When Manuel had left, Morales strolled about the clearing, smoking cigarettes, one after another. He went back into the house, and again startled Jose by his stealthy arrival. This time Morales laughed in an irritable manner.
"What is the matter with you, Jose?" he questioned. "Do not tell me that you are still frightened at every shadow that you see."
A troubled look appeared upon Jose's greasy face. The servant tried to avoid the glance that Morales directed toward him.
"You and your shadows. Bah!" Morales spoke contemptuously. "You are a fool, Jose. I brought you with me because you were a brave man—and one who could speak English fluently. Around here you are useless. Every night, when you watch, you talk of shadows. Bah!"
"But I have seen them, senor!" blurted Jose. "I have seen them. Out there —in here—everywhere!"
"You have madness, Jose. You spoke to me about those shadows twice. I looked where you pointed. I saw nothing. What is it that you can see and I cannot see? Nothing! That is what you have seen, Jose—
nothing!"
"But, senor, I have seen the same thing more than once. It is not just shadows that I have seen. One time I looked quickly—there I saw - him! He was like a shadow himself, senor!"
"I was there Jose," responded Morales, in an annoyed tone. "I looked where you pointed. I saw nothing—not even a shadow."
"But he was gone, senor. Gone before you saw -"
"Gone? From the middle of the clearing? You are crazy, Jose. You are crazy! No man could have disappeared into the ground or into the air."
"No man, senor! I am afraid of no man. But if he is more than a man - some one that certain eyes can see and other eyes cannot -"
"Forget those superstitions, Jose," cried Morales. "We are dealing with people, not with ghosts. Enough of such foolishness!"
With that Morales took the binoculars and left the house, turning again toward the path that led from the cottage to the lookout spot upon the cliff.
When his chief had gone, Jose stood at the door of the cottage. Apprehension showed on the man's greasy countenance.
Jose, a creature of ignorance, was fearful as he gazed about him. His eyes wandered upward to the flat-topped roof of the cottage. Moving backward, the man stood still; then, looking about him, suddenly discovered that he was standing in the center of the clearing. Fearful of this haunted spot, Jose sprang to the door of the cottage, looking behind him as he ran.
After gaining the house, the man's trepidation faded. He went into the main room and sat in a chair. There his worry began to fade as he dropped into a doze. This one place seemed to give Jose a sense of security. Here his laziness overcame his apprehension.
IT was afternoon when Alfredo Morales returned to the cottage. Again, Jose sprang up in alarm when his master entered. The servant prepared a lunch, and Morales ate in silence. It was obvious that his spying had not brought new results.
Morales went back to his observation spot after his meal. He returned a few hours later. Jose was awake, this time, standing on the porch. The sky had clouded; here in the woods, premature darkness was settling.
Almost immediately after Morales had arrived, Manuel appeared from the woods, and hastened to make his report. Morales listened with intense interest.
"They are there," declared Manuel. "Both of them are at the inn. The man with the hard face; the man with the beard. You can tell them easily. They are both very wise; but they have not seen me. I have been too careful."
"You will stay here, Manuel," ordered Morales. "You will do as I have instructed. Jose will prepare your dinner. I am going down to the inn. Remember —I shall walk back alone. Be ready then, with Jose to help you."
Long shadows had settled on the clearing when Alfredo Morales set forth into the woods. Manuel and Jose were watching him from the porch. Manuel was indifferently rolling a cigarette; but Jose was watching intently. The presence of those sinister shadows seemed to worry him.
"What is the matter, Jose?" questioned Manuel, as he happened to glance toward his companion. "One would think that you were looking at a ghost or something."
"I have not been well," growled Jose. "It is that sea-sickness that began ever since we left Buenos Aires."
"Bah! You have been here more than a week. That is a poor excuse, Jose."
The greasy-faced man did not reply. Jose was watching the figure of Alfredo Morales, the man from the Argentine, as it disappeared amid the thickening blackness of the wood. When he could no longer glimpse his departing master, Jose, after a last troubled look at the shadows in the clearing, shrugged his shoulders and went back into the cottage. Manuel laughed and followed him.
