefoot drop but there was concrete at the bottom. A cracking sound with a popping echo

told that Huxford's skull had taken all the brunt. Silence followed, undisturbed by the sound that Huxford

The bronze wings of the Guardian Angel finished their descent. Again, the fantastic tiling was glittering from

the center of the floor, having absorbed a trifling episode in the history of endless time. Fate had liquidated

Elliot Huxford, the man who had joined his victim, Jeff Gerster, in a tomb that formed a fitting resting place

A strange laugh spoke with a parting note, symbolizing its author's triumph over crime. With one accord, the

The Shadow was gone, and the rising sunlight was bringing a new day to Graydon Towers.