MURDER BY MOONLIGHT
                               by Maxwell Grant

        As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," December 1943.

     Murders, demoniac and horrible, were being committed in Hilldale. The
weird sanitarium on the hill seemed to hold the answer.


     CHAPTER I

     LAMONT CRANSTON halted his roadster on the brow of the high hill and
studied the distant view that lay etched in the brilliant moonlight. Beside
him, Margo Lane smiled. She had been positive all along that Lamont would swing
back through Hilldale instead of returning to New York.
     An invitation to Gray Towers, the country home of Gordon Waycroft, was
something that Cranston had sought for a long time, and having received one, he
wasn't likely to pass it up at this late hour. For Waycroft, a gentleman who
thrived on excitement and adventure, was the sort of person who interested
Cranston, even though he might appear indifferent.
     Scanning the distant landscape, Margo observed a curious structure on a
far hill. It was a gabled building, squatly and ill-shaped, that looked like
something snatched from the last century. It was near the top of a high slope,
beyond an open, rolling lawn, and the building had the appearance of a
sprawling beetle, dull brown in color, though, of course, the moonlight could
account for that peculiar shade. Viewed from this hill, the sprawling manse was
backed by encroaching trees that seemed like a monster ready to devour it.
     The sight struck Margo as ominous, particularly when she noted the dimness
of the windows, their glow so feeble that the moonlight drowned it. Aloud, Margo
spoke the question that suddenly gripped her mind:
     "Can that be Gray Towers?"
     There was a slight, dry laugh from Cranston. Turning, Margo saw no smile
on the straight lips of her usually impassive companion. Against the moonlight,
Cranston's profile was strangely hawklike, adding to its cryptic expression.
     "No, Margo," Cranston responded. "You are looking at Beaverwood, the
sanitarium owned by Dr. Uther Marsh, as strange and as curious a man as the
institution which he operates."
     "You mean the place is an asylum?"
     "Even that would be putting it mildly," returned Cranston. "Dr. Marsh is
noted for one motto: 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here.' Other physicians,
specialists in psychiatry, occasionally promise that their patients will
recover. Dr. Marsh, never."
     Margo shuddered and as she did, the sprawling building seemed to shimmer
in the moonlight. The glow itself became eerie when Margo thought in terms of
the occupants of Beaverwood, men whose lives were echoes of the past, whose
futures were running out like sands of time with death as the only solace.
Somehow, Cranston must have sensed Margo's macabre mood, for he spoke with a
tone of reassurance
     "Don't let it sink you, Margo." Cranston's tone was singularly calm. "They
are happy at Beaverwood, so long as they comply with the rules imposed by Dr.
Marsh. I have heard that he gives his patients free run of the grounds and is
an expert at humoring their bizarre notions. Some even say that Marsh is a bit
mad himself, and if so, his patients should surely find Beaverwood a haven."
     A mad doctor with mad patients in a haven that was itself a mad creation!
Having learned the true status of Beaverwood, Margo could read lunacy into
every line of the crazy structure. The building began to grip her with a
horrifying spell and she half expected it to loom from its slope and reach
toward this hillside like a living monster. If ever there was a place where
Margo never hoped to be, that place was Beaverwood.
     "The full moon plays curious tricks," spoke Cranston, as though catching
Margo's thought. "Forget Beaverwood and look across the gorge. You will see
Gray Towers over there."


     BEFORE she could inquire where the gorge was, Margo realized that it must
be a jagged streak of blackness that cleaved the hill beyond Beaverwood. The
gorge represented the course of Indian Creek, famed for its hundred foot
waterfall, which was indicated by a film of mist arising from an angle in the
blackened zigzag. But Margo's interest was taken by the sight beyond the cleft.
     There stood Gray Towers, the home of Gordon Waycroft, imposing in its
grandeur. Margo simply hadn't looked far enough the first time, or she would
not have mistaken Beaverwood for its magnificent neighbor. Despite intervening
trees and a half mile of added distance, Gray Towers was more of an
eye-catcher. It looked like an Old World castle transposed to the American
countryside and its gray walls gained a scintillation from the moonbeams. Nor
was there any gloom about Gray Towers; its windows shone with sharply
glistening lights, signifying that a party was in full progress. Just as
Beaverwood had repelled Margo, so did Gray Towers offer the opposite effect. It
was a thrill to be invited to such an alluring spot on a glorious night like
this.
     Others must have felt the same, for among the park-like trees that fronted
Gray Towers could be seen the tiny lights of an automobile hastening up a
curving driveway. Far below, through a long, narrow valley that wound around
the double hill, were other lights that dipped and bobbed, then finally swung
up among some trees that marked the entrance of Waycroft's estate.
     Enthusiastically, Margo turned to Cranston:
     "Let's go, Lamont!"
     Deliberately, Cranston started the motor and began a trip down into the
valley. It was a long way around by road, at least a quarter-hour ride at the
present pace, and Margo was piqued because Cranston did not hurry. She thought
he was giving her an unrequested lesson in patience, until he quietly explained
the real reason.
     "We've waited quite a while for an invitation to Waycroft's," Cranston
reminded. "It wouldn't do to overstay our visit after we arrive."
     "The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave," argued Margo. "Have
you thought of that?"
     "I have." Cranston eased the car into gear as it approached a railroad
crossing. "It's the wrong thing to do, Margo. Not to change the subject, has it
ever struck you that Waycroft picks a most curious assortment of friends?"
     Looking at Cranston, Margo nodded slowly.
     "Therefore we should arrive late," concluded Cranston, emphatically. "If
we are the last to get there, we can look over the whole crowd and form an
opinion of them; an opinion which may have an important bearing on the future."
     The car had passed the grade crossing and the lights of the Hilldale
station were fading in the background. Cranston's comment had made a deep
impression on Margo and with good reason. In his other self, Lamont Cranston
was known as The Shadow, that mysterious master who hunted down men of crime.
At gatherings such as Waycroft's party, where people from many walks of life
hobnobbed, there was always the possibility that some adventurer with a
criminal trend might be looking for human prey among the wealthy.
     Perhaps The Shadow was already on such a trail!


     THE thought thrilled Margo Lane. Leaning forward in her seat, she looked
eagerly along the road ahead, brushing back the brunette hair that the wind
swept across her face. Smiling at the girl's enthusiasm, Cranston gave the
smooth-running roadster a trifle more speed, as he remarked:
     "It isn't much farther, Margo. Just around the bend, down and across the
covered bridge, and -"
     The rest was drowned in a sharp screech of brakes. Turning the bend in
question, Cranston had spied a barrier straight ahead. It was a detour sign
planted squarely across the highway, its arrow pointing to a narrow side road
that led up a steep slope to the right. Halting the car, Cranston opened the
door on his side and stepped out, As he stooped to draw something from beneath
the front seat, Margo made a protest.
     "The road is closed," she said. "You can read the sign plainly, so why
waste time? All we have to do is go the way the sign points."
     "It happens to point to Beaverwood." As he spoke, Cranston was sliding his
arms into a black cloak. "That makes it a dead end, Margo. Detour signs
shouldn't point along roads that have no outlets. Remember, there is a deep
gorge between Beaverwood and Gray Towers."
     "Then why the sign, Lamont?"
     "That is something for us to learn." Cranston's voice had changed to a
strange, sibilant whisper. "This road happens to be open, because, while we
were watching from the summit, we saw another car go through here. So you're
going through, Margo, and when you reach Waycroft's, you will extend my regret
at being unable to accompany you."
     "And if anyone asks me about this road -"
     "Simply say that you came from the other direction. You will hear from me
later, Margo, after I have looked into this riddle."
     Placing a slouch hat on his head, Cranston moved forward into the gleam of
the headlights. Shifting over behind the steering wheel, Margo was asking
another question, when she suddenly realized that her companion was no longer
at hand. Looking into the path of light, Margo gave a brief shudder.
     Not that the girl was frightened at what she saw; it was merely that Margo
always found herself startled by one of Cranston's quick changes of personality.
Moving toward the detour sign was a cloaked figure that Margo knew must be
Cranston, though it bore no resemblance to her friend.
     Reaching the detour sign, The Shadow shifted it aside and beckoned. At the
commanding gesture, Margo started the car forward and kept on going past where
The Shadow stood. His arm had a forceful thrust that seemed to send the car
along its route, even though darkness swallowed him completely the moment that
the lights had passed. Glancing in the mirror, Margo hoped for a glimpse of The
Shadow, but gained none. Blackness shrouded the spot where he had been; even the
flicker of the moonlight was cut off by the massed trees at the bend.
     All that Margo heard was the whisper of a parting laugh, so vague and
evasive that it might have been inspired by her imagination and the murmur of
the breeze!