PERHAPS it was fear that had governed Jose; possibly the man was possessed of an overkeen vision.
At least, Jose had sought to study every suspicious shadow that he had seen from the porch of the cottage. Yet despite his sharp gaze, Jose had failed in his self-appointed task.
For something had moved at the edge of the clearing the moment that Alfredo Morales had passed. That something had cast its shadow across the path; yet even Jose had failed to see the ominous patch of black.
Moving after Morales as though it were the man's own shadow, that changing splotch of blackness had followed—lengthening and shortening amid the flickering light that trickled through the waving branches of the leaf-clad trees.
On went Morales, striding directly along a path that broadened and became more firm. Always, close behind him, slid a shape that was nothing more than an inky silhouette. It was not until Morales emerged from the woods and struck a dirt road that the moving shadow assumed a new appearance.
Then, momentarily, it appeared in more sinister form. Instead of a gliding shadow, it became the outline of a being clad in black—a tall figure garbed in a cloak. Two sparkling eyes shone from beneath the covering brim of a shapeless hat.
The vision persisted only for a moment. It merged with the trees at the side of the road. On through the dusk strode Alfredo Morales, totally oblivious of the weird apparition that had appeared behind him.
This evening—Alfredo Morales was bound upon a special mission—a work that concerned Lucien Partridge as well as others. Confident that no one knew of his presence in this vicinity, Morales was convinced of his security. He had no thought for the vague fears that had been expressed by Jose.
Yet those fears had now become reality. A phantom shape had become a living being. Alfredo Morales had come beneath a mysterious surveillance.
The Shadow was trailing the man from the Argentine!
What was the connection between Alfredo Morales and Lucien Partridge? What cross-purposes and counter-plots were reaching their culmination here in the peaceful vicinity of Westbrook Falls?
Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER IX. MORALES RECEIVES A VISITOR
IT was scarcely more than a mile from the cottage where Alfredo Morales lived to the Westbrook Inn.
But from Lucien Partridge's abode, it was necessary to travel several miles around the outer course of the semicircular stream to reach the bridge, which, in turn, was more than a mile above the hotel.
Hence Morales, living but a short way from Partridge, had a tremendous advantage so far as traveling distance was concerned when it came to visiting the summer hotel. Partridge's situation across the chasm was one of isolation— which was exactly what he desired.
When Morales arrived at the Westbrook Inn, he was still unconscious of the fact that he was being followed. As the man from the Argentine came into the lighted area of the hotel veranda, the trailing blackness disappeared behind him. No trace of The Shadow's presence was visible.
Dinner was being served at the hotel. Morales went into the dining room and seated himself at a table.
There, he began a cold survey of the people about him. It was not long before he had selected two objectives.
One was a stocky, firm-faced man who apparently paid no attention to the presence of Morales. This was Vic Marquette, the s
ecret-service agent who had come to Westbrook Falls in an effort to solve the riddle that surrounded the strange death of Jerry Fitzroy.
The other was a man of medium height—an eccentric-looking individual— whose principal note of physiognomy was a thick, short-cropped beard of blackish hue.
This man appeared to take a keen interest in his surroundings. As soon as he was observed by Morales, the bearded man returned the other's stare. That settled, the two men shifted their gaze elsewhere.
Morales sensed that he was being watched by both Vic Marquette and the bearded man. One had not appeared to notice him; the other had apparently forgotten him. Nevertheless, Morales smiled to himself.
He had come here to observe these men; there was no objection whatever to them observing him.
Only one guest entered the dining room after Morales had arrived. The Argentinian threw a quizzical glance toward the newcomer; then smiled again when he saw that the arrival was a nonentity.
The belated guest was an old man who hobbled with the aid of a cane. He was a sour-faced person, and his deafness was apparent by the way he shouted his order at the waitress, much to the amusement of the other guests.
