"You are wise, my boy. From what you have told me, your uncle must have some enemy. I thought about it as I came home last night. We must be wise when we are dealing with unknown dangers. We must meet guile with guile. Your uncle was a brave and fearless man; better than that, he was keen and perceptive. He knew how to meet those who plotted against him. You remind me of your uncle."
Bruce Duncan smiled. The old man's statement was pleasing.
"Yes," continued Isaac Coffran, "you have come to the right place. I feel that I shall be able to give you good advice — after you have read your uncle's letters. Study them well, my boy; and remember everything that seems important. Then tell me what you have found in them. I am an old man; my memory is poor. Yet I have not lost my youthful ability to think clearly and cleverly. I believe that you will agree with me before long."
"It is fortunate that I met you," agreed Duncan. "Even if nothing tangible is learned by this visit, I feel that I am getting somewhere. I want action; these three weeks of idleness have tried my nerves. I am ready for danger; in fact, I would like to encounter it."
"Spoken like your uncle!" exclaimed Isaac Coffran. "He liked adventure, and he found it. Perhaps you will find it, too. But remember one thing. Caution is as important as daring. Guard your actions well."
Bruce Duncan laughed.
"Those words sound almost as if you were foretelling the future," he said.
The old man smiled. He rose from his chair, took his cane, and motioned to Duncan.
"Come," he said. "Time may be precious. You have work to do."
Leading the way down a dark hall toward the front of the house, the old man stopped at a door. He opened the portal and revealed a small room, lighted by lobed wall lamps. The apartment was lined with shelves of books.
"Step in," he invited. "This is my study. A quiet, cozy place in which you will not be disturbed."
Duncan entered the room. He noted that it contained no windows. It was a square room, with a desk in one corner where the bookcases ended. There was another special corner; it was almost an addition to the room — a small nook that projected into the wall.
Evidently it was intended as a place for a reading corner; there was a chair there and a light in the ceiling above, which was lower than the rest of the room. But the light was not turned on.
Isaac Coffran indicated the desk. A pile of letters lay upon it, under the beam of a small desk lamp.
"Your uncle's letters," said the old man. "I have not even looked through them. I know that some of them date back as far as twenty years. They are all dated, I believe, and I have kept them in regular order from beginning to end.
"My suggestion is that you read them one by one. Do not skip any of them. There may be references that will be explained in later letters. My only recollection of your uncle's writing is that he reviewed my replies in each succeeding letter. Hence they should all be self-explanatory.
"Forget time, my boy. I shall be in the front room awake half the night. Read as long as you desire, and concentrate upon your reading. It is the only way to stimulate deep thought.
"I shall close the door of the room so that you will not be disturbed. Should you wish to speak with me push this button beside the desk. It will summon Pedro, who stays up as late as I do."
Bruce Duncan sat at the desk and opened the first letter. He recognized the firm writing of his uncle.
Isaac Coffran placed a friendly hand upon Bruce's shoulder.
"Read on, my boy. Let us hope that before you have finished you will know more than you do now."
Duncan heard the door close behind the old man. There was a slight click of the latch. In comfortable silence, the young man began to read.
Outside the study, Isaac Coffran stood quiet and alert, listening at the closed door. He raised his finger to his lips as Pedro came down the hall. The servant with the scar stood as motionless as his master.
Minutes ticked by. Finally the old man smiled. It was a wicked smile, a cunning smile. It was a smile that would have startled Bruce Duncan had he seen it. It was a smile that brought an ugly, sneering grin to the face of Pedro.
Then Isaac Coffran raised a long, thin hand and pressed a button high in the wall above the door. A panel slid noiselessly into place. It concealed the door completely. When it had closed, there was no break in the wall along the hallway. One would never have supposed that a room existed behind that spot.
The old man stepped back and scanned the place where the door had been. The smile was still on his face as he raised his hands to his forehead and bowed. The action brought another grin to the face of the silent Pedro.
It was like a little ceremony on the part of Isaac Coffran, as though he had bidden farewell to some one whom he did not expect to see again.
CHAPTER XI. CRONIN SEES A SHADOW
Steve Cronin looked over his shoulder as he walked through the lobby of the old hotel in Harrisburg. There was no one in view except the clerk behind the desk, yet the gangster felt uneasy.
"Must be getting the willies," he observed to himself as he walked up the steps, ignoring the antiquated elevator. "Funny I never felt this way before."
He paused at the door of his room. He looked back along the corridor. It was very dim back there — dim and shadowy. He stared for half a minute as though he expected some movement in the darkness. Then he opened his door, slipped his hand cautiously through the narrow space, and turned the switch.
He entered the room quickly, looked about him, and closed the door. The brightness was somewhat reassuring, yet Cronin was not content until he had peered beneath the bed and in the closet. Then he lowered the window shade.
The gangster sat in the chair which Harry Vincent had occupied on the previous night.
"Funny," he murmured. "First time I ever felt nervous like this. Always laughed at guys that acted like they were scared. But to-night — whew!"
He looked toward the closed door.
"Even the stairs," he muttered. "They creaked like blazes. This must be an old place, all right. Sounded funny, though. Wouldn't have thought that I could have made all that noise coming up. Sounded like somebody was with me! Could have been, too, in all that darkness."
He went to his grip and brought out a bottle. He took a long drink. Then he went back to the chair.
Three taps on the door. Cronin started. He gripped the arms of the chair for a moment. Then he laughed.
"Wally," he said. "Only Wally."
He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back quickly. His henchman, Wally, looked at him, and Cronin was momentarily startled by the long shadow that was silhouetted upon the floor. Then he laughed again. He turned and walked back toward the window. Wally followed him.
Steve Cronin turned suddenly. He saw the door still open. He stepped rapidly across the room to close and lock it.
"What's the idea, Wally?" he demanded. "You ought to have enough sense to close a door in back of you."
Wally stared in surprise.
"What's the matter, Steve?" he asked. "You look kind o' queer to-night. Sort o' pale, ain't you? What's up?"
"Nothing," growled Cronin as he sat in the chair by the window. He lighted a cigarette.
"Yeah," reaffirmed Wally, "you look worried."
"Maybe I am," admitted Cronin. "I'm going to forget it, though. Guess I've been jumping around too much lately. I don't know when this hit me, Wally. About a half an hour ago, I guess, in the restaurant."
"What was the matter?"
"Nothing. That's the trouble. While I was sitting there, it seemed as though somebody was looking at me.
There were some people there, but none of them was paying any attention to me. When I looked around it was all right, but as soon as I began to eat again, I felt just like I had before."