The trail continued. It bore west, skirting the slope. At one spot, broken branches of trees showed a course through blocking boughs. Another wisp of cigarette paper furnished an additional clue.
These traces were not obvious. Only The Shadow, looking for them, could have discovered the path that a prowler had taken. With the skill of a woodsman, he kept to his task, picking new indications that the sheriff’s blunderers had utterly failed to notice.
An hour’s journey brought him beyond the hill. There the trail veered; then was lost at an opening among the trees. The Shadow, however, noted a tiny knoll that might have been an objective. He made in that direction. From the eminence, he gained a view to the north.
A stream curved past the borders of the slope. A farmhouse stood beyond it; but on the stream itself, half a mile west of the farm, was a dark brown building that looked like an old mill.
A poor road showed among trees still further west. It offered means of travel between the mill and the good dirt road that skirted the west side of the slope. The Shadow chose that road as his next point.
DESCENDING the slope, The Shadow suddenly came upon new traces of the same trail that he had taken from the clearing above Table Rock. Evidently the stroller on the hillside had cut down to the road in the same fashion as had The Shadow.
A cigarette butt was the clue that proved this fact. Reaching the road, The Shadow discovered footprints in thick dust. A toe pointed right, that was toward the mill.
The Shadow followed the trail no further. Keeping to the side of the road, he headed left. A westward walk of more than a mile brought him to the good dirt highway. He followed it until he came to the upper end of the old abandoned road on which Harry Vincent had left the flivver. The Shadow took to the abandoned road.
A coupe was parked beside the birch trees when The Shadow arrived at that spot. A man was standing beside it, looking up the path. The Shadow approached and scuffed a stone as he advanced. The man spun about to show a face that was keen and alert.
He was Clyde Burke, reporter from the New York Classic. Wiry built, active of manner, Clyde started tensely as he awaited the arrival of the walker. He said nothing as he studied the immobile features of Henry Arnaud.
The Shadow raised his left hand. On the third finger, Clyde spied a gem that glittered despite the shade of the trees above. The stone was a fire opal, a glimmering, living coal of varied hue; The Shadow’s girasol.
“They’ve all gone back to town,” stated Clyde, solemnly. “I told the sheriff I wanted to poke around here a while. The other reporters went into Paulington. I’m to meet them at the office of Burgess Dowden.”
A slow nod was The Shadow’s response. In the steady manner of Henry Arnaud, he entered the car and took the wheel. Clyde joined him.
“Remain at the Paulington House,” ordered The Shadow, in Arnaud’s steady tone. “Await instructions; and have reports available. I shall require this car.”
“All right,” agreed Clyde. “The sheriff found nothing up on the slope. It looks like there’d been people around there, all right, but none of them left enough traces to count.”
“Did he discover anything at the cabin?”
“Nothing. But he says — and it sounds likely, too — that whoever blew the place up could have gone around and picked up any traces of — of—”
“Of the man who died there.”
Clyde had hesitated, choked as he sought to utter the name of Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s response, in level, solemn voice, had completed the sentence for him.
Clyde nodded. He appreciated the fact that The Shadow had spoken without mentioning Harry’s name.
To Clyde, the tragedy was as great as it had been to Cliff Marsland.
The Shadow was driving toward the fork and Clyde studied his masklike countenance as they jounced from the bad road. In the features of Henry Arnaud, he saw an inflexible, unyielding expression.
Grim fervor seized Clyde Burke. Like Cliff, he had vowed vengeance upon murderers. In The Shadow’s firm countenance, despite the fact that it was but a temporary guise, Clyde saw a determination that he knew must concern the future.
Clyde recalled the vengeance that The Shadow had wreaked upon slayers who had killed an agent long ago. He knew that this just being would always exact toll from men of evil. But the past could not vanish from Clyde’s memory.
Harry Vincent was dead. That tragic thought gripped Clyde as it had held Cliff. With effort, Clyde managed to regain his calmness. The Shadow’s example had told him that he must face the future.
NO comment came from the lips of Henry Arnaud as the car rolled toward Paulington. It was not until they had reached the very outskirts of the village that The Shadow stopped.
It was Clyde’s signal to leave. The agent clambered from the coupe. The Shadow drove off along a side street while Clyde started afoot toward Dowden’s office.
The Shadow did not travel far, however. He skirted the town, came in by a side road and parked the coupe in back of the Paulington House. It was time for the evening train. The Shadow strolled leisurely toward the station platform.
The local chugged into view; three passengers stepped from it. Standing away, The Shadow surveyed them; suddenly his eyes became fixed upon a passenger of husky build whose keen eyes stared from a swarthy countenance.
The Shadow knew that stranger, with his firm jaw and short-clipped mustache. But The Shadow had not expected to see him in Paulington. The arrival was Vic Marquette, operative for the United States secret service.
Vic was looking about, anxious to make some query. He saw the station agent and approached the man.
The Shadow, strolling close, heard Marquette inquire the way to Burgess Dowden’s office. The station agent pointed to the building down the street.
The Shadow watched Marquette walk away. He waited; the operative entered the office building. Ten minutes passed; then three reporters — Burke included — came strolling out to the sidewalk. The Shadow laughed softly.
Marquette had evidently introduced himself to sheriff and burgess. The result was a private conference.
The Shadow, however, was in no haste to learn the details. He strolled over to the Paulington House.
The clerk was reading a newspaper that had just arrived. Paulington was in the news. Last night’s flash over the press wires had added grim importance to the mystery explosion on the hillside.
That was why reporters had come here today; it was also why the clerk stared suspiciously at the features of Henry Arnaud as The Shadow strolled upstairs. Strangers who failed to state their business were being watched in Paulington. The clerk had already told the burgess that Henry Arnaud had checked in at the Paulington House after the hill explosion.
Clouded sky; gloomy dusk. Blackness was thickening outside The Shadow’s window. Half an hour had passed since Marquette had entered the office building. The Shadow was seated at a table, about to seal an envelope. Suddenly he became alert.
His keen ears had caught the sound of footsteps. People were coming up the stairs to the third floor of the hotel. Voices, though muffled, were carrying along the corridor of the old hotel; they could be heard through The Shadow’s open transom.
Instantly, The Shadow extinguished the table lamp. Something swished; he was plucking cloak and hat from an opened suitcase. The black garments donned, he produced a coil of rope from the bag; then clicked the suitcase shut.
Men had arrived outside The Shadow’s door. Someone was pounding; the gruff tones of Sheriff Brock were calling for Mr. Arnaud.