     THAT laugh was actual. Such whispered mirth was the token of The Shadow
whenever he set forth upon a mysterious errand. That his present mission
promised adventure, there could be no doubt. Long ago The Shadow had learned to
gauge the symptoms of danger and they were present here. A detour sign, planted
mysteriously within a dozen minutes after a car had gone along an unobstructed
road was something quite out of the ordinary.
     There was menace in that pointing arrow which guided unsuspecting
strangers to the most forbidding of places, the sanitarium owned by Dr. Uther
Marsh!
     Already The Shadow was moving along that road, but not by car, as was to
be expected. He was approaching on foot, silently, invisibly, his cloaked form
eluding the filtered moonlight that trickled through the tree boughs above the
private road. Swift was The Shadow's course for he was eager to reach his goal,
whatever it might be, before another car came along to enter the trap which he
had so carefully avoided.
     It was at least a mile to Beaverwood by The Shadow's calculation and that
distance would merely bring him to the entrance of the grounds, where great
gates barred the way. That stopping point would mark the first place where
trouble might be expected, hence it was only a question of minutes before The
Shadow's mission might bring results. When crime threatened, the cloaked
investigator preferred to be ahead of it and his softly whispered laugh
indicated that he was gaining that desired end.
     The Shadow's laugh came too soon.
     As he was jogging around a final bend that would bring the gates in sight,
The Shadow heard the evidence announcing that crime had beaten him to the goal.
     It literally ripped the silence of the moonlit night, that shriek of human
anguish. A man's cry, pitched to a terrified falsetto that teemed with all the
horror induced by the approach of sudden death. Midway, the scream choked off
with a sob of fearful consummation, telling in more than words that crime had
gained its way.
     Murder by moonlight, fiendishly delivered, was ahead of The Shadow, master
of the night!


     CHAPTER II

     THROB - throb - throb
     The repeated sound, increasing as The Shadow neared it, was the muffled
note of an idling motor. An afterpiece to tragedy, it had supplanted the dying
screech that quivered through the night. A throbbing motor, at first unheard,
was in itself full proof of the freakish circumstance that had nullified The
Shadow's plans.
     Some other car must have come along the highway while The Shadow was
coasting down from the neighboring summit. The vehicle in question, coming
later than the last car that rode along to Waycroft's, had reached the fork
just after the detour sign had been placed. Falling for the bait, its driver
had taken the side road up to Beaverwood, its lights unobserved by The Shadow,
who at that time was deep in the valley.
     How serious this freak tragedy had proven was something that The Shadow
learned as he came in sight of the gates. There, in a clearing where the road
widened, stood a light pickup truck, the vehicle with the idling motor. Ahead
of it were the gates, the truck nosed partly between them, for the gates opened
inward. Great gates, with sharp pointed spikes projecting upward, like those of
the great picket fence that flanked away from the gateposts.
     There was a reason why the gates were only partly open. They were latched
in a very singular fashion, that kept their edges only a foot apart. The latch
that held them was a human figure, horribly distorted. The body was dangling in
air, for it had been lifted high and brought down forcibly upon the near spikes
of the gate, where it hung impaled, the sharp prongs showing above.
     As The Shadow reached the truck, he noted that it bore no name, though the
dead man hanging from the spikes was probably its owner. Moving toward the
gates, The Shadow was conscious of a sharp, repeated sound of something
striking against metal. The sound was produced by drops of blood, falling from
the mangled body and beating a slow tattoo upon the hood of the truck, just
behind the radiator.
     Even in the soft moonlight, the dead man formed a gruesome sight, but to
The Shadow, who had observed murder in many hideous variations, this was simply
a stimulus for immediate investigation. Death was death and the more outrageous
the method, the more chance there was of gaining clues. In this case, The
Shadow could immediately reconstruct important phases.
     Very obviously, the truck driver had left his vehicle and started to open
the gates, assuming that the false detour continued through them. There were
footprints along the gravel to indicate this and the reason the truck had nosed
farther was because the driveway was worn to a slight slope down to the gates
themselves. The attack must have come while the victim was opening the gates,
so The Shadow looked for evidence on the ground.
     There he saw a chunk of stone that belonged to one of the gateposts, near
the top. Perched on that post, the attacker had caught the victim's attention
and flung the stone directly at his head. It was during those horrifying
moments when he could neither run nor dodge, that the truck driver had
delivered the wild shriek for help that had terminated when the hurled stone
reached his skull.
     Looking to the opposite post. The Shadow saw that it also had a loose
stone, lying on the top. This pointed to two attackers, one from either side,
which fitted further with the evidence. There had been no chance for the victim
to plead for life, not with two maniacs threatening him. The shriek was as
logical as it was spontaneous and it had been prolonged by the fact that the
killers had kept their prey in a trap, worrying him first from one side, then
from the other.
     They had forced their victim to seek an outlet between the gates and had
therefore trained their aim upon that spot. The moment the man had tried to
dash in that direction, all chance of escape was ended and his life with it.
The first stone had found the victim's skull and the other, held in reserve,
had proven unnecessary.


     THE impaling of the victim was simply an afterthought, the mutual
expression of two demoniac minds. The Shadow could picture the killers swinging
down by the gates, picking up their victim and hoisting him up to the hood of
the truck. Standing on the fenders they had given the body an acrobatic fling
that pinned it on the gate spikes.
     Swift work this, accomplished while The Shadow had been covering the last
quarter mile, represented by the long bend in the uphill road. Though there had
been ample time for the heinous work, it was obviously done in haste, for two
reasons. First, the dripping blood, which did not come from the spike wounds,
but from the victim's battered head, which was hanging toward the car, evidence
of how his body had been flung, gripped on each side by hand and foot. Second,
the killers had been able to get away before The Shadow reached the spot, which
was further proof that they had not delayed their preconceived plan of handling
the body.
     The missing murderers couldn't have come through the clearing, or The
Shadow would have heard them. Therefore they must have squeezed between the
gates, which allowed just sufficient space. It was dark beyond the gates, like
a narrow tunnel, but beyond was a spread of moonlight, marking the open ground
surrounding Beaverwood. Unless the murderers had fled up to the sanitarium,
they would be edging along the trees near the fence, which meant that The
Shadow would still have opportunity to stalk them.
     Drawing an automatic, The Shadow worked between the gates, taking care not
to clang them. The dead form above him quivered grotesquely, but its motion did
not symbolize life. The Shadow had simply jarred one gate with his passing
shoulder.
     A tiny flashlight glimmered on the gravel; guarded in the folds of The
Shadow's cloak, the narrowed beam flitted hither and thither, picking up
footprints leading to the lawn, close by the shelter of the trees at the left.
Scuffed footprints, as though lazy men had kicked the gravel; these could be
the tracks of shamblers, who committed murder merely for pleasure. Looking up
the slope past bushy trees that dotted the rough lawn, The Shadow saw the dim
lights of Beaverwood and wondered how many of its occupants might prove to be
homicidal maniacs. Perhaps the best plan would be to move up toward Beaverwood
and cut off the return of any residents who might still be at large.
     Debating the two choices, The Shadow found a compromise. Starting toward
the sanitarium, he was prepared to change course with a long veer over to the
left that would bring him to the skirting trees. Thus in cutting off the
fugitives he would be gaining on them at the same time, as effectively as if he
followed their actual trail. Such at least was The Shadow's preliminary plan,
until new circumstances ended it.
     There was a snarl from the dark gray driveway that continued up to
Beaverwood. Wheeling, The Shadow saw a creature that materialized in a fashion
as surprising as his own. Just as The Shadow could loom suddenly from
blackness, so was this attacker bounding from the dark gray background that
represented its own color. The creature was a mighty hound, its wide fangs
showing sharply in the moonlight.


     THE huge dog's sharp eyes spotted The Shadow, only to lose him as he faded
toward the gates. Baying furiously, the beast turned for another spring;
launching full force, it came up suddenly with a clang. The Shadow had given
those gates a sudden shift, widening one at the expense of the other; passing
through, he had let the hound meet the near gate full force, jamming it shut
and bouncing the other part way open, for in these actions of the gates, the
distorted body on the spike tops was serving as a mechanical lever.
     Dodging around the truck, The Shadow saw the body gyrate and nearly
tumble, while the gates creaked furiously on rusty hinges. It wasn't the hound
that was coming through; instead, a bulky man with a shotgun lunged out of
darkness, in quest of The Shadow. Looking back, The Shadow saw a broad, pasty
face, leering in the moonlight. Mere sight of those ugly, pock-marked features
gave the impression that their owner would not stop at murder, if occasion
demanded.
     As he came, the ugly man gave a guttural cry that brought the great hound
to his heels. Deftly, The Shadow slipped back through the gates and halted
momentarily as he saw flashlights glitter from the lawn. Then came a voice,
sharp, but with a trace of dignity:
     "Dortha! Have you found someone?"
     The ugly man supplied a unique answer. Instead of dashing around the
truck, he sprang into it and pressed the light switch. The brilliant glow cut
through the bars of the gate, illuminating the black hole beyond. There,
between Dortha and a group of men who were headed by Dr. Marsh, stood The
Shadow, fully outlined in the glare!
     The Shadow's plans had gone into complete reverse. His search for
murderers had led to his own discovery. Circumstantial evidence was against
him, for The Shadow stood armed, a trespasser on the Beaverwood property, and
above him, grinning in macabre glee, was the tilted corpse impaled upon the
gate spikes, flinging down a silent accusation.
     Rightly or wrongly, Marsh and his men were ready to throw the burden of
crime upon this unwanted visitor who had uncovered murder. There was a shout,
in the doctor's commanding tone, ordering his followers to fire at the stranger
within their gates. As the call came, The Shadow knew that he was trapped. Only
chance could relieve him from this dilemma.
     Chance did.
     Always, The Shadow was quick to take advantage of unexpected opportunity
and the man who provided the needed ingredient was Dortha. In response to the
shout from Dr. Marsh, the pock-faced plug-ugly decided to beat the guns of
Marsh's retainers. Dortha wanted credit in this case, hence was overeager in
his action. He had a weapon better than a shotgun, the truck that had brought a
murder victim to these premises.
     Snapping the truck into gear, Dortha hurled it through the gates. As it
whipped the barriers wide, the truck dislodged the hanging body, which
performed a lifelike somersault, struck the top of the truck and tumbled into
the rear, where it disappeared from sight. Against the moonlight beaming
through the gates, that spectacle was startling. Seemingly the dead figure had
revived itself for the sudden plunge.


