Picking up the Blue Pearl, Treft inserted it with the others. He chuckled as he arose. He extended his hand to Cliff.
The Shadow’s agent received the clasp. As his hand pressed Treft’s, Cliff gained his second startlement.
Never before had he clasped such a long, thin-boned hand. Nor had he experienced the pressure of hard-gripping finger tips.
Griscom Treft’s hand was a veritable claw; one that possessed a tearing force. Staring open-eyed, Cliff viewed the silver bird emblazoned on the wall. He realized that Treft’s clasp could rival that of a condor’s talon.
The chuckle that Treft gave was not needed. Cliff Marsland understood; he met the eyes that gleamed like the beady optics of a bird of prey. Another completing touch that was not required. Griscom Treft was not the intermediary that Cliff had suspected he might be. The gray-haired master of Mountview Lodge was The Condor!
TREFT’S fierce clasp loosened, leaving blood-red blotches on Cliff’s hand — marks that faded slowly. In a sharp voice, The Condor called for Trossler. The servant appeared, his face solemnly smug.
“Take Marsland’s bag to his room,” ordered Treft. “He will remain with us, Trossler.”
There was a harshness in the tone, now that Treft had no need to disguise his voice. Almost the vicious shriek of a preying bird, that tone — one that well-fitted The Condor.
“Remain here” — The Condor spoke these words to Cliff — “so I can speak to you of certain matters. You have become one of a select circle, Marsland.”
Cliff nodded his understanding.
“Come.” Cliff felt the dig of claws as The Condor clasped a hand to his shoulder. “Out to the veranda, where we shall find it more pleasant. Shortly, you will meet the others.”
They strolled out through the hall; they reached the broad veranda and there they paced together, The Condor’s clutch still on Cliff’s shoulder. That grip, perhaps, was one of friendship; but it also expressed a mastery.
Cliff, like the pearls that he had brought, had become a prized possession of The Condor. He was a new member of the band that this supercrook had been gathering. Men of crime, governed by a single master.
This peaceful lodge, its very splendor aiding it to escape the law’s attention, was the headquarters for evil aids who served a vicious, calculating chief.
“You have met Corey, who serves as chauffeur,” Cliff heard The Condor say. “He is one of us. So is Trossler, whose present capacity is that of house man. Those are blinds; every man has his pretended purpose here.
“Some are caretakers; others are guests. Two are hidden; they need no presence, since they are never seen. You will have a place, Marsland, for the short while that you will be here. Until the thirteenth; after that, our new plans begin.”
THE CONDOR paused. Darkness had settled completely; Cliff felt a fierce antagonism toward this harsh-voiced creature who stood beside him. He could still feel the clutch of Treft’s claw upon his shoulder.
“By the way.” The Condor’s tone was lowered. “Did you hear any talk in town — or while coming on the bus?”
“About what?” inquired Cliff.
“An explosion,” replied The Condor, “that occurred last night. I sent men to destroy a cabin on the other side of the hill. A suspicious prowler intended to use it as headquarters, perhaps to spy upon us. We eliminated him along with his new residence.”
Harsh sarcasm formed the tone of The Condor’s utterance. Cliff restrained himself with difficulty; then replied, his voice a bit thoughtfuclass="underline"
“I heard nothing mentioned about the matter.”
“Logical enough,” agreed The Condor. “Well, Corey may have something to tell. Come, let us go in the house.”
A distant purr sounded far off above the trees. The Condor paused to stare at tiny lights that were passing slowly above the horizon.
“Another airplane,” he said, harshly. “I don’t like them about; but it can’t be helped. There was one that passed over here twice, one day last week.
“These hills must make it difficult for them to find the airport at Southbridge, five miles northwest of Paulington. Well” — he chuckled as the twinkling lights veered westward — “that pest has gone back to his proper course.”
They entered the house; The Condor’s clasp had lifted. Trossler was there; the master told the servant-crook to show the new guest to his room.
Cliff followed Trossler up the steps to the second floor, while Treft strolled back into the study.
RESTRAINED emotions shook Cliff Marsland when he stood alone. The meeting with The Condor had been grueling; but Cliff had managed it without difficulty, until he had heard those harsh utterances relating to the destruction of the cabin.
Harry Vincent — dead!
The terrible reality throbbed through Cliff Marsland’s brain. The discussion on the bus had troubled him; The Condor’s statement had changed his worry into absolute anguish. At that time when they were pacing back into the house, Cliff was ready to throw off all pretence. He had wanted to seize Griscom Treft and throttle the fiend to death. He had wanted vengeance upon this murderer who had coldly ordered the destruction of the lonely cabin and its occupant.
Then had come the flash that had brought Cliff back to sanity. Those lights upon the horizon.
Slow-moving glimmers of green and red. Treft had spoken of the passing ship as an airplane. Cliff, judging its speed, had known that it must be an autogyro.
The Shadow’s chosen craft! The Shadow had learned of doom. He had come here to take up the work.
It would be The Shadow’s privilege — not Cliff’s — to avenge the death of Harry Vincent.
Such was the thought that steadied Cliff as he heard the clang of a summoning bell. Ready to continue his part, Cliff Marsland strode from his room to join those below.
CHAPTER X. ON THE SLOPE
ONE hour after Cliff Marsland had observed those passing lights on the horizon, an antique taxi rolled up in front of the Paulington House. A tall passenger alighted, paid the driver and entered the hotel.
A languid clerk was perched behind the desk. Hooking one thumb under a suspender strap, he pushed the register across the desk so that the guest could sign. The name that the tall personage inscribed was Henry Arnaud.
As the lone bell boy carried the new guest’s suitcase upstairs, the clerk caught his first glimpse of the stranger’s face. He noticed a firm-set countenance, almost hawklike in its profile. Then he perched behind the desk again.
Not long afterward, the new guest came down the stairs. The clerk was half asleep and did not see him stroll across the lobby. The tall figure settled in a chair and remained there, almost obscured from view.
The Shadow had reverted to his guise of Henry Arnaud for this trip to Paulington. There had been no comeback from Clark Copley after the Walpin robbery. Evidently the Cincinnati pearl salesman had noticed no connection between Henry Arnaud’s purchases and the subsequent theft of the Blue Pearl.
Few persons were passing in the quiet street that constituted Paulington’s main thoroughfare. The Shadow, nevertheless, was watchful. At last his vigilance was rewarded by the arrival of an old touring car in front of the hotel. A bulky, beef-faced man alighted and strode into the lobby.
“Hi there, Bill!” he greeted, waving to the clerk. “Burgess Dowden been here looking for me?”
“Yeah,” returned the clerk, rising from his chair in sleepy fashion. “He was around ‘bout an hour ago, asking if I’d seen you, sheriff.”
“Where’d the burgess go from here?”
“Over to his office. Take a look out the door and you’ll see the light a-burning. Waiting for you, I reckon. Said he would be.”