One minute later, Cliff was standing in the road, surveying the path that he had to follow. The bus was gone; no car was in sight.
Cliff started up the road to the left. Paving clicked beneath his feet. The road was a good one, as private highways went.
Cliff had walked less than a hundred yards when he heard the approach of a car behind him. A coupe drew up; a uniformed chauffeur peered from the window. Cliff could glimpse the fellow’s face in the dusk. He noted a shrewd, ratlike expression.
“Are you going to the lodge?” questioned the chauffeur, smoothly. “To see Mr. Treft?”
“I’m going to the lodge,” replied Cliff.
The chauffeur studied Cliff half suspiciously, then opened the door.
“Climb in,” he offered. “Bring your bag along; there’s room for it. No use opening the rumble seat.”
The coupe rolled forward. The road continued through thickening trees. Then came a patch of light ahead. The car pulled up in front of a massive gate. Through the iron grille, Cliff viewed the low-walled structure of Mountview Lodge.
From each side of the gateposts ran a high picket fence. This barrier surrounded the grounds of Mountview Lodge. Moreover, it was equipped with thick barbed wire along the picket tops.
The gate was wired also; to open it, the chauffeur was forced to alight and unlock. That done, he returned to the coupe, drove through, stepped out and went back to lock up. Taking the wheel again, he drove to the front of the lodge.
The freshness of the gray stone walls indicated that the building was not an old one. A broad front veranda, with white posts, looked pleasant and inviting. One ominous aspect alone governed Mountview Lodge. Every window was fronted by a crisscross metal grating.
A liveried servant was standing on the porch. While Cliff remained in the coupe, he saw the servant peering curiously in his direction. The chauffeur alighted; Cliff heard their conversation.
“Who is it, Corey?” questioned the servant.
“That’s for you to find out, Trossler,” replied the chauffeur. “Someone coming to the lodge; that’s all I know.”
Cliff stepped from the coupe as Trossler came down from the porch. The servant saw the bag and took it; then inquired:
“You have come to see Mr. Treft?”
“He owns the lodge?” inquired Cliff.
“Certainly,” replied Trossler.
“Then,” decided Cliff, “Mr. Treft is the man I should like to see.”
“Very well, sir.”
Trossler carried the bag into the house. Cliff followed, to find himself in a luxuriously furnished hallway.
Trossler pointed to a heavy-cushioned chair; Cliff sat down and watched the servant pass through a doorway.
A FEW minutes later, Trossler returned. He picked up the bag again and ushered Cliff into a lavishly furnished study. Thick rugs occupied the entire floor; the walls were tapestried; the furniture was of rich mahogany.
A keen-eyed man was standing behind a desk. He was of medium height, stoop-shouldered but of wiry build. His gray-haired head was tilted forward; his eyes peered upward from beneath bushy brows. Cliff saw straight lips, topped by a gray mustache with pointed tips.
There was a sharpness in the man’s scrutiny that made Cliff feel uneasy. He knew that he was face to face with a person of powerful mentality. Dignity, poise and friendliness seemed present in the man’s expression; but the fixation of those eyes told Cliff that surface indications were nothing more than presence.
“Good evening.” The gray-haired man spoke pleasantly, but his voice, like his expression, was deceptive.
“My name is Griscom Treft. May I inquire yours?”
“Cliff Marsland,” replied The Shadow’s agent.
Treft motioned to a chair; as Cliff took it, the gray-haired man sat down and leaned both elbows on the desk.
“What is the purpose of your visit?” he asked.
Until he put the question, Treft’s body had obscured the center of the wall behind him. Now, with Cliff properly seated, with Treft bent forward, that space was in plain view. Cliff stared.
Upon a dull red background, he viewed a silver figure woven in the tapestry. The shape was that of a large bird, its neck high; its beak the pointed bill of a vulture. Long talons glittered beneath the silver body. The figure was that of a condor.
“Your purpose here?”
As Treft’s smooth query was repeated, Cliff reached into his vest pocket. He felt a rounded surface between fingers and thumb. He produced the false Blue Pearl and extended his hand beneath the light that glowed from a desk lamp.
“I brought this,” stated Cliff.
“A pearl,” expressed Treft, mildly. “Quite a rare one, I should judge.”
“It is the Blue Pearl.”
“The Blue Pearl?”
Treft’s query was well-feigned; but his eyes were shrewd as they peered upward. They offset Treft’s tone; they made the inquiry pointed.
“Yes,” replied Cliff, steadily. “A man Gruzen hoped to bring it here. He died, however, in the penitentiary. He passed the word to a fellow named Luff Cadley.
“I knew Luffs.” Cliff was meeting Treft’s eyes as he continued. “We were in the Big House together. Luff wanted to snatch the Blue Pearl; then I was to bring it here. Before he had a chance, he was rubbed out.
“So I did the job on my own. I’ve got the others with me, in the suitcase. A nice lot, all of them. Michael Walpin knows pearls, right enough—”
“Stop!” Treft was on his feet; his face severe, his tone indignant. “Are you referring to the New York robbery of two days ago? Do you mean that you are the rogue who stole that prized collection of rare pearls?”
Cliff nodded.
“And why, sir” — Treft paused with outraged expression — “why, sir, have you dared to come to me? What did you expect to find here?”
The man’s fists were clenched. His eyes were fierce; his whole attitude was one of indignation. Cliff retained his steady stare.
“I came to find The Condor,” he replied. “I have seen his symbol on the wall behind you.”
TREFT’S fists unclenched. The gray-haired man smiled broadly as he settled back in his chair. A chuckle escaped his lips.
“We have been expecting you,” acknowledged Treft. “You did a fine job, Marsland. I have read the newspaper accounts. You are sure your trail is completely covered?”
“Absolutely,” returned Cliff. “I made a quicker get-away than they thought. I caught the Buffalo Mail at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. I was away before they watched the stations.”
“And you have been traveling since?”
“Yes. I’m in the clear. No gang connections. Not a thing they can trail me by.”
“Except your ability at opening safes.”
Cliff shook his head.
“That was the sweet part of it,” he explained. He arose, picked up his bag and placed it on the desk, while Treft looked on keenly. “Luff had been up to Walpin’s. He had cracked the safe while Walpin was away; but the pearls must have been in a safe-deposit vault at that time.
“Luff was waiting for Walpin to get back, so he could attempt the safe again. Knew the combination — ready for a cinch job. Then he was bumped; but not until after he’d told me all he knew. That’s why I did it right in front of Walpin. To make it look like I knew safes.”
Cliff knew that this fabrication was convincing. It was the story that he had been instructed to tell, by The Shadow. But Cliff had wanted to avoid Treft’s gaze while giving the false account. He had used a pretext for that purpose. He was opening the suitcase all the while he spoke.
Bringing out the casket, Cliff revealed the array within. He saw Treft’s eyes gleam. He knew that the man was taking the imitations for genuine.