     ALL eyes were riveted upon the phenomenon, except Dortha's. He was trying
to keep The Shadow in the glare of the headlights, but already the cloaked
invader had wheeled away. Off into the fringing darkness, he was gone from the
range of the lights so suddenly that when others looked for him, they blinked
at his surprising disappearance. Angrily, Dortha backed the truck out through
the gates, turning it so that the lights would follow the line of trees; then,
seized by another impulse, he wheeled the vehicle about to drive down the road
to the valley.
     Not until then did Dortha remember the huge hound that had climbed into
the seat beside him. In guttural tones, Dortha sent the great dog to the chase.
It bounded to the ground, loped through the gates, and went snarling among the
trees, drawing Marsh and the other men after it. They were leaving the truck to
Dortha; their quarry was The Shadow, but to find him was difficult, considering
the start that he had gained.
     Flashlights spread in a semicircle, guided by the big dog's snarls. These
searchers were following The Shadow's own technique, but instead of a lone hand
hunting for two or more fugitives, there were several and they had only one man
to find. Even without Dortha, they formed a formidable group, for all were
armed with shotguns which were ideal for close-range fire.
     Saplings crackled as the big hound scrambled through, picking up the
scent. There were moments when the spreading men fancied they saw a fleeting
figure following the curve of the lawn, and called the hound to the new trail.
After it had covered a wide area in a surprisingly short period, the hunt
narrowed, far to the left of Beaverwood.
     There, the baying of the hound was muffled by the tumult of a great
waterfall. The dog was keeping to one spot, sure proof that it had trapped the
fugitive. Flashlights converged into the clustered trees, gun muzzles poked
into the glare, while sharp voices called upon the fugitive to surrender. There
was no answer from The Shadow.
     Skeptical men turned their flashlights upon the trees, thinking that their
prey had climbed there, but the boughs were devoid of any blackened mass.
Besides, the hound was not baying at the trees; he was at the brink of the
waterfall, whining as he looked into the stream. Into the moonlight stepped Dr.
Marsh, a bearded man with a sharp and cunning eye.
     Above the falls, Indian River formed a swift, deep current that would have
swept the stoutest swimmer with it. Below the brink, the cataract roared
straight downward, shattering itself into mist upon the rocks below. The brink
itself was fifty feet across and formed the most menacing feature of all. There
the water swirled with the fury of a maelstrom among jagged, treacherous rocks,
some of which were scarcely out of water, while others were so precariously
balanced that a mere touch might have sent them down into the gorge.
     The bearded lips of Dr. Uther Marsh formed a straight, set line, as his
keen eyes summed up the details of that scene. Confident that even a man of
superhuman prowess couldn't have dared that crossing and survived, Marsh
snapped his fingers to call off the dog and turned to wave his followers back
toward the sanitarium.
     Whatever his personal sentiments in the case, Dr. Marsh was sure that he
had seen the last of an overbold adventurer who styled himself The Shadow!


     CHAPTER III

     WHILE The Shadow was nearing the finish of his brief but rapid adventure,
Margo Lane arrived at Gray Towers. She'd driven carefully all the way, for
despite Cranston's assurance to the contrary, Margo believed in detour signs.
Indeed, she was very much surprised when she crossed the covered bridge below
Indian Gorge and found its timbers sound; similarly, she was greatly pleased
when she wheeled the car into the long driveway leading up to Waycroft's
mansion. As she reached the house itself, Margo gave a grateful sigh that ended
when she thought of Cranston.
     Seized with the realization that Lamont was right, Margo recognized that
he had chosen the path of danger, if any menace lurked. Then her confidence in
Cranston's other self, The Shadow, caused the girl to smile at her own qualms.
     Waycroft's front door was wide open and the numerous guests were hearty in
their welcome. Among them, Margo recognized faces that she knew, for many of
Waycroft's friends were from New York cafe society, which rated Margo as a
member. Nevertheless, those gay personalities added an ominous note to the
occasion.
     There was a reason why Margo Lane preferred cafe society. In that smart
set that considered itself smarter, many things could happen. Anything from
petty jealousies to actual intrigue had been known to touch off serious crimes,
and always there were leeches surrounding the wealthy patrons of New York's
night clubs. Swindles, robberies, outright murders were a constant threat and
it was Margo's business to watch for their symptoms while she played the part
of an attractive sophisticate.
     Knowing that mystery was in the offing, Margo did not particularly welcome
the familiar faces until she happened to see Waycroft. The owner of Gray Towers
was the essence of conviviality and his greeting was so heartfelt that Margo's
worries lulled. For Gordon Waycroft was a man of intuition, the sort who could
note any symptoms of brewing trouble. His mood was so lighthearted that it
proved contagious. Somehow, Margo felt that if there was menace in the
neighborhood of Gray Towers, Waycroft would certainly have sensed it.
     He was a handsome man, Gordon Waycroft. There was youth in his manner,
despite the gray hair that he made no effort to minimize by a short-clipped
haircut. Rather, Waycroft seemed proud of the bushy locks that he stroked back
with his fingers after giving Margo a polite bow. As proof of his intuition, a
twinkle arrived in his gray eyes, as he looked beyond Margo to the doorway that
she had entered.
     "Good evening, Miss Lane," said Waycroft, a touch of whimsy in his tone.
"I trust this does not mark the ending of a beautiful friendship."
     "Why, no," said Margo. "I can't see what would make you think that I -"
She caught herself suddenly when she saw Waycroft smile. "Oh, now I understand.
You're wondering where Lamont is."
     "Precisely," acknowledged Waycroft. "You are arriving late and by
yourself, two things that mark a member of the lonely hearts' club. I sincerely
hope that you and Cranston haven't agreed to disagree. You used to get along so
well together."
     "We still do," insisted Margo, "whenever we manage to get together, but
lately Lamont has preferred another companion."
     "A blonde?" asked Waycroft, blandly.
     "That would hardly describe the police commissioner," laughed Margo. "In
an off moment, he fancied that Lamont was something of a criminologist. As a
result, he's pestered Lamont ever since. Every time my heavy date goes around
to the Cobalt Club, the commissioner commandeers him for special duty."


     WAYCROFT'S face went serious. He was handsome when he smiled, but even
more so when his mood became solemn. Then, his beaming face lost its upturned
wrinkles and gained a rugged expression that befitted his strong, square jaw.
It gave him age, that look, because it bespoke experience. As she noted the
change, Margo felt that Waycroft had grown twenty years older in the space of
several seconds, until she realized that his jolly mood had created a false
illusion of youth.
     "I'm sorry Cranston did not come tonight," declared Waycroft, abruptly.
"Whatever his talents at crime detection, we could use them here. Perhaps I
should have mentioned it when I invited him."
     Margo threw a worried glance toward some of the chattering guests who
thronged the reception hall. Briefly, Waycroft's smile returned, but in a grim
style that gave no hint of jollity. He was relaxing just enough to ease Margo's
apprehensions.
     "Nothing is wrong here at Gray Towers," declared Waycroft, "but there have
been some current rumors covering the general vicinity. If I had thought for a
moment that you were coming here alone, I would have advised you to come by
train."
     "But why?" queried Margo, innocently. "It was a lovely drive by moonlight."
     "There's not much light along the valley road," returned Waycroft, "and
that's where all the rumors seem to gather. People have seen skulking figures;
glowing eyes peering from bushes. Some even say that they have heard the echoes
of crazy laughter, while they were driving through the covered bridge."
     Margo gave a puzzled stare as she asked:
     "What covered bridge?"
     "So you came the other way!" exclaimed Waycroft. There was relief in his
tone as he added in a lower voice: "I would advise you to drive back by the
same route. It may be dangerous along the valley road."
     There was one technique that Margo had learned from Cranston and had used
to frequent advantage. That technique was to cover a bluff with a reversal.
Anyone could pretend to know nothing, but the policy could be carried too far.
It was better to cover it with a glimmer of understanding and Margo had
practiced the trick to perfection.
     "The valley road," mused Margo, half aloud. "You must mean the one that
goes past Beaverwood."
     There was a quick nod from Waycroft.
     "You've heard of Beaverwood?"
     "Of course," replied Margo. "They say it's a very special sort of
sanitarium. I should know the names of some of the people who have gone there."
     "I could tell you several," returned Waycroft, grimly. "Some of their
friends and relatives are here tonight, holding a conference in my study." He
gestured across the reception hall, to the far wing of the house. "In fact,
they came to learn how much truth was behind the local rumors. Too bad that
Cranston isn't here to help them analyze the case. But suppose we let them
handle their own troubles, while we go out to the garden."


