But he had not escaped The Shadow — that man who could span an ocean when he set out in pursuit.
The Russian leaped to the door of the compartment. He unlocked the door, and stared up and down the corridor. There was no sign of the man who had emitted that uncanny laugh. Yet the sound of the taunting merriment still echoed through Prince Zuvor’s maddened brain.
He closed the door, and slumped into his seat.
“To Russia — the land where failure means death!”
The Shadow’s words were true. Even the Red Envoy must report to one higher up, exactly as the agents had reported to Prokop, and Prokop to the Red Envoy.
The situation was terrifying to Prince Zuvor. As a renegade royalist, he had worked long to obtain his position of immunity. In order to maintain his security against enemies, he had promised to bring the plans of Professor Whitburn’s invention, that his superiors might make use of it before it had reached the American government.
The train was slowing as it neared a station. Prince Zuvor did not notice the slackening speed. He sat motionless, dazed and staring. He knew that he had failed; he realized that no excuse would be accepted.
When the train de luxe reached Berlin, a startling discovery was made.
The body of a man — a Russian — was found in a compartment. The dead man was identified as Prince Zuvor, a member of the old regime.
His death was pronounced suicide. He had swallowed poison. The bottle which had contained the death-dealing fluid was lying on the seat beside the body.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE DEPARTURE
THE successful nonstop flight of the Silver Comet was a front-page sensation in the American newspapers. The fact that the Transatlantic plane had been given up as lost added to the interest of the story.
Furthermore, Lieutenant Raymond Branson had disappeared after his successful landing in Germany, and his whereabouts had been unknown for several days.
Berlin had been the pilot’s objective. He had confided that fact to his companion in the plane, early in the flight.
Everything had gone well until they had reached Germany; then, for some unknown reason, Branson had been forced to make a landing. He had brought the ship to earth not far from a large town, and had immediately left the plane.
When his weary companion had climbed from the ship, Branson was nowhere around.
The man who had accompanied Branson had been completely bewildered by the disappearance of his chief. He was unable to speak German. It had been some hours before he had been able to convince people that this was a plane from America, and that the pilot had vanished.
Branson’s picture had been printed on the front pages of thousands of newspapers. Then, while wild theories were being advanced to account for his absence, the missing man revealed himself in Berlin.
The strain of the flight had told on him, he said. His failure to reach Berlin had made him frantic. He had hastened from the plane, and had gone to the town near which he had landed.
From there he had taken a train to Berlin. He had gone to a hotel, and had slept intermittently for three days and nights.
Then he had realized that his disappearance might have caused consternation. In this he was entirely correct. It had.
WHILE Raymond Branson was being idolized in Berlin, two men were traveling to America on an ocean liner. They were inconspicuous passengers on the boat, and they saw each other only occasionally during the voyage.
One of these men was a wealthy New Yorker named Lamont Cranston. The other was registered on the passenger list as Victor Marquette.
Although these men appeared to be merely acquaintances, they had held a very short though important conference in Marquette’s stateroom, the night the boat had left Cherbourg.
During the course of that brief meeting, Lamont Cranston had delivered two envelopes into the hands of Vic Marquette.
The same day that the liner reached New York, Harry Vincent came downstairs from his room on the second floor of Professor Whitburn’s house. He walked outdoors rather unsteadily, and reached a steamer chair that had been prepared for him. There he sat looking at the lake.
Death Island was a beautiful place to-day. The aspect of gloom had left It.
Some one approached. Harry turned and saw Arlette. The girl seated herself beside him.
“Arlette,” said Harry, “you promised to tell me your story — “
The girl nodded.
“My father was an American,” she said. “He died in Russia. My mother, who was a Russian, brought me to New York to escape the revolution. Her health weakened and she went to California. I remained in New York, sending her most of the money that I earned.
“I met one of the Red agents. He promised me better work. It was not until I had accepted his offer that I realized how insidious it was. I could not turn back; but, to protect myself, I tried to learn the identities of the other agents.
“Volovick was one. I used to go to the Pink Rat to report. One night I saw the proprietor open the secret panel. The night you were in danger, I led you there. I came back later, but you were gone. I had been instructed to watch Bruce Duncan, to whom I had been introduced on the boat. I purposely neglected my duty to let him leave New York unfollowed.
“I followed a Red Agent who called himself Ernest Manion. He watched you at the Metrolite Hotel. I overheard him repeating instructions on the telephone. I warned you. When I knew the attack was to begin, I came here.”
Professor Whitburn appeared. He held a telegram.
“Crawford will be here to-night,” he said. “I mean Marquette not Crawford. He is bringing my plans. My invention is saved for the United States government!”
Harry gave his congratulations. When he turned to speak to Arlette, the girl was gone.
Bruce Duncan appeared an hour later. He handed Harry an envelope.
“I met Arlette DeLand in the village,” he explained. “She asked me to give you this.”
Harry opened the envelope and found a note.
I love you, Harry, and I know that you love me. You are willing to forget my past; but I cannot forget. It would not be fair of me to accept your love, now. I must wait — wait until you are sure that I am worthy of your love. So I am leaving. I am going out West. I shall begin a new life. If I can forget the past, I shall return. You will hear from me, Harry, when I feel that I have the right to accept your love.
ARLETTE.
Harry’s eyes were fixed on the single word that formed the signature.
“Arlette!” He repeated the name again, and again.
But while Arlette was forgetting, Harry must remember. His love for Arlette could rightfully remain; but he owed loyalty to the man in whose cause he had worked.
“I shall remember,” said Harry, in whispered tones. “I shall be loyal. Loyal to The Shadow!”