VIGNETTI entered the room and interrupted the old man's thoughts with a short announcement.
"Mr. Cranston is here," he said.
A new expression came over Partridge's face. This was one of perplexity.
"Cranston," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, we received his telegram to-day. It referred to the New Era Mines. Urgent business, so he said. I must see him, Vignetti; but I doubt that he can know much.
However— I expect you to be ready -"
Vignetti nodded and left to usher in this guest who waited at the gate.
A few minutes later, a tall man attired in evening clothes entered the library. Lucien Partridge arose to greet his visitor.
"Mr. Cranston?" he questioned.
"Yes," came the reply. "My name is Lamont Cranston."
Lucien Partridge was oddly impressed with the appearance of his visitor. Never, throughout his long life, had the old man met such an unusual personage.
Lamont Cranston possessed a face that was enigmatical. One could not have divined his age from his features. He seemed young, yet old; quiet, yet purposeful.
His face was chiseled like that of a sculptured statue; at the same time, it possessed a masklike quality that betrayed no emotions. Two sharp, piercing eyes glowed on either side of Cranston's hawkish nose; yet there was neither suspicion nor unfriendliness in that steady gaze.
Even in his voice, Cranston exhibited a remarkable contrast. His tones were deliberate and easy; still they carried an even note that made each syllable stand out distinctly by itself. Lucien Partridge felt himself dominated by the personality of this amazing individual.
So keenly was the old man studying his visitor that he did not observe a peculiar phenomenon that accompanied Lamont Cranston. Across the floor, spreading like the spectral shape of a gigantic bat, lay a huge shadow. As Cranston turned toward the chair which Partridge indicated, that shade took on the aspect of a long, thin form, topped by a broad-brimmed hat.
Perhaps the changing shadows were due to the peculiar lighting of the room. Whatever the case might have been, the final shade still remained after Cranston had seated himself. It was then that Partridge turned an inquiring gaze toward his visitor.
"I HAVE been wondering why you wished to see me, Mr. Cranston," Partridge remarked. "It is not often that I receive visitors."
"So I have understood, Mr. Partridge," returned Cranston, in an even, smooth tone. "Clifford Forster—Lawrence Guthrie—both were friends of mine. I know that they have visited you."
A faint trace of suppressed worry appeared upon Partridge's countenance. The old man quickly recovered from his betrayed emotion.
"Yes," he responded. "Both have been here. Poor Forster—I understand that he is dead."
"Yes," returned Cranston, "Forster is dead. But I am surprised that you have not mentioned Guthrie also.
He died since Forster."
"Guthrie—dead!"
"Yes, he died—like Forster—on a train in Canada."
An expression of feigned regret appeared upon Partridge's face. He hastened to make a cunning statement.
"Both were acquaintances of mine, Mr. Cranston. Merely acquaintances, you understand."
"So the world believes," responded Cranston, with the faintest trace of a smile. "But I happen to have obtained information of a different sort."
"Which is -"
"That both Forster and Guthrie were concerned in some enterprise which caused them to deal with you—an enterprise that also involved the New Era Mines."
"Where did you receive such information?" questioned Partridge coldly.
"Through my intended purchase of stock in the New Era Mines," responded Cranston. "There I learned of certain negotiations upon which the success of the mine depended.
"Forster evidently had contracts and other documents. These were not found after his death. However, I was able to trace a connection with Guthrie and one with yourself. That is why I have come to see you; in the hope that you can tell me all the details."
"Mr. Cranston"—Partridge's eyes were gleaming in a friendly manner— "there was a slight connection between both of those men and myself. I have not made the fact public, because our slight negotiations were intended to be kept private.
"Here, in my laboratory, I have made experiments in the refinement of gold. Lawrence Guthrie learned of it. He included Clifford Forster to consider taking an interest in those experiments. Our friendships were in the making. Clifford Forster visited me here, some time before he died. Lawrence Guthrie also called to see me on occasions."
"Did he come here after Forster's death?"