     LEADING the way through the reception hall, Waycroft beckoned to the other
guests and the group went through a rear doorway to a path that led to the
Italian garden. The path itself was quaint for it was composed of flat stones
sunk in the turf and even by moonlight those small slabs gave indications of
varied colors. What attracted Margo most were stones of mica formation that
shone beautifully under the moon's glitter. As she paused to admire them, the
rest of the group walked ahead with Waycroft, and when Margo hurried after
them, she found herself playing hopscotch on the glittering stones. Overtaking
the rest, Margo dropped her child's play and became serious as they reached the
marble benches and whitened, vine-strewn pillars of the garden.
     Being serious brought back memories of Waycroft's recent apprehensions,
which in turn made Margo think of Cranston's venture. With a slight shiver,
Margo looked in the direction of Beaverwood, but could see no traces of the
sprawling building that lay across the impassable gorge. The trees along the
upper stretch of Indian River formed a blackened mass that cut off further
view, and to Margo the blotting barrier assumed the proportions of a great
sleeping dragon that might at any moment writhe its coils toward Gray Towers.
     As she tried to shake that fancy, Margo heard something that disturbed
her. It was the slight crackle of brush among the trees behind the garden's
vines, a sound that might mean prowlers. Listening intently, Margo failed to
hear the sound again, and when the vines rustled audibly under a sweeping
breeze, she laughed at her own fears. Relaxing, Margo listened to the
conversation of the group around her and decided that nothing could be calmer
than this garden behind Gray Towers.
     Then came the thing that broke the calm.
     There was a sudden clatter of an opening door in the far wing of the
Towers. Out sprang an excited man who was stocky and short-built, followed by
three others. They were coming from Waycroft's study, which was indicated by
lighted windows with lowered shades. The stocky man was shouting something
incoherent in a high-pitched voice.
     Springing to his feet, Waycroft recognized the foremost member of the
group and shouted back:
     "What is it, Brenshaw?"
     Margo knew the man as soon as Waycroft named him. Kirk Brenshaw was a
wealthy New Yorker occasionally seen around the night clubs when the demands of
big business relaxed their pressure. Usually Kirk was placid and friendly, the
sort who was pleased when acquaintances called him by his first name. At
present, however, he was so excited that Margo wondered if he knew his name at
all.
     "It's the sheriff!" Kirk exclaimed. "He just phoned to warn us that
something has happened on the valley road."
     "Take it easy, Kirk," suggested Waycroft. "How serious was the occurrence?"
     "The sheriff doesn't know," panted Kirk, as he reached the group.
"Somebody phoned him that they ran into a detour sign that didn't belong there.
He thinks maybe the bridge went out."


     TURNING to the group, Waycroft asked promptly whose car was handiest.
Having arrived last, Margo decided that hers probably fitted that definition.
Gripping the girl by the arm, Waycroft told her to come with him, at the same
time ordering the others to follow in other cars. As they hurried through the
reception hall, Waycroft said for Margo to go ahead and have her keys ready,
while he armed himself against any trouble.
     In the car, Margo was getting the motor started when Waycroft arrived with
an old-fashioned muzzle loading pistol. He remarked that he hadn't the
wherewithal to load the antique, but that it would do as a cudgel if needed.
Then they were spinning down the long driveway and swinging into the valley
road, where Margo was giving the car real speed, when Waycroft gripped her arm
warningly.
     "The covered bridge is just ahead!" he exclaimed. "Watch out; something
may be wrong there!"
     It was too late for Margo to halt the car, even if she hadn't known that
the bridge was all right. She was slackening speed, however, as they went
through the ancient structure, where the roar of the motor brought uncanny
echoes from the rafters above. Then, as they swung up toward the Beaverwood
side road, Margo saw approaching headlights, but before she could apply the
brakes, they veered. The car from the other direction was heading for
Beaverwood, so Waycroft told Margo to do the same.
     Close behind the other car, Margo covered the distance at a speed The
Shadow would have envied. When they reached the space before the gates, the
other car pulled over and Margo came to a halt at its left. A man was climbing
from the other car, the moonlight glistening from a badge that adorned his coat
lapel. Recognizing him as the sheriff, Waycroft gave a wave of greeting.
     Straight ahead stood the gates of Beaverwood, tightly closed. Except for
the throbbing motors, not a sound disturbed the serenity of the setting. The
spot that had been a threshold to tragedy bore no visible marks of the recent
crime that had occurred there.
     Yet to Margo Lane, something was wrong about the scene. It couldn't be
that nothing had happened here, considering that those gates were the only real
blockade along The Shadow's trail. If only Margo could hear a whispered laugh,
just sufficient for her ears alone, to prove that her cloaked friend was still
at large!
     No whisper came. Amid the silence, Margo felt a pang of fear that this
serenity might symbolize the finish of The Shadow's final adventure!


     CHAPTER IV

     OTHER cars were coming up the road, to crowd into the wide space by the
gates. The first man to alight was Kirk Brenshaw, whose nervous manner
represented that of others who accompanied him. Yet there was firmness in
Kirk's broad features as they showed in the moonlight. His face, though heavily
jowled, was strong of jaw, while his eyes, narrowed under bristly brows that
made a contrast to his baldish head, were sharp in their determination.
     "Whatever has happened here, sheriff," declared Kirk Brenshaw, "you must
get to the bottom of it. Things have gone on long enough, or should I say too
long?"
     The sheriff rested his jaw on a cud of tobacco and surveyed Kirk with a
speculative gaze. He was a typical country sheriff, this fellow, but he seemed
to know the ways of city folk. After meeting Kirk's stare for several seconds,
the sheriff resumed his chew and turned to Waycroft.
     "Who's he?" The sheriff thumbed toward Kirk. "And what makes him so
important?"
     "He's Kirk Brenshaw," explained Waycroft. "He has a cousin in the
sanitarium. When he heard there was trouble over this way, he was worried."
     The sheriff gave a grunt. Looking past Kirk, he noted other faces in the
stocky man's car.
     "What about them?" queried the sheriff. "Have they got kinfolk in this
nut-hatchery, too?"
     "They have," replied Waycroft. "That's why they came out here. They were
in my study, discussing the rumors that they've heard, when your call came
through."
     "And frankly, sheriff," put in Kirk, promptly, "we fear that Dr. Marsh is
giving his patients too much freedom. I, for one, would feel personally
involved if my cousin Hubert should get loose during one of his homicidal
moods."
     The sheriff turned and studied the big gates.
     "Looks like nobody was loose," he argued. "Besides, nothing happened up
here. The detour sign was planted down on the highway, according to the call I
got. Only there wasn't any sign when I came along and no truck, neither."
     "No truck?" queried Waycroft. "What truck?"
     "The fellow that called up said there was a truck took this road," replied
the sheriff. "Naturally it would, because this was the only way the arrow could
have pointed. The man who phoned me turned back and called from the station. He
said he knew this road was blind and I guess the trucker found it out for
himself and turned back."
     "Unless he went through the gates," remarked Waycroft. "In that case he
may be in trouble. Dr. Marsh isn't in the habit of welcoming strangers, so I've
heard."
     "You heard right," agreed the sheriff. "Maybe we'd better go up and see
Doc Marsh. Open the gates, somebody, while I get into this rumble seat "
     The sheriff meant the rumble seat of Margo's roadster and the fact that he
was using it signified that he expected Waycroft to ride in front with Margo.
They had hardly taken their places before another man clambered into the rumble
seat uninvited, though the sheriff grudgingly made room for him. The last member
of the party was Kirk Brenshaw.