Dinner went by. Morales did not leave the dining room until after Marquette and the bearded man had departed. When he at last arose, the only person remaining in the room was the old man.
OUT in the lobby, Alfredo Morales lighted a cigarette and sat in a comfortable chair. He began to take a shrewd interest in everything that was going on about him. He became nervous in his demeanor. He threw away his cigarette, although it was only half finished; then lighted another one immediately.
From the corner of his eye, Morales spotted both Marquette and the bearded man. Neither one seemed conscious of the other's presence, but it was obvious to Morales that they were both interested in his actions. The only lull in this game of watchdog was when the old man with the cane hobbled through the lobby and obtained his key at the desk.
"Eccentric old chap," Morales heard some one say. "Phineas Twambley is his name. Supposed to be worth a lot of money, but I've never seen him give even a nickel tip."
Morales settled back in his chair and lighted another cigarette. He seemed half asleep as the minutes ticked by. He was thinking of the two men whom he had watched. He had completely forgotten old Twambley, who had gone upstairs.
Had Alfredo Morales caught a mental flash of Twambley's room, he would have been amazed. For the old man, at that particular moment, was old no longer.
His cane was out of sight in the bureau drawer. From the back of an upright trunk, Phineas Twambley was drawing forth two garments—a black cloak and a slouch hat.
One minute later, Phineas Twambley was The Shadow. Tall, silent, and swift, he swept across the room and entered a dimly lighted hall. Half a minute later, his sinister figure disappeared through a large window that led to the fire escape.
DOWN in the lobby, the lethargy of Alfredo Morales came to a sudden end. With a suspicious glance about him, the Argentinian suddenly arose and hurriedly left the hotel lobby. Once outside, his manner became stealthy as he moved toward the road by which he had approached the Westbrook Inn.
Morales was wearing a panama hat. In the darkness, it shone almost like a luminous object. Had any one chosen to follow him now, the trail would have afforded no difficulty.
There was a strange change in the actions of Alfredo Morales. He had been in a hurry to leave the inn; now he was calm and deliberate as he began the stroll back to the cottage. All along the way, he left a trail of half-consumed cigarettes.
When he entered the woods, the Argentinian was humming to himself. When he reached the clearing, he continued the noise. The lights of the cottage shone through the gloom, and cast a reflection upon the open space in front. There Morales sauntered onward.
He crossed a patch of black that seemed like an extension of the darkness. He did not notice it. Alfredo Morales was not like Jose, his servant. He did not pay attention to shadows—even though they might be long, like this one, and shaped like a silhouette.
The door of the cottage was open. Morales entered it with the air of a man returning to his home. He went into the main room, which was located at the side. Here he drew the blinds. But he had left the front door open behind him.
The silhouette upon the clearing was motionless. But now a moving object made its appearance. A man came into the sphere of light. It was the bearded stranger whom Morales had observed at the Westbrook Inn.
Stealthily, the stranger ascended the steps and entered the open door of the cottage. He made his way quietly to the door of the main room. He peered in to see Alfredo Morales seated at a desk in the corner.
The Argentinian was writing. Now he laid the papers aside. With a sign of weariness, he leaned his head forward upon his arms.
The bearded stranger moved into the room. His objective was the table where the papers lay. It was a job that required stealth; but the odds were in his favor. Alfredo Morales seemed totally oblivious of all that was happening about him.
The intruder reached the center of the room. He was smiling, his lips forming a ruddy curve amid the black beard. One hand was in his pocket, in readiness to draw a weapon should Morales be suddenly aroused.
He paused, as motionless as Morales. His eyes were watching the man in the chair. So intent was the intruder that he did not see a thin splotch of black that came creeping inward from a farther window of the room—a shadowy shape of inkiness that edged forward with uncanny ease.
Nor did Morales see that weird shade. Seemingly half asleep, he was unaware of the black-bearded man. Not cognizant of the presence of a human intruder, how could he have noticed a creeping shape that neither lived or possessed physical form?
