“My niece,” was Glendenning’s introduction. “Sit down, Margaret. Mr. Vincent and I were just talking about Robert.”
“Has he been found yet?”
There was a peculiar tone in the girl’s question. It seemed to carry a note of suppressed anxiety.
Harry saw the situation in an instant. The girl, evidently, was worried about Robert Buchanan. At the same time, she was probably trying to keep in her uncle’s good graces.
The old man did not care for Buchanan. The girl, to please her uncle, was trying to forget the man she had loved; but past memories were difficult to overcome.
“I am trying to find him,” declared Harry.
He was looking toward the girl as he spoke. Harry noticed that Larkin was no longer in the room. Then he became intent upon the girl’s next statement.
“We have no idea where Robert is,” said Margaret. “I think that he should have let us know where he went. Perhaps” — her voice broke momentarily — “perhaps something has happened to him.”
“I do not think so,” interposed Glendenning. “We would have heard about it long before this. People do not vanish into thin air unless they have a good reason to depart for places unknown. Buchanan left town because he wanted to get rid of you — to let you down!”
THE harsh statement caused Harry to feel a dislike toward Clinton Glendenning. Harry looked at the girl sympathetically. She seemed almost on the point of tears. Larkin came back into the room while Harry was studying the girl.
“The best plan for you, Margaret,” said Glendenning, in a tone that was not unkindly, “is to forget Robert Buchanan. I never regarded him as worthy of you. You have promised to forget him.”
“I know it,” said the girl bravely. “Good night!”
She left the room hastily with eyes averted. Harry fancied that he heard her sobbing as she went down the hallway. The girl’s emotion was genuine. Did she know more than she had said?
Harry watched Larkin. The secretary’s face was grave. Harry felt that he would like to quiz this man.
“That is all,” said Clinton Glendenning coldly. “I bid you good night!”
He rose from his chair and left the room, leaving Harry alone with Larkin. The interview was over, but Harry knew that he had gained by it.
He knew that a detective named Don Hasbrouck had visited Clinton Glendenning as recently as two nights ago. He knew that Hasbrouck had intended to communicate with a man named Jerry Middleton. Both items were valuable as information.
Accompanied by Larkin, Harry went downstairs. He felt a distaste for this gloomy old house. He donned his hat and coat, and while he was standing in the hallway, Larkin went up to the second floor, leaving the visitor to find his own way out.
Harry’s sleeve brushed against something; he turned quickly and stared suspiciously at a velvet curtain beside him. Acting upon impulse, he raised the curtain and stared into the blackness of the room beyond.
Then he laughed at his own suspicion of danger. He dropped the curtain.
Opening the door, Harry stepped forth into the night. There was no cab in sight, so he began a walk toward the corner.
Ordinarily, Vincent would have been very much alert. Before he had entered the house, he had been suspicious of his surroundings. Now, his thoughts were so occupied with the facts he had learned that he paid no attention to anything near by.
But before Harry had gone a dozen paces, there was a movement on the opposite side of the street. A man was lurking on the other sidewalk, keeping pace with Harry’s stride. When Harry reached the corner, he crossed the street to hail a cab.
It brought him close to the corner of a darkened building. The man who was following stood silent, sheltered by the corner. Harry never looked in his direction.
“Hotel Metrolite,” said Harry to the cabman.
The words were loud enough to be heard by the concealed observer.
As Harry’s cab rolled away, the watching man came into the light. He was of medium height. He was wearing a dark overcoat, which had made his form indistinct in the darkness.
In the light of the avenue, the man’s face was visible. It formed an evil, sinister countenance, with wicked lips that grinned maliciously.
The man whistled to a passing cab. The vehicle pulled up to the curb. The watcher entered.
“Hotel Metrolite,” he ordered. “Make it quick!”
The cab shot away. Then, from the thick darkness of the side street, another form emerged. A tall figure in black came into view. He was attired in a flowing cloak that hung from his shoulders. His visage was concealed beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat.
From an unseen post in the darkness, this man of the night had seen all that had transpired. Now, with long, swift strides, he was moving along the avenue, toward the kiosk of a subway station, a block away.
The tall, black-clad figure disappeared into the subway. Less than a minute later, an express rumbled into the station and stopped at the platform beneath the street. It was bound downtown.
THE next trace of the man in the black cloak was when he appeared in front of the Metrolite Hotel. His soft hat was turned down over his eyes. He merged with the blackness at the side of the building.
Scarcely had he taken his stand, before brakes screamed as a taxi pulled up to the curb. Out of the cab stepped the man with the evil, wolfish face. He walked a few paces away and assumed the attitude of an idler watching the street.
Another cab arrived. Harry Vincent alighted. He went into the Metrolite Hotel, and the shrewd-faced man watched him closely. The fellow laughed sullenly as he observed Harry’s features. That laugh meant that he would recognize Harry Vincent when he saw him again.
The man turned and walked along the street.
From the blackness of the building came another laugh. It was soft and mirthless — scarcely audible.
A phantom shape emerged and trailed the man who had been watching Harry Vincent. The following form was almost invisible as it took up the pursuit.
Upstairs, in his hotel room, Harry Vincent thoughtfully made out a report. He was reciting the facts that he had learned tonight.
In the back of his head lurked a suspicion that some key to the disappearance of Robert Buchanan could be discovered at the home of Clinton Glendenning.
Harry was totally oblivious to the fact that he had been followed on his return to the hotel. He did not know that a hidden man had tracked him in the dark.
But The Shadow knew.
The Shadow was at work!
CHAPTER IV
THE SHADOW HEARS
THE man who had watched Harry Vincent enter the Metrolite Hotel now wended his way toward Broadway. When he reached Manhattan’s most famous canyon, he mingled with the after-theater crowd and followed a rapid, devious course.
He became an insignificant figure among thousands, and so artfully did he weave his path that even the most capable sleuth could not have kept upon his trail.
For the wolfish-faced individual was a man who knew the methods of the underworld, and he used a definite routine wherever he went. He entered a speakeasy, several squares above Forty-second Street.
There he paused a few moments, and left by a side entrance known only to the chosen few. At last, satisfied that no one could possibly be noticing him, he swung again from Broadway and strode westward until he arrived at an old apartment building.
Here, after a quick, covert glance, the man entered a darkened hallway and moved noiselessly up carpeted steps, disdaining to use the automatic elevator in the building.