REACHING for the telephone, Mann called the Metrolite Hotel. He was connected with a guest named Harry Vincent. In a quiet voice, Mann inquired to whom he was speaking; then said:
“This is the Sea Breeze Realty Corporation. Our building plans offer a man a real opportunity at small investment. Once you have studied our offer, you will be interested.”
“I don’t think so,” came Vincent’s voice. “I spend my summers in the Middle West. I’m not interested in beach lots.”
Rutledge Mann hung up the telephone. In that short conversation, he had sent a very definite order to Harry Vincent. He had emphasized certain words. Phonetically, those words declared: “See R. Mann at once!”
Fifteen minutes later, Harry Vincent appeared in Rutledge Mann’s office. Like Clyde Burke, Harry was admitted to the inner room. For he, too, was one of The Shadow’s trusted agents.
Rutledge Mann placed two clippings in Harry’s hand. One told of the death of George Andrews; the other was the story of the finding of Dale Wharton’s body.
“Yesterday,” declared Mann quietly, “Clyde Burke saw the body of Andrews. To-day he has seen Wharton’s body. Upon the throat of each man was a thin, almost invisible white line. Each forehead was seared with a faint, round mark. Both men were murdered; both were stamped by the man who killed them.
“You will observe that Andrews and Wharton were both socially prominent. There is a third man missing — one whose absence has not yet reached the newspapers. He, too, is socially prominent, and may have suffered death at the hands of the same murderer. The missing man’s name is Robert Buchanan.”
“Is there any trace of him?” questioned Harry.
“None to our knowledge,” Mann said, “but there is one place where an investigator might learn something concerning him.
“Robert Buchanan was engaged to a girl named Margaret Glendenning, who lives with her uncle. The old man is a recluse. Clinton Glendenning is his name — a retired manufacturer.
“This afternoon, following Burke’s report, I received an important message, instructing you to call on Clinton Glendenning and question him in reference to Buchanan. This should be a surprise visit, during the evening. Here is Glendenning’s address.”
HARRY was warmly enthusiastic. He had worked often in the service of The Shadow. He loved adventure, and here was another opportunity for it.
Matters had been quiet during the past month, and Harry had been considering a short trip to his Michigan home in the little town of Colon. Now, with The Shadow calling him to duty, he would remain in New York.
“After dinner,” said Mann, “go to Glendenning’s home. Interview the old man — and, if possible, talk with the niece.”
The conference ended. It was nearly six o’clock. A myriad of twinkling lights could be seen from the window of Rutledge Mann’s office.
Harry Vincent descended to the street and went back to the Metrolite Hotel. After dinner, he set out for Clinton Glendenning’s home.
Harry sensed no danger as he rode northward in the taxi. On the contrary, he felt that he was bound on a very tame mission. It was one that might require shrewdness; that was all.
Because his errand was a secret one, Harry discharged the cab near the address to which he was going and walked the remaining distance.
The street on which the dismal Glendenning house stood was quiet and deserted. Tonight it was undisturbed by the storm which had marked Don Hasbrouck’s visit. Nevertheless, Harry, like the detective, felt tense as he climbed the steps to the door of the house.
All about was shadowy blackness. Harry could not shake off the feeling that some one lurked in the darkness, watching him. But, as he remained in front of the door, the sensation diminished. Harry pressed the bell and heard the lonely, gonglike note.
The door opened. Harry’s path was blocked by a young man who stood in the dim vestibule.
“I would like to see Mr. Glendenning,” said Harry.
“I’m sorry, sir,” was the reply. “I cannot disturb him. You should have called to make an appointment.”
Harry edged his way into the vestibule.
“My name is Harry Vincent,” he declared. “It is urgent that I see Mr. Glendenning. I will not require much of his time.”
“I’m sorry—”
An interruption came from the head of the stairs. Clinton Glendenning’s querulous voice reached the men in the vestibule.
“Who’s there, Larkin?”
“A gentleman named Vincent,” called the secretary.
“Does he wish to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him upstairs.”
The old man was back in his room when Harry entered with Larkin. Curiosity, rather than welcome, was apparent in Glendenning’s attitude. He was seated in his chair, and he eyed Harry sharply.
Harry sat down and looked at the old man. Larkin took his self-effacing stand within the door. In a friendly tone, Harry stated the purpose of his visit.
THE moment that Robert Buchanan’s name was mentioned, a change came over Clinton Glendenning. An angry expression appeared upon his face. His hands clawed the arms of his chair. Then the old man quieted.
“I do not know where Robert Buchanan is,” he said slowly. “He went away some time ago. He happened to be here the night before he left. For that reason, I have been annoyed frequently by a man who is trying to locate him.
“The fellow came here two nights ago, and I was forced to tell him once more that I knew nothing of Buchanan’s whereabouts.
“If your visit is a subterfuge, you are not welcome. If you have really come to inquire fairly about Robert Buchanan, you have heard my answer.
“I have no idea whatever where the young man may be!”
“I am sorry to have caused you any trouble,” said Harry quietly. “I am not in New York all the time — in fact, I had expected to leave town tonight. But it is urgent that I should meet Buchanan. I was told that he was engaged to your niece—”
“He was,” interrupted Glendenning. “That’s all forgotten. Robert Buchanan disappeared two months ago. That ended the engagement. Robert Buchanan is no longer welcome here. You will have to look elsewhere for him!”
“No one seems to know where he is,” said Harry gloomily.
“I understand that,” said the old man, softening a trifle. “Two nights ago a detective named Hasbrouck was here. He is a private agent, employed, I believe, by Buchanan’s relatives. They, too, are wondering where the young man is.”
“A detective named Hasbrouck?”
“Yes. Don Hasbrouck. He went away when I assured him that I had no idea where young Buchanan might be. Perhaps if you communicated with Hasbrouck—”
“My time is rather limited,” said Harry. “I shall look up Hasbrouck — but you say that he does not know where Buchanan can be found?”
“He may know by now,” declared Glendenning. “He told me he was going to see a friend of Buchanan’s a man whom he expected in New York night before last. Let me see” — Glendenning tapped his forehead thoughtfully — “what was that friend’s name? What was it, Larkin? Do you remember?”
“Not offhand, sir,” replied the secretary hesitatingly.
“I have it!” exclaimed Glendenning. “Hasbrouck was going to see a man named Jerry Middleton! That’s who it was! I have heard nothing from Hasbrouck since. There was no reason why I should.”
“Jerry Middleton,” repeated Harry Vincent thoughtfully. “I’ll remember that name. It’s very important that I find Buchanan. Perhaps—”
He paused and arose as Margaret Glendenning suddenly entered the room. The girl was attractively gowned, and Harry was immediately impressed by her beauty. But he also detected a worried, unhappy expression in her eyes. She looked at Harry; then at her uncle.