     DRIVING up to Beaverwood, Margo had trouble finding the entrance to the
sprawling building. The sheriff finally told her where to stop and at close
range Margo found the place even uglier than she had imagined. Remembering
Marsh's motto of no hope for those who reached his jurisdiction, Margo wondered
if Cranston had come under the baleful control that he had personally mentioned.
All the lights in Beaverwood were out, a fact which added to the ominous
appearance of the bulky structure. To Margo, any of the barred windows might
mean a prison where The Shadow could be lying helpless, if still alive.
     Before the sheriff could disengage himself from the deep rumble seat, a
heavy door opened in the wall of Beaverwood. Into sight stepped Dr. Uther
Marsh, holding a lantern in one hand, and carrying a heavy cane in the other.
Behind him, in the dimly lit background of the doorway, were three servants
armed with shotguns. Two were stocky and rather sizable, but the third was a
comparatively slender man of wiry appearance.
     It was this third who followed Dr. Marsh to the roadster and Margo noted
that the fellow wore a chauffeur's cap. Hearing the crunch of gravel behind
him, Marsh looked around, saw the chauffeur, and said in a dry tone:
     "Very well, Cripp, you may accompany me."
     Margo didn't know whether to shudder or laugh. In a sense, this setting
was a nightmare, with Marsh the principal actor. There was a glare in the eyes
that peered from the man's bearded face; a merciless expression upon his
straight, challenging lips. As for Cripp, the doctor's toady, he looked like a
lesser demon traveling in the wake of a satanic master. Sallow of face, quick
and furtive of eye, Cripp seemed to be looking for trouble and hoping he would
find it.
     Offsetting this menacing aspect was the whimsical phase of the situation.
     In the moonlight, the lantern was unnecessary, hence Marsh appeared to be
putting on an act. He made Margo think of old Diogenes, the Greek philosopher
who carried a lantern in daylight, saying he was searching for an honest man.
From the way he held the lantern toward the faces of Gordon Waycroft and Kirk
Brenshaw, the doctor might be remembering the Diogenes legend, too. Yet Margo,
despite herself, was shrinking behind the wheel, glad that she for one was
escaping Marsh's glare-eyed scrutiny.
     "Ah, my neighbor Waycroft," spoke Marsh, with a slight sneer. "It was kind
of you to bring Kirk Brenshaw here. I suppose he would like to see his cousin,
Hubert, but I must remind you both that these are not visiting hours. Under no
circumstances can my patients be disturbed."
     Annoyed by the way Marsh ignored him, the sheriff thrust himself into the
conversation.
     "We're here on another matter," snapped the sheriff. "A truck came up this
road a short while ago. What happened to it?"
     Dr. Marsh turned and circled the lantern in the moonlight as though
looking for the missing truck. Then, with a shrug he handed the lantern to
Cripp and gave a long gesture in the direction of the gates.
     "When people take the wrong road," declared Marsh, "they usually turn back
when they reach those gates. We would know if anyone came through them. No truck
drove up to Beaverwood this evening."


     THERE was a ring of truth in Marsh's tone that impressed Margo oddly. She
felt that the bearded man was delivering fact, but with some reservation. Margo
doubted that her companions caught the same significance, but they, of course,
knew nothing of The Shadow's mission in this neighborhood.
     "If a truck had come here," added Marsh, sharply, "I would have told its
driver to leave. Therefore, unless you have specific objections, I am giving
you the same advice."
     Taking the hint, Waycroft gestured for Margo to start the car. From the
rumble seat, Kirk Brenshaw took a look past Marsh and Cripp to the two men who
stood in the doorway. Quickly, Kirk demanded:
     "Where is that big servant of yours doctor? The one named Dortha who is
usually on duty?"
     A hesitant flicker showed in Marsh's eyes. It was Cripp who spoke while
his master fumbled for an answer.
     "Dortha is out exercising the dog," said Cripp. "We keep big Bosco tied up
in the daytime."
     "I'm glad to hear it," snapped the sheriff. "We've had complaints about
that hound. We want no more of them. Good night."
     Driving back to the gates, Margo stopped to let out passengers. Conferring
with Kirk Brenshaw, the sheriff decided to have a further look around there and
then walk down to the fork, searching for the mysterious detour sign on the
way. When Waycroft decided that he ought to join the hunt, Margo said she would
drive him to the fork and then start back to New York.
     They rode to the fork in silence and found some of the sheriff's men
already there. As he said good night, Waycroft's face became troubled.
     "I shouldn't let you drive alone, Miss Lane," he began. "There's something
mysterious afoot, so strange that it may be dangerous. It may not be safe in
this neighborhood -"
     "But I'm not staying here," put in Margo. "In no time I'll be across the
covered bridge, past your place and on my way to town. So don't worry, Mr.
Waycroft."
     It was Margo who was really worried. Her actions showed it the moment she
had dipped around the sloping bend toward the covered bridge. She was worried
about Cranston, hoping anew that he had met with no disaster while guised as
The Shadow. Handling the car at a snail's pace, Margo kept blinking the lights,
on the chance that her friend, if anywhere about, would recognize the signal
     Close to the covered bridge, Margo stopped. Black as a tunnel, with
rafters under its peaked roof, the old bridge was the most ominous spot along
the highway. If any of Marsh's insane patients were at large, that bridge might
be their lurking spot. The thought chilled Margo as she stared through the white
moonlight at the black bulk of the bridge. A moment later, she saw something
that intrigued her.
     Down to the right stretched a grass-covered road that amounted to little
more than wheel tracks. It led into the river, which was broad at this spot,
and therefore shallow. On the far side of the lazy stream were other ruts,
leading up the opposite bank, proving that this was an old ford through which a
car could easily navigate. Anxious to avoid a trip through the bridge, Margo
turned the roadster down into the ruts and worked it through water that came
only to the wheel hubs.
     The car dipped a trifle as it reached the far bank. On the right was a
stony ledge, that poked its rocky mass through thick but scrubby bushes. Margo
didn't want to plow through deep water that might spray through the radiator
and stall the motor, nor was she anxious to sideswipe the ledge. So she stopped
to take a look at the buttress of the bridge, rising to the left. Next, she
intended to look for the wheel ruts, dead ahead, and guide by them if possible.
     Margo never did complete that calculation.


     FROM the bushy ledge to the right came a vicious snarl, the tone of some
great beast, accompanied by a guttural shout that was human only by comparison.
As she turned, Margo saw a great hound launch in a terrific spring, straight for
the car; looming behind the savage beast, as though propelling the creature, was
a man whose posture gave him the semblance of a gorilla.
     It was Bosco, the mighty hound, unleashed by Dortha, the huge servant
whose absence Dr. Marsh had been loath to discuss!
     Wide-mouthed, the beast was flinging its great paws forward as though to
guide its deadly fangs to the throat it saw below. Instinctively, Margo
flattened to the seat on the right, though she realized her act would merely
delay the brute's murderous thrust for a few useless seconds. Time didn't seem
to count in this horrible situation, but it was more vital than Margo knew.
     Coincident with Bosco's lunge, a blot of living blackness pitched itself
from a spot that Margo couldn't see, the sidewall of the bridge that loomed to
the left. As Bosco landed in the driver's seat from which Margo had so deftly
ducked, the blackened mass completed its jump, before the hound could turn.
     Snarls mingled with a fierce, unearthly laugh as the great dog tried to
tangle with a human fighter cloaked in black. How they fared was revealed by
the sounds that followed. The dog's snarls ended with a choky whine while the
laugh took on a tone of triumph. Then, propelled by iron hands that gripped its
furry throat, the dog was flung headlong over the rumble seat to land with a
smacking splash in the direction of midstream.
     Twisting full about, The Shadow whipped an automatic from beneath his
cloak, all in one revolving action, and jabbed a shot above Margo's head. As
the bullet ricocheted from the bushy ledge, Dortha dodged while leveling his
shotgun. Pulling, the trigger while off balance, Dortha aimed so high that his
slugs clipped the eaves from the covered bridge. The kick of the shotgun did
the rest, saving The Shadow the trouble of further fire.
     To the tune of The Shadow's sardonic laugh, Dortha spilled from the ledge
and landed in the stream with a heartier splash than Bosco's. Without waiting
for either to resume the fray, The Shadow gripped the wheel and whipped the
roadster into gear. With a whine, the car lurched up through the wheel ruts,
reached the highway and sped away taking the route past Waycroft's.
     Dazed by the speed with which the whole adventure had begun and ended,
Margo Lane could scarcely realize that she'd been rescued by the friend whom
she had given up for dead or captured, The Shadow!
     Had she known of the earlier experiences that he had undergone, Margo
would have marveled even more at The Shadow's return. She was to learn such
details later, when The Shadow himself revealed them!


     CHAPTER V

     IT was mid afternoon in the town of Courtland, a dozen miles south of
Hilldale. A coroner's jury was gathered outside a garage, inspecting a tow job
that had been brought in the night before. The tow job consisted of a small
truck, so thoroughly demolished that its next stopping place would be the
junkyard.
     The truck had belonged to a man named Judd who was a stranger here. Why he
had taken the Courtland road was unexplained, since Judd was dead, which was the
least surprising part of the story. The Courtland road was noted for a very
dangerous slope called "Dead Man's Hill" and going down that grade, Judd had
let the truck get out of control.
     What had happened to the truck gave a general idea of Judd's own fate. Not
being constructed of steel and other metals, he had been demolished and was at
present lying in the local morgue as another exhibit for the coroner's jury to
view.
     Such tragedies always attracted the curious. The crowd around the garage
was too busy watching the jury's reactions to pay any attention to persons in
its midst. Hence no one noticed Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane as they walked
back to the main street where they had parked the roadster. Once in the car,
they began to discuss the tragedy.
     "It's the same truck," declared Cranston. "The one that Dortha drove away
from Beaverwood."
     "Then Judd must be the murdered man!" exclaimed Margo. "What a horrible
thing it was, to impale him on those gates! Only maniacs would think of
anything so awful!"
     "I am quite sure Dr. Marsh shares that opinion," observed Cranston. "He is
probably still commending Dortha on his efficient removal of the evidence."
     "But if madmen were loose - like Hubert Brenshaw, Kirk's cousin -"
     "It would hardly be good policy for Dr. Marsh to admit it, Margo. He is
responsible for the patients in his care and he has a heavy investment in that
sanitarium. Accidents are apt to happen in such places and when they do, news
of them is often suppressed."
     A sudden indignation swept over Margo. It didn't seem right that Cranston
should be defending such practices, considering that, as The Shadow, he stood
as a champion of justice. As she reflected, however, Margo remembered that
Cranston had a personal interest in last night's affairs, inasmuch as he had
nearly become another victim, during the chase at Beaverwood. How he had
finally eluded Marsh's men was something that Cranston had not yet divulged.
     Picking up the trend of Margo's thoughts, Cranston quietly spoke his
further opinions of the case and Margo, listening intently, realized that she
was hearing a crime analysis in the style that surely befitted The Shadow.
     Cranston took it first from a viewpoint that favored Dr. Uther Marsh.