"I am not sure"—Partridge was speculative—"indeed, I scarcely think so, Mr. Cranston."
"I must tell you an important fact," said Cranston, in a kindly tone. "Lawrence Guthrie was suspected in the death of Clifford Forster. Hence Guthrie's death has caused much comment."
A look of vague understanding seemed to trouble Lucien Partridge. Noting it, Lamont Cranston hastened to add further remarks.
"Knowing that your name was connected with both men," he resumed, "I thought it best to call on you—to learn if, by any chance, either of these two had ever evidenced an enmity for the other."
"You are a police official?" quizzed Partridge.
"No," asserted Cranston, "I am merely a financier who is interested in the success of mining enterprises.
Due to my proposed purchase of New Era stock, I am naturally concerned with the underlying affairs of that company.
"I have discovered traces of facts that I have told to no one. Indeed, there is no connection whatever between myself and either Guthrie or Forster.
"I came from New York last night. I registered at the Westbrook Inn under an assumed name. I do not want my presence here to be known to any one. I waited until evening to call on you.
"After dining at the hotel, I was taxied here. I must go back to the inn to get my luggage and leave on the late train for New York. But I was desirous of making your acquaintance, for the reasons that I have mentioned."
"I understand," nodded Partridge. "Well, Mr. Cranston, time is too short for us to discuss these matters now. If you had come earlier in the evening— but it is nearing midnight. If I were sure that you alone knew of Forster's connection with Guthrie -"
"I alone know that fact," interposed Cranston.
"Then," continued the old man, "I might be able to do something for you. Could you arrange matters so that you could return here—say within a week or ten days?"
"Gladly, Mr. Partridge."
"That would be excellent. You must allow me time to consider matters; to locate correspondence which I had with Guthrie and Forster. Say nothing about this matter until you hear from me."
LAMONT CRANSTON arose and bowed. He extended a card that bore his name and address.
Vignetti entered and aided the guest to don his coat and hat.
"I left the car waiting outside with the driver," explained Cranston. "So I shall leave you now."
"One moment, Mr. Cranston," remarked Partridge hastily. "You have time to see my laboratory. It is only a few steps away."
He led the way, with Cranston and Vignetti following. The shadows of the three merged; but that cast by Cranston seemed to obliterate the others as they entered the lighted laboratory.
Partridge spoke to Vignetti; the Corsican obtained his master's smock, and brought a pair of gloves from the rear section of the table drawer.
"An excellent laboratory," commented Cranston, gazing about him.
"Yes," replied Partridge, as he donned the smock and pulled on the gloves. "I always experiment at night."
"Then I shall bid you good night," said Cranston courteously, as he turned toward the door.
"I shall go with you to the car," offered Partridge.
Cranston, tall and imposing, preceded Partridge across the hallway and along the walk to the iron gate.
As Partridge spoke to him, Cranston did not appear to hear the old man. He kept
on and reached the car. Partridge, with Vignetti at his heels, hurried to the open window of the sedan.
Lamont Cranston pushed a package aside. He lifted something from the seat beside him. Lucien Partridge, wishing him good speed, could not see his hands in the dark until the moment came for the final parting.
"Good night," said the old man, extending his gloved hand, just as Cranston ordered the driver to proceed.
"Good night," responded Cranston, as he reached to accept the clasp.
A curious smile was creeping over Partridge's features as he extended that fatal hand, which bore the poisoned powder upon its glove. The clasp was made, unnoticed by the driver. Suddenly the car shot forward; Partridge was forced to release his clutch. He stepped back, to catch a glimpse of Cranston leaning from the car, waving a belated good-by.
A sharp oath came from Lucien Partridge's lips. The cry was echoed by a growl from Vignetti. For in that last flash, Partridge had seen something which he had not noticed during the handclasp.
He knew now why Lamont Cranston's hands had not been visible in the car. The discovery made him wild with rage. Upon entering the sedan, Cranston had donned a pair of long black gloves!
