“Insert — advertisement—”
“Noted.”
The man at the keyboard pressed the same key that had begun the interview. Then he looked at his watch. The hands showed ten o’clock. It was in the morning, yet one would not have known it in that room where no daylight penetrated.
The man listened intently. Then came a faint sound that could have been heard only by the keenest ears.
It seemed to come from below— the working of muffled machinery. The man smiled and his stern lips formed the words “Bron.”
In the passageway below, Bron was standing silent and alone. His hand was on a switch behind an open panel in the wall.
The giant’s face gleamed with sordid pleasure. His dull eyes had become filled with a gleam of delight. He was staring at the door that led to the room where Harry Vincent was held prisoner.
The executioner then turned from the switch. He sat on a stool at the side of the passage and leaned his head against the wall.
While the thrum-thrum of muffled mechanism continued, he glanced frequently at the barrier that kept Harry a captive. Occasionally, Bron’s eyes turned in another direction — to a similar door at the side of the passage. But the one spot that seemed to intrigue him was the door to Harry’s prison.
IN his long cell, Harry Vincent became suddenly conscious of the throbbing noise. He looked up and down the room, but could not locate the sound. Finally he chanced to glance toward the ceiling and a look of alarm swept over his haggard face.
The ceiling was moving downward! Its motion would not have been appreciable but for a slight, jerky action that came with each throb of the machinery.
Harry placed his hand against the smooth glass that covered the lights. He detected a motion there. The panel was moving, also!
Harry stared at the floor in fascination. He could see the frame gradually sinking through the floor. It was moving at a snail’s pace.
Minutes went by. At the end of an hour — as Harry estimated it— the frame had descended only a few inches.
He knew now what his fate would be, and he mopped the perspiration from his forehead. He had his choice. He could speak or be crushed to oblivion beneath the pressure of that descending ceiling.
He knew now why the door was raised above the floor. When the ceiling was down, its top formed a new floor of the passageway.
Harry arose and tottered along the passage toward the door. He was tempted to knock; to yield to his inquisitor. Then he remembered the man’s warning. There could be no trickery! Unless he told everything he knew, he would go back to this corridor of death.
Harry, for the moment, felt that he would tell willingly. Then he realized that he knew but little. How many questions could he answer? His inquisitor believed him to be The Shadow. Would he believe him when he truthfully denied that identity?
Another glance at the ceiling convinced Harry that it was wise to wait. Hours would elapse before the final doom arrived. It would be best to wait; to stand the strain of hours of horror before he chose the last resort of crying for mercy.
He sat on the floor and tried to occupy his mind with other thoughts. But over all came that feverish threat of annihilation. Harry laughed hopelessly and the mirthless sound seemed hollow.
“Death!”
Through his mind still echoed the terrifying verdict. He had hours to wait — for he doubted that the ceiling would be down within a day and a half — yet only one thought could dominate his mind through all that time.
It was the warning of his strange inquisitor that morning — death! — death to The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVII. BLAKE’S VISITOR
IT was ten o’clock in the evening. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since Harry Vincent had started in pursuit of Rodney Paget. Twelve hours had gone by since the gowned inquisitor had visited his prisoner in the lonely corridor.
These events were unknown to the man who sat contentedly in Wilbur Blake’s library.
Herbert entered.
“Otto is ready, sir,” he said. “Do you wish him to take the sedan or the speedster to the station?”
“The speedster;” replied the man who looked like Blake. “Only Mister Michaels will be there. Mister Barton is bringing Mister Fanchon with him.
“But there is no hurry yet. The train doesn’t come in until eleven. Tell Otto to have the speedster in the drive. When Mister Barton and Mister Fanchon arrive, notify me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The butler did not go. He stood uneasily as though he wished to say something. His master looked at him. The eyebrows narrowed in the characteristic action of Wilbur Blake.
“What is it, Herbert?”
“Nothing, sir; that is, nothing much, sir. I–I was just wondering about last night, sir.”
“You spoke to me about that this morning,” said Blake. “You asked me if I had come downstairs about two o’clock, and I told you I had. I went into the kitchen to get something to eat.”
“Yes, sir. But did you come into this room, sir?”
“No. Why?”
“Do you remember, sir, that you dropped a glass last night? Over there in the corner, sir?”
“Yes. You started to pick up the broken pieces. I told you to let them go until morning. I haven’t been in the room until just now. I see that you have obeyed my instructions.”
“Yes, sir. But I forgot about it until half an hour ago. Then I remembered, sir. I came in here and I was quite surprised, Mister Blake.”
“Why?”
“There was a large piece of glass, sir” — Herbert made a motion with one finger and thumb to illustrate — “and I was sure about it, sir, because I saw it last night. It was nearly midnight, sir, you will remember — and you walked out while I was about to gather up the pieces of glass.”
“Well?” questioned Blake impatiently.
“There was no large piece this evening, sir,” explained the butler. “Only small fragments.”
“Which means—”
“That some one must have stepped upon the large piece, sir, in the dark.”
“You’re quite a detective, Herbert,” laughed Blake. Then suddenly his countenance changed.
“Are you sure that none of the servants came in here?” His demand was accompanied by the motion of his eyebrows.
“I am positive, sir,” declared Herbert. “You remember, sir, that you told me not to disturb your important correspondence. So I thought, sir—”
“You are right, Herbert. If some one was in here, I should know about it. You can leave now. I’ll look over everything.”
ALONE, Blake became suddenly active. His face wore a slightly worried expression as he studied a pile of letters and envelopes that lay upon the desk.
Satisfied that all were there, he went back to the easy-chair. He lighted a cigar and scowled at the smoke as he puffed away.
The butler reappeared.
“Mister Michaels is here, sir,” he said.
“Already?” Blake appeared surprised. “He wasn’t coming in until eleven o’clock.”
“He took an earlier train, sir. I believe he wants to be back in New York by twelve—”
“Tell him to come in, Herbert. Have Otto keep the car ready. Tell him to stay in it. And by the way, Herbert” — Blake’s tone assumed a feigned indifference — “I should have told the watchman to be here before eleven tonight. There may be prowlers around. So tell Otto to be alert.”
Herbert ushered a tall man into the room, a few minutes later. The visitor was about fifty years of age. He carried himself with dignity and his eyes were quizzical as they eyed the form of Wilbur Blake.
“Mister Michaels, sir,” announced Herbert.
“Ah!” exclaimed Blake, rising to greet the newcomer. “Welcome. The others are not here yet. Sit down. Will you have a drink? Two glasses, Herbert.”