     ASSUMING that Hubert Brenshaw and some of his fellow patients had slipped
in and out without Marsh's knowledge, a thing not implausible considering the
cunning of certain insane brains, the episode at the Beaverwood gate stood
partly justified. There, Dortha had encountered a stranger in the person of The
Shadow and could have taken him to be a murderer. Once the chase was on,
Dortha's removal of the incriminating truck was understandable, since it would
be evidence against Marsh's patients if the doctor's servants failed to capture
the cloaked stranger within their gates.
     On the other hand it was conceivable that Marsh knew some patients were
loose and was already searching for them. Finding murder done and a stranger
handy, Marsh could have decided to pin crime on the intruder, if only to give
his patients the benefit of doubt. Marsh's subsequent statements, implying that
nothing had happened around Beaverwood, could have been inspired by the fact
that The Shadow was still at large.
     "In either case," concluded Cranston, "the fact that Dortha took the truck
to Dead Man's Hill was logical enough. It means that the sheriff will never
connect it with Beaverwood unless Dr. Marsh decides to tell the truth."
     Margo gave a doubtful smile.
     "You can't fool people all the time," she said. "Even that dumb sheriff
may guess that Dortha simply drove the truck down here, or at least along the
Courtland road."
     Unfolding a road map, Cranston passed it to the girl.
     "Look it over, Margo," he suggested, "and tell me if you would guess it,
if you didn't already know."
     As Margo studied the map, her forehead wrinkled. She was confronted with
something that was indeed a mystery. It had been clever of Dortha to send a
dead man down a hill in a skidding truck that was to mangle the man's body
thoroughly enough to ruin evidence of earlier murder, but such ingenuity paled
to insignificance, when compared with another question; namely, how Dortha had
brought the truck to Dead Man's Hill.
     This terrain was a series of ridges and valleys, where most of the roads
ran parallel and did not cross. There was no link at all between the Hilldale
road that ran past Beaverwood and Gray Towers, that could connect it with the
Courtland road a few miles to the south. To get from one to the other would
have meant a thirty-mile journey through well populated towns.
     Smiling at Margo's puzzlement, Cranston calmly added to the enigma, by
showing her a paragraph in the morning newspaper. According to that item, the
sheriff had questioned the drivers of all cars arriving at the fork below
Beaverwood. None had seen any trucks along the valley road, which ran a
considerable length without a turn-off.
     "Consider that time element," added Cranston. "The last persons who came
along the valley road were two friends of Waycroft's who arrived in a coupe.
Both were friends of Kirk Brenshaw, too, because they have relatives who are
patients at Beaverwood. It was after their car passed that the detour sign was
planted and when they reached Gray Tower, they joined Kirk in Waycroft's study."
     Margo nodded. That part tabbed.
     "Judd's truck was next," resumed Cranston. "It took the road up to
Beaverwood. We came along immediately afterward. About the time I reached the
Beaverwood gates, on foot, you must have been pulling into Gray Towers."
     "That's about right," agreed Margo, "and it couldn't have been more than
ten minutes until the sheriff phoned. Why, Dortha could hardly have been away
from Beaverwood in Judd's truck! Waycroft and I should have met him if he came
by the covered bridge!"
     "And the sheriff should have, if he went the other way," Cranston
supplied. "Take another look at that map, Margo, and see if you can find an
answer."
     "There isn't any," argued Margo. "Here's an old road that follows north
beside Indian River, but it stops dead before it gets to the other valley.
Dortha must have tacked some wings on that truck to take it where he did!"


     WITHOUT a word, Cranston started the roadster and drove from Courtland
along the road to Dead Man's Hill. Negotiating the steep grade, which was quite
safe going up, he topped the ridge and eased down another slope to a stone
bridge leading over Indian River. There he found the side road that Margo had
mentioned and they followed it two miles northward until it ended at an old
sawmill, where heavy woods, just ahead, were broken only by a narrow footpath.
     "What now, Mr. Cranston?" queried Margo, jestingly. "Do we abandon our
chariot and walk another mile to see the old covered bridge that we both know
so well?"
     "We'll do plenty of walking later," promised Cranston. "For the present,
we'll try some navigation. Dortha style."
     Coolly, Cranston picked a rutted spot by the river bank and drove the
roadster into the stream. Then they were plowing against the current through
water that occasionally topped the running boards, never higher. This was a dry
season, and Indian River, though it flowed swift and deep in narrow spots, had
trouble spreading through this widest portion of its bed. At intervals,
Cranston picked spots that were almost dry and at one bend, where he deftly
dodged a sandbar, he brought the front wheels to a patch that was out of water.
     "Keep going!" exclaimed Margo. "If you stop, the sand may hold us, unless
we're bogged already!"
     Cranston was stepping out through the door on the driver's side, to grip a
bush that projected from the dry sandbar. As he gestured, Margo saw what he was
after. There, trapped by the very sand that the roadster had escaped, was a
broken sign that bore the big-lettered word: DETOUR.
     "Dortha was smart enough to pick it up," declared Cranston, "but he should
have carried it farther down the river. I suppose he was over-anxious to get rid
of it. We'll take it along with us for future reference."
     Though the sign was broken, Margo wondered how Cranston was going to get
it into the roadster. As she watched, she saw that the sign was portable, for
Cranston began folding it on hinges that were an unusual embellishment for a
detour sign. Completely folded, the thing formed a compact bundle that Cranston
put into the rumble seat, where it slid out of sight.
     In the car again, Cranston drove ahead and the covered bridge soon came in
sight. Plowing right underneath it, he swung the car up the ruts where Margo had
stalled the night before. There, parking beside the road, Cranston completed his
analysis of Dortha's activities.
     "You spent quite a while at Beaverwood," reminded Cranston, "considering
those two stops at the gates. Dortha had time to return as far as the covered
bridge, where he found Bosco waiting for him. The hound must have run loose and
followed Dortha's trail until it dipped into the river. They're great pals,
those two."
     "I'll say they are," acknowledged Margo. "I'm still wondering which is the
bigger brute."
     "I heard them on the ledge," continued Cranston. "That's why I moved along
the bridge. Bosco was whining and Dortha had just managed to quiet him when you
arrived. If you'd driven across the bridge, you would have had no trouble.
Instead, you used the ford and made it worse by stopping before you were
across."
     "Then Dortha thought I must have guessed his trick!" exclaimed Margo.
"That's why he unleashed Bosco!"
     "Bosco acted on his own," corrected Cranston. "If that dog could talk,
you'd find that his worst vice is simply his loyalty to Dortha. That's why I
dealt so gently with Bosco."
     "You were too gentle with Dortha," demurred Margo. "When he let rip with
that shotgun, he meant business."
     "Only because I fired first," Cranston reminded. "I wanted to jostle
Dortha from the ledge and I succeeded. You see, Margo" - Cranston's lips formed
a slight smile - "Dortha has the same fault as Bosco - that of intense loyalty."
     "To Dr. Marsh?"
     "Exactly. But there is this difference. While Bosco can not talk, Dortha
can. Dangerous though he may be, Dortha must be allowed to live, so that he can
some day tell all he knows concerning Dr. Marsh. Last night a chance victim fell
into a death trap. We must learn who plotted murder - and why."
     Cranston gestured to the rumble seat and Margo understood. The detour
sign, designed for portability, stood for more than a few maniacs accidentally
roving from their quarters. Something was going on inside Beaverwood that
involved matters of the outside world, and as The Shadow, Cranston intended to
find all the answers to crime's origin.
     Again the roadster was on its way, with Cranston gazing meditatively ahead
as he followed the winding road through this valley of hidden crime. In the eyes
of her companion, Margo could see the strange, burning glow that symbolized the
probing vision of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VI