Partridge's handshake that bore the creeping death had gone to naught! Glove had met glove. Lamont Cranston—otherwise The Shadow— had frustrated the shrewd purpose of the fiend!
CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW ON THE CLIFF
A TREMENDOUS fury had possessed Lucien Partridge. He realized that he had been thwarted by a man whose subtle craftiness was more potent than his own.
Not an irate word; not the semblance of a threat had passed between him and Lamont Cranston. The old man had intended to send forth another unsuspecting victim. Instead, Cranston had outwitted him; yet, in turn, had left no evidence that he had suspected the old man's design.
Partridge was in a quandary. Was Cranston merely a chance visitor, who knew no more than he had said? Or was he a shrewd investigator who had come to learn the secret of Partridge's application of the creeping death?
In view of their conversation, the first surmise must be correct. But, instinctively, the old man sensed that Lamont Cranston had come to learn one single fact; that forewarned, he had been forearmed.
In either case, it would be dangerous for this man to live. Knowing of Forster's connection with Guthrie, and the double connection between those men and Partridge, Cranston was a menace to the old man's schemes. Either unwittingly or by design, he could spoil Partridge's mighty dreams of life, death, and wealth.
Something must be done to intercept him before he could manage to leave Westbrook Falls.
Fitzroy—Forster—Guthrie—Armagnac—none of these compared with Cranston as a danger. Turning, his face still livid with rage, Partridge spied Vignetti. His wild expression became an insidious sneer.
"Vignetti!" he exclaimed. "This is your chance to-night. Remember Li Tan Chang! That man who has gone"—Partridge pointed down the road - "take him as you took the old Chinaman. Death! By the knife!
The vendetta!"
The Corsican needed no further urging. Only one road led to the inn. Vignetti had a car available. He knew the road well. He could easily overtake the man who had eluded his master's clutches.
Three minutes later, Lucien Partridge was smiling grimly as he watched the tail light of Vignetti's car disappearing around the turn in the road. This would be bold work to-night; but Lucien Partridge did not fear the outcome.
A subtle killing would be best. Vignetti might engineer such a deed. But even if the Corsican should attack Cranston in the open, the deed would not reflect upon Lucien Partridge. Vignetti never failed with the knife. No matter what might happen, his passion for the vendetta would cause him to maintain silence.
The fact that Lucien Partridge's servant had madly slain in cold blood could never be construed as a crime on the part of the kindly faced old man. That face was not kindly as Partridge turned back toward his mansion; but when he came into the light, the old man was smiling with a benign expression.
MEANWHILE, Vignetti was speeding to the pursuit. Driving wildly along the road, the Corsican was striving to gain upon the car ahead. Within a mile, he caught sight of the tail light up ahead. He kept on behind the sedan, waiting for a spot where vengeance might be possible.
As they neared the bridge, luck favored Vignetti. A large, battered truck was standing in the center of the road. The sedan was forced to stop. Vignetti, drawing up slowly behind it, covered every bit of the car with his headlights. He saw the driver get out and approach the truckmen.
Stopping his car, Vignetti leaped out and crept forward. This was his opportunity. Cranston was in the back seat of the sedan. He could attack and kill while the driver was expostulating with the truckmen.
Then he could turn and drive away before he was noticed.
Vignetti placed his hand upon the handle of the door. He slowly turned the knob. He opened the door.
He saw a form leaning in the darkened corner.
With a savage leap, Vignetti sprang forward with his knife. His swift thrust entered that huddled shape.
The blade passed through a nonresisting object and buried itself into the cushions of the seat.
Vignetti sprawled upon the floor of the car. His stroke had gone through nothingness!
Rising to his knees, the Corsican quickly withdrew his knife. He struck a match and held it cupped in his hands.
What he had mistaken for a human being was nothing more than a coat, topped by a hat upon its collar.
The dummy object was stuffed with a sheet of wrapping paper!
Bewildered, Vignetti leaped from the sedan and closed the door behind him. He rushed up to the driver, who was returning from his argument with the truckmen. The fellow seemed surprised to see Vignetti.