The bearded man was carefully advancing; then he paused again, his lips pursed within the black beard.
He sensed danger. Not from Morales, who was unwatching; not from the shape that now formed an unmoving blotch upon the floor; but from a new direction.
Instinct suddenly dominated caution. The intruder swung quickly toward the door of the room, drawing his hand from his pocket. That hand did not bring forth a weapon. Instead, it came from the pocket with fingers spread out wide.
The bearded man's hands went above his head.
STANDING at the door, armed with rifles, were the two henchmen of Alfredo Morales. While the bearded stranger had advanced, Jose and Manuel had entered behind him to cut off his retreat.
Sullenly, the intruder faced his captors. Then, as a chuckle reached his ears, he turned his head toward the chair where Alfredo Morales was seated.
The tall, shrewd-faced man from the Argentine was wide awake, laughing at the success of the trap that he had prepared.
The stranger no longer considered Jose and Manuel. He recognized that they were mere underlings, who had obeyed the orders of Alfredo Morales.
Whatever his fate might be, it rested in the hands of the suave Argentinian. For long, cold seconds, the bearded man faced his smooth-shaven captor. It was Morales who broke the silence.
Rising from his chair, the man from the Argentine made a low, courteous bow. There was nothing of mockery in his action. That role was ended. With an imperious wave, he signaled Jose and Manuel. The rifles were lowered. Another wave, and the henchmen departed.
This action came as a surprise to the bearded stranger. In fact, he had encountered a series of surprises, each as sudden as his unexpected capture. Morales appeared to be a friend—not an enemy. He had ordered his men away— leaving his uninvited guest still armed.
The bearded man lowered his hands. Morales offered no objection. But the stranger made no motion toward his pocket. Instead, he quietly waited for Morales to speak, wondering what new surprise might be forthcoming.
Again Alfredo Morales bowed. Then, in his suave, modulated English, he spoke.
"Good evening, Monsieur Armagnac," he said. "I have been awaiting you. This visit is a pleasure."
Comple
te bewilderment showed on the bearded face. The stranger's expression clearly showed that Morales had guessed his identity. In view of this new astonishment, Armagnac was incapable of a reply.
Alfredo Morales smiled.
"I have business with you, Monsieur Armagnac," he said. "It is business that will interest you. Be seated"—he indicated a chair— "and let us converse."
Still bewildered, the bearded man obeyed the request. He sat in the chair indicated by Morales. The Argentinian resumed the seat where he had been resting when Armagnac had entered.
With a suave smile, Morales opened his silver case and offered a cigarette to Armagnac, who accepted it. Morales took one for himself, and proffered a light.
Then, resting back in his chair, Alfredo Morales began to speak in a quiet, methodical tone. His visitor listened intently—still wondering at these new words.
They formed an odd contrast: Morales calm and unperturbed; Armagnac, puzzled and uncertain.
The eyes of the listener were focused upon those of the speaker. Neither man observed that long black blotch that lay upon the floor— that strange, silhouetted projection that came from the window.
Silent, unnoticed, and motionless, the shadow of The Shadow rested within this room!
CHAPTER X. ONE AND ONE MAKE TWO
ALFREDO MORALES was an easy, convincing speaker. He had the remarkable aptitude of divining the thoughts of those who listened to him. Hence the discourse which he commenced took on a turn that was both illuminating and interesting.
In his talk, Morales made statements, put forth questions, and gave both replies and answers, while his bearded visitor sat in silence.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Armagnac," purred Morales. "It was quite thoughtful of you to pay me this visit. It is not every one who can have the honor of a guest so talented as Pierre Armagnac, from Marseilles, France.
"You see, I have heard of you, Monsieur Armagnac. I know who you are; but you do not know who I am. Ah, well. I am of lesser importance. It is not surprising that Alfredo Morales of Buenos Aires should recognize Pierre Armagnac of Marseilles; but it would be surprising if Monsieur Armagnac had ever heard of Senor Morales."
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