“Where are your trunks?”
“In the front room, downstairs.”
“Brophy,” decided Willington, “you have told me the truth. Your demonstration with the guinea pigs prove it. As proof of my friendship, I shall claim no further payments for my silence regarding your past.”
“Do you mean that, Willington?”
“Positively. But there is one condition. I want that machine that you have in your secret room.”
“No!” cried Brophy, hotly. “You can’t have it, Willington! Much of it is my invention. It protects me, should the electric company try to deprive me of my due!”
“I want the machine only while you are away,” purred Willington. “It will be safe with me. You should not leave it here.”
“No one will find it—”
“There might be a fire.”
Brophy looked startled. Then he considered. Finally he gave a nod.
“I shall lend you the machine,” he declared. “But you must take care of it. Only, how can I arrange its delivery?”
“I shall explain that. Come. Pack the machine. We will carry it down with your trunks.”
Brophy nodded. He and Willington stepped into the secret room and hoisted the Q-ray machine into its box. They clamped the lid; then carried the box out through the laboratory and downstairs.
“Let me have the key to this house,” suggested Willington.
Brophy, puzzled, passed it to him.
“You will go out with me tonight.” explained Willington. “Arrange your passage in the morning. Call me at the Hotel Royal. I shall send the express men. They will deliver your trunks at the pier. The box will come to me.”
Brophy nodded.
“Let us go upstairs again,” remarked Willington. “You left the secret panel open.”
Brophy nodded. They went upstairs. They crossed the laboratory. The light was burning in the secret room. Brophy stepped through the panel and reached up to extinguish the light.
“Wait,” ordered Willington. He had stepped into the secret room also. He pressed the switch that closed the panel. “I want to tell you something, Brophy.”
Brophy turned. His eyes bulged with horror as he saw a gleam in Willington’s fist. Then Willington jabbed a stub-nosed revolver into Brophy’s ribs and pressed the trigger.
A muffled report. Brophy slumped, gasping. Pungent fumes filled the room.
Willington lifted the switch. The panel opened. Willington stepped out into the laboratory. He looked at the gasping form of Brophy.
“Sorry,” said Willington, suavely. “I could not let you get anything on me, Brophy. You would know too much if I had let you live.”
Brophy made no reply. His gasps ended. The pasty-faced inventor was dead.
WILLINGTON closed the panel and replaced the loose tile, jamming it in tightly. The secret room had become Seth Brophy’s tomb.
Quietly, Willington turned out the laboratory lights. He went downstairs and extinguished the lower lights also. He left by the front door, locking it behind him with Brophy’s key.
Cuyler Willington had used craft in his murder of Seth Brophy. He had chosen the secret room as the spot for the fatal shot, knowing that the revolver report would not be heard outside the house, thanks to the muffling panel.
Then the same room had served him for his disposal of the body. It would be a long time before any one would discover the corpse of the electrical expert.
Willington’s lips wore a smile as the murderer entered a cab. He told the driver to take him to the Hotel Atlantic. Then, settling back upon the cushions, Cuyler Willington adjusted a cigarette in his fancy holder and gazed dreamily at the lights of Broadway.
CHAPTER XI. THE BROKEN TRAIL
LATE that same evening, two persons met at the exclusive Cobalt Club. One was Lamont Cranston, the globe-trotter. The other was a portly gentleman: Titus Thoreau, the banker.
The two shook hands. They were old acquaintances; but it was only occasionally that they happened to meet. Both visited the Cobalt Club regularly when they were in New York; but it was seldom that both were in town at the same time.
This was no chance meeting, however. The Shadow had learned that morning that Thoreau was in New York. In the guise of Cranston, The Shadow had been waiting at the club, anticipating Thoreau’s arrival.
Greetings exchanged, the two sat down in a quiet corner and began to chat. It was not long before the conversation turned to the train that The Shadow wanted. In the quiet tones of Cranston, he chanced a remark:
“Did you see Lord and Lady Atherton on your last trip to London?”
“Why yes,” responded Thoreau. “What made you think of them, Cranston?”
“Something I saw in the newspapers.”
“Regarding Lord Atherton?”
“No. About a chap named Mollin. A chap who once tried to steal Lady Atherton’s pearls.”
“Mollin! He was my butler. That happened at my home, Cranston.”
Cranston’s eyes looked quizzical.
“Absolutely,” asserted Thoreau. “Lady Atherton’s pearls were stolen while she was a guest of Mrs. Thoreau. It happened just at the end of an evening party. People were leaving. We stopped them and called in the police.”
“And the servants?”
“We lined them up also. All in a room together. When the police arrived, we began a search. Mollin had the necklace.”
“Did he try to alibi himself?”
“No. He confessed that he had seen the pearls in Lady Atherton’s room. He said he could not resist the temptation of stealing them. They gave him a light sentence. But from what you say, he must have been in some new trouble.”
“He was murdered last night.”
“By whom?”
“No one knows.”
Thoreau shook his head.
“Poor devil,” he said. “I’m genuinely sorry, Cranston. I don’t think the fellow was a crook at heart. At first I did — on the night of the robbery; but afterward, I changed my mind.”
“You talked with Mollin?”
Thoreau shook his head.
“No,” he declared. “It was an odd chain of circumstances that made me feel kindly toward Mollin. You see, the man had been an excellent servant; and he had come with fine references. One was from a chap named Willington, Cuyler Willington. Mollin had been Willington’s valet.
“It happened that Willington was a guest at that party for Lord and Lady Atherton. The next day, Willington stopped in my office. He was highly apologetic for having given Mollin a reference.
“Then he became indignant. He insisted that I should demand a full prosecution of the fellow. In fact, Willington seemed so vicious in his denunciation that I found myself taking Mollin’s part.”
Lamont Cranston’s features wore a smile as Thoreau paused.
“I asked Willington what he had against Mollin,” resumed the banker. “I wanted facts if I intended to prosecute the man. That stumped Willington. It seemed his indignation was all foam.
“I asked him if Mollin had ever stolen anything from him. Willington said no. Then he recalled that he had once gone out of town for three days, forgetting several thousand dollars that he had left upon his bureau. At his destination he found a wire from Mollin. The servant had found the money and was informing him that it was safe.
“That impressed me, Cranston. I became indignant toward Willington. Fancy it, denouncing a man who had shown such honesty. When Mollin’s case came up in court, I put in a plea for leniency. Willington did not appear; but I cited the instance that he had mentioned. The judge gave Mollin the minimum term. I told Willington about it afterward.”
“What did he say?”
“He seemed pleased. He admitted that he had been unjust in his first denunciation.”