"What's the matter?" he questioned.
"That one—where is he?" Vignetti's words were uttered in broken English.
"In the back seat of the car," was the response. "I spoke to him when I got out."
"He spoke to you?"
"I spoke to him. He didn't answer."
"No—not now is he there."
The driver opened the rear door of the sedan. He saw the coat and hat. He reached out, and the garments dropped as he touched them. He looked at Vignetti, puzzled.
"What're you doing here?" he questioned.
"Mr. Partridge—he send me," explained Vignetti. "He say important for this one to come back. Back to see. I open door. Man not there. Where?"
"It beats me!" declared the driver, as he rummaged around the back seat. "This is his hat and coat all right. This paper—say that must be off the package he brought with him. Left his hat and coat and took the package. It beats me!"
"He no pay?"
"Sure he paid me—plenty. I made a deal to take him up to Partridge's and back. But I can't figure when he got out. You didn't see him?"
"I no see."
The driver shrugged his shoulders. The truckmen were moving their vehicle to the side of the road. The driver jumped in the front seat and went by.
"Lucky you got by, cap," one of the truckmen called to him. "We're stuck here for a while. Guess we're going to get started, but it will be tough if we bust again before we get to the bridge. This road is too blamed narrow."
Vignetti was not interested in the truckmen's troubles. He was wondering what had become of Lamont Cranston. He realized suddenly that the man must have left the sedan within a mile of Partridge's place.
FUMING, Vignetti hurried back to his own car, and managed to turn it around in the narrow road. He sped on toward Partridge's and shot along the road beside the gorge. Watching on both sides, he sought any sign of a person in the darkness. He saw no one. When he pulled up in front of the gate, he saw that Partridge had gone inside.
Running to the house, Vignetti encountered his master. In a wild outburst of Italian dialect, he told his story. Lucien Partridge evidenced a sour expression.
"That man is danger
ous, Vignetti," he declared. "He suspected you as well as me. We must be alert to-night. Come."
He led the way to the gate. There, the old man listened, as though expecting to hear a sound amid the dark. The lights of Vignetti's car showed the road toward the gorge. The old man remained in statuesque pose, staring in that direction.
Whatever Lamont Cranston had done, he had certainly not returned to this spot. Yet Partridge's surmise that the visitor was still in the vicinity was not an incorrect one. For while the old man waited at the gate, a tall, silent figure was approaching the edge of the river chasm, around the corner from the range of the automobile lights.
The night was dull and cloudy. Even at the edge of the gorge, the tall black figure was scarcely visible.
The rays of the moon were obscured by fleeting clouds.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. Calling Vignetti's turn— deceiving the driver who thought he still had a passenger—the specter of the night had dropped from the sedan, leaving the hat and coat that he had worn. The package which he had opened had contained the outer garments which he now wore—the long black cloak and the broad-brimmed slouch hat.
Reaching beneath his cloak, The Shadow drew forth four disklike objects. Flat surfaces that bent as he twisted them, he attached these articles to his hands and feet.
Stooping, The Shadow thrust his head and shoulders to the very edge of the dim cliff. Then, inch by inch, foot by foot, he let his body go over the precipice a few yards from the extended end of the iron fence that bounded Lucien Partridge's domain.
A few minutes later, a momentary clearing of the clouds showed a black form clinging to the sheer wall of the great gorge! Suspended over nothingness, The Shadow was creeping along the cliff, past the projection of the barring fence!
The moonlight passed. The only sign of The Shadow's progress was the slow, squidgy sound of the rubber suction cups that he had attached to his hands and feet.
Like a fly upon the side of the wall, this amazing personage was feeling his way past the barrier that prevented entrance into Partridge's domain!
No human fly could have clung to that sheer surface of granite. Even with the suction cups, it was a task of the utmost danger. Had one hand or foot failed to force a purchase, death would have been the result, for the upper edge of the cliff was overhanging at the spot where The Shadow now rested.
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