     IN contrast to the short cut that he had taken from Courtland to the
covered bridge, Lamont Cranston spent the next hour in describing circles that
seemed to take him nowhere. Yet Margo Lane was very patient, because their
journey had an objective. According to Cranston, he was seeking a new way into
Beaverwood.
     "The first way is through the main gate," explained Cranston. "The second
is a way I discovered last night. What I'm looking for is a third way, that
someone might use more easily than the other two."
     Cranston's hunt meant driving over dirt roads, with side excursions on
foot. His object was to survey the entire boundary of the Beaverwood estate,
which covered a few dozen acres. He and Margo began at the northwest corner,
where Indian River, narrow, deep and turbulent, roared past the end of the high
picket fence, which had projecting spikes extending over the water, to prevent
anyone from climbing around it.
     On the other side were the grounds of Gray Towers, but Cranston was
interested in the stream itself. Dangling from Marsh's fence was a sign,
warning that falls lay ahead, a fact to which Cranston could personally
testify. When Margo asked if it would be possible to start down in a boat and
swing into Marsh's shore, Cranston gave a slow nod.
     "Possible," he declared, "but not practical. It would be as risky as
scaling those pickets. Besides, there would be no way of getting out against
the current without a special cable. What we're hunting for, Margo, is a
regular route, usable under normal conditions."
     Following the northern boundary away from Gray Towers, they used a log to
cross a smaller stream that trickled under the fence itself. Pointing through
the pickets, Cranston indicated a two-acre pond that had a level several feet
higher than the nearby river. He drew Margo's attention to a mass of brush at
the far end of the pond.
     "A beaver dam," defined Cranston. "Probably abandoned by its original
owners. It accounts for the name of Beaverwood."
     The quest continued along the northern boundary and later followed the
slope that marked the eastern side. All the while, Cranston and Margo were
moving along beside the high, formidable fence that protected every inch of the
sanitarium grounds. At last they came to the southeast corner and paused to rest
beside a stone pillar that had sharp spikes across the top.
     His gaze roving idly through the woods, Cranston traced a rough path that
led down and away from Beaverwood. Instantly he became alert.
     "This must have been an old gate," he said. "Likely enough, since that
could have been a short road to the station in the days of horses and
carriages. Those are young trees at the sides of the path; it was probably
wider once."
     Looking along the fence, Cranston discovered where the other gatepost had
been. Its location was marked by a flat slab of stone underneath the lower
pickets of the fence. Finding a large chunk of wood, Cranston used it as a
lever and pried the slab loose. On hands and knees, Margo peered into the
opening and exclaimed:
     "Why, it's hollow underneath! Maybe there's treasure buried here!"
     "I doubt it," returned Cranston, "but we'll soon find out. Treasure or no
treasure, I think we've uncovered what we want."


     SEATED on the turf, Cranston shoved the loosened slab with his feet. It
slithered beneath the fence, leaving a sizable gap, which Margo, to her
disappointment, saw was empty. Then Cranston was easing down into the pit and
crouching beneath the fence. Once under, he called for Margo to follow and gave
a hand to help her.
     Inside the grounds, they slid the slab back where it belonged and turned
in the direction of the sanitarium. If Cranston hadn't been with her, Margo
would have hesitated at approaching that grim brown building, but his presence,
plus the approaching dusk, gave the girl the necessary nerve.
     "We found what we wanted," undertoned Cranston, as they walked along. "The
third way into Beaverwood."
     "That makes one and three," reminded Margo. "I still want to know about
the second."
     "I'll show it to you later," began Cranston. "You'd have to see it to
believe it -"
     He halted suddenly and moved Margo into the shelter of some trees, which
provided sufficient darkness for them to remain unobserved. Coming along a
crosspath were two men, walking sullenly, staring straight ahead. They were two
of Marsh's patients and they paused abruptly when they heard the clang of a
distant bell. That clamor must have been the dinner call, for the patients
showed more enthusiasm in their gait when they started toward the sanitarium.
     "That clears the way," said Cranston. "We'll follow after them, but keep
well in the background."
     The last stretch was the most difficult, for it lay across open ground
between the woods and the bulky building. The two patients kept doggedly ahead
without a glance behind them, but a new chance of discovery occurred when a car
came rolling up the driveway, its headlights glaring through the dusk and
changing course with the curves. Margo was turning to get back to the woods,
when Cranston caught her arm and steered her to the nearest wing of the
building.
     A moment later, they were entering a door that Cranston's keen eyes had
detected in the gathering gloom. Margo was quite surprised when she looked
around and saw that they were in a place resembling a carpenter's shop.
     "The occupational-therapy department," explained Cranston. "This is where
the patients learn to do things with their hands, to keep their minds off their
troubles."
     "Look, Lamont!" Margo had come across a stack of boards and was standing
on them while she indicated a shelf containing cans of paint. "Here's
everything that's needed to make a detour sign like the one we found below the
covered bridge!"
     "Everything except the tools," said Cranston, "but they're probably in
that closet!" He pointed to a padlocked door at the rear of the large room. "We
can remember this for future reference. Right now, we're getting out of here!"
     "Back where we came from?"
     "No. We'll save time if we go the other way. Make a detour around the
building, Margo, and wait for me by the falls. The sun has set, so you won't
have any trouble with your dark dress as a background against the woods."
     "You aren't coming with me?"
     "Not until I've learned who those visitors are. Their car has arrived out
front, so I'm going to have a look alone."


     STARTING Margo off on her route, Cranston sidled along the wing of the
building, keeping close to its dark wall. Though he lacked the black garb of
The Shadow, only the keenest eye could have spotted his moving figure in the
heavy gloom. Reaching the end of the building, Cranston was as stealthy as The
Shadow when he paused and peered beyond.
     Two men were standing beside the coupe that had brought them to
Beaverwood. Against the faint sunset from the west, Cranston recognized the
faces of Gordon Waycroft and Kirk Brenshaw. Facing them were two other men: one
was Dr. Uther Marsh, while the other looked enough like Kirk to be his cousin,
Hubert.
     Evidently the visiting hours were almost over, for Dr. Marsh was trying to
draw his patient away. However, Kirk was persistent in asking questions that
proved the man who resembled him was indeed his cousin. He wanted to know if
everything was satisfactory at Beaverwood and finally Kirk queried:
     "You've been getting plenty of rest, haven't you, Hubert? You know it's
good for you to get to bed early."
     "If that's so, why don't you stay a while?" demanded Hubert, suddenly. "If
I'm crazy, so are you."
     "We must leave that to Dr. Marsh," parried Kirk. "You are ill, Hubert -"
     "Not too ill to let you worry me," interrupted Hubert, savagely. "If you
know what's good for you, you'll stay away from me."
     "I'm thinking of what's good for you, Hubert, like I always have."
     "Then maybe you'd like what's good for you!" With a fierce roar, Hubert
flung his hands at his cousin's throat. "A little neck-wringing, Kirk!"
     Kirk sagged to his knees, clawing at Hubert's throttling hands. Fighting
to wrench Hubert away, Marsh and Waycroft had just succeeded when Dortha
arrived and took charge of the patient. While Dortha marched Hubert into the
sanitarium, Waycroft helped Kirk into the car. Clutching his throat with one
hand, Kirk gulped a few incoherent threats that were drowned by the roar of the
motor as Waycroft drove away.
     Hubert's laugh was coming back in a crazed, but happy tone. As if in echo
came a baying sound from Bosco's kennel behind the building. Dr. Marsh paused a
few moments; then decided that the hound had heard the sounds of the
disturbance. So the physician simply followed Dortha and Hubert indoors.
     Cranston was not deceived by Bosco's howls. More The Shadow than himself,
Cranston sped along past the front door almost before Marsh closed it. Clear of
the building, he hurried toward Indian Falls, watching for some sign of Margo.
Noting motion among the trees above the brink, Cranston changed his course and
met Margo on the way. With a glad gasp, Margo stumbled into his arms.


     IN one hand, Margo was carrying her shoes and stockings, while with the
other, she was lifting her water-soaked skirt above her knees. Breathlessly,
she explained her predicament.
     "I came to the beaver dam," said Margo, "and decided to wade the little
stream that flows from it. I was half across before I realized that it would
bring me too far above the falls. So I started back in such a hurry that I
turned my ankle. Of course, that tripped me into the stream. Bosco must have
heard me."
     Bosco had heard and Dortha in his turn had interpreted the dog's howl to
mean that strangers were on the premises. Having tucked Hubert Brenshaw away,
Dortha had loosed Bosco, for the hound's bay, rising loud and fierce, was
approaching the very spot where Margo stood with Cranston. Frantically, Margo
looked for a friendly tree and actually thought that Cranston was going to
boost her up one, when he suddenly stooped and scooped her in his arms. Then,
before Margo could even gasp, the incredible was in progress.
     With a long stride, Cranston left the river bank at the very brink of
Indian Falls, carrying Margo with him on a seemingly certain plunge into the
mighty cataract below!


     CHAPTER VII

     IT was a daytime nightmare, the experience that followed. It belonged to
daytime because the last rays of sunset reflected on this spot that lay open to
the west, giving a vivid sparkle to the sheen of the furious water that billowed
across the brink. Yet there were all the elements of a nightmare, even to the
slow-motion effect. It was something that couldn't be real, but was. As she was
precipitated forward in Cranston's descending grasp, Margo flung her head about
and looked across his shoulder for what she thought was a last view of the
safety that they had abandoned. At that moment, Cranston's foot stopped with a
hard jolt upon a rock, and as he poised there, Margo gave a gladdened gasp that
ended in a shriek.
     No longer was it safe behind them, even if Cranston could return. Leaping
through the alders that lined the bank came Bosco, panting like a hell-hound,
eager to hurl his fury upon the people who had escaped him by the covered
bridge. True to dog tradition, Bosco was acting thrice his size on his home
grounds and considering his normal bulk, that made him as tremendous as Margo's
horror pictured him.
     Another instant and Bosco would have launched himself upon his prey,
regardless of the plunge that would receive him also. In that moment, Cranston
swerved, despite Margo's shriek that a menace lay behind them. There wasn't
time for the girl to word the warning, though Cranston understood it.
Nevertheless, it didn't matter, because he was ignoring Margo's cry.
     Instead of a full turn, Cranston made a half pivot toward the far bank and
with it took another long step. His foot reached a flat rock that was only two
inches above the water line and from it, in almost the same motion, he made a
long sidestep toward the brink. His footwork served one purpose; it carried him
beyond the range of Bosco's leap. The dog saw it and caught up with a quick
slide to its haunches that saved it from a plunge. Bosco's forepaws went across
the bank, but the dog managed to scramble back.
     Margo's eyes went shut; then opened. Cranston had pivoted again and she
was looking down across his shoulder. What she saw completely unnerved her. She
was staring straight down into the mist that rose from Indian Falls and through
the spray she saw the jagged rocks a hundred feet below. All about, the tumult
of the water was a monster's roar, shouting that the flood would snatch its
victims yet.
     But Cranston was keeping on to the other bank!
     Limp in her friend's powerful arms, Margo was no longer a burden. Through
her brain pummeled the thought that this was too unreal to matter. With that
conviction, she realized what was happening; indeed, she viewed it step by
step, though she still could not believe it. Along the brink of the waterfall,
through a gushing mass that at first glance looked impassable, Cranston was
following a zigzag course from rock to rock, picking them out like
stepping-stones.


     IT was simply a case of the indomitable nerve that had made Cranston
famous as The Shadow. He did more than face danger; he defied it. Where others,
even the bravest, would shrink from a formidable threat, The Shadow preferred to
study it from a cool, normal viewpoint. He had done that very thing the night
before, when Marsh's men were moving in to trap him. In the moonlight he had
gauged the distance between the rocks and calculated their firmness. Precarious
though they might appear, those juts of stone would not be hanging on the brink
of the falls unless they were really fixed there. Having chanced a passage once
and succeeded without trouble, Cranston had no hesitance at trying it again,
even with Margo as a handicap.
     Complete fascination riveted Margo during the remainder of the trip. The
moments that she seemed to hang above the falls were no more breath-taking than
when Cranston's side steps carried her the other direction and let her stare
into the green flood that gave its last gush toward the brink. Then, instead of
the water's green, Margo was viewing the same hue of the trees, and the mighty
tumult was dying behind her. They were safe on the opposite bank.
     As Cranston took quick strides along a path, Margo looked back in profound
amazement. Again, the vast pour of water gave the illusion that The Shadow's
stepping-stones were insignificant. Back on Marsh's shore, Bosco was whining as
Dortha came clumping through the bushes. Margo saw the huge man stop and shade
his eyes toward the falls. Like Bosco, Dortha couldn't believe that any
creature, human of otherwise, had gone across that brink.
     Clear of the woods, Cranston settled Margo on the soft grass of Waycroft's
lawn and pointed to Gray Towers, outlined against the twilight.
     "Wait until it's really dark," said Cranston. "Then you can go there and
wait until I arrive with the car. I don't think Waycroft keeps any wild beasts
which will disturb you."
     "I'll wait in the Italian garden," returned Margo. Then, clutching
Cranston's arm tightly, she pleaded: "But you're not going back across that
waterfall!"
     "Of course not," laughed Cranston. "We just beat the sunset gun, Margo. It
won't be really safe until the moon rises, two hours from now." He paused
whimsically. "Bosco will be tied up by then, so we might try it again."
     "Never!" exclaimed Margo. "You must promise -"
     "I'll promise only to come back with the car," interposed Cranston. "I'll
go up to that dirt road that runs behind Gray Towers and crosses the river
about a half mile in back of the Beaverwood fence. We left the car over by the
northeast corner of Marsh's grounds, but it won't take me long to reach it. So
be watching for the signal, Margo, and don't forget these."
     Cranston handed Margo her shoes and stockings, which she had clutched all
during the trip across the falls, only to drop them when she clutched
Cranston's arm and begged him to avoid the return trip. A moment later,
Cranston was off on his hike to the back road and Margo, after a few minutes'
wait, decided that it was dark enough to approach Gray Towers. She didn't
bother to put on her shoes and stockings, because they were still wet, and the
soft grass felt comfortable underfoot.
     The windows of Gray Towers were well lighted and Margo could see people
moving beyond them, an indication that the Italian garden would be deserted,
which it proved to be when Margo crept toward it. There was one fault, however,
with this waiting spot; its white marble pillars made the worst possible
background for Margo's dark dress. That problem was easily settled, however.
Near the garden, Margo slid the dress off and hung it on a bush to dry with her
shoes and stockings. The white things that formed her remaining attire made a
perfect blend against the pillars and benches of the garden.


     TWENTY minutes had passed when a door opened and two men came from Gray
Towers. For a moment Margo was inclined to make a wild dart to the bush that
she had turned into a clothes tree; then, sure that she'd be seen by the glow
from the house, she shrank back between two pillars and remained motionless,
hoping she'd be mistaken for some of the white statuary that stood about the
garden. As luck had it, the two men paused before they reached the garden. One
lighted a cigar and stood by, while the other began to pace along the flat
stone walk.
     The man with the cigar was Gordon Waycroft; his companion was Kirk
Brenshaw. Evidently Kirk was nervous, for he continued to pace back and forth.
     "At least I've convinced the sheriff," spoke Waycroft. "I told him that
Beaverwood ought to be watched, even if we have to pay for the hire of the
deputies."
     "The sheriff is a fool!" snapped Kirk. "He thinks because he didn't find a
detour sign, there couldn't have been any truck going up to Beaverwood."
     "You can't argue with the sheriff," expressed Waycroft. "He doesn't
specialize in deduction. It's what you see, not what you think, where he's
concerned."
     "But he knows that somebody phoned him about the sign and the truck!"
asserted Kirk. "Therefore it couldn't all be rumor, could it?"
     Waycroft gave a light laugh.
     "That's all it can be, Kirk," he said. "The sheriff is right, considering
that some practical joker may have phoned him. But he knows that I don't deal
in jests. I told him what happened at Beaverwood when we went there a little
while ago."
     "You mean about Hubert? The way he attacked me?"
     "Of course," replied Waycroft. "Marsh had no right to let Hubert get out
of hand. If you want, I'll show the sheriff the threatening letters that look
as though they came from Hubert."
     Kirk appeared to be thinking over the suggestion while he continued his
pace along the walk. Margo noted that he had fallen into her habit of the night
before. With his slow stride, Kirk was attracted by the glistening stones among
the varied slabs that formed the ornamental walk. He was picking them with his
feet, more or less mechanically. It seemed to help his thought.
     "Those letters won't prove much," said Kirk, finally, "except that Hubert
is out of his mind, which is already established."
     "They show negligence on the part of Dr. Marsh," asserted Waycroft. "He
had no right to let Hubert send them."
     "That's right!" Kirk finished a pace and turned to stare into the darkness
in the general direction of Beaverwood. "The letters would count after all! But
we still haven't proven that Marsh lets his patients have free run, despite his
claims to the contrary."
     "Leave that to the sheriff," decided Waycroft. "He's posting deputies on
every road tonight. Suppose we go into the house and talk with the others. It's
nearly dinner time and you chaps are taking the 9:10 train to New York."
     As the pair turned toward the mansion, the lights of a car swept up the
driveway. Both Waycroft and Kirk paused, as though wondering who this belated
guest might be. Margo could tell, because the headlights gave a few blinks
while they were turning off. It was Cranston, back with the roadster.
     Fortunately, Waycroft decided to go back through the house before learning
who the visitor was. That gave Margo her opportunity, though she knew it might
be brief. As soon as Waycroft and Kirk were inside Gray Towers, Margo dropped
her alabaster pose and scampered from the garden. The darkness had become so
thick that she had to claw frantically at three bushes before she found the
right one; discovering it, she slid into her dress and groped for shoes and
stockings. While she was putting on her shoes, the car lights gave a quick
blink signaling for her to hurry and a few moments later Margo was making a mad
dash across the lawn past Gray Towers.
     Cranston intercepted Margo before she reached the car. At the edge of the
driveway, his firm hand clutched her suddenly and she heard his undertone:
     "Waycroft is coming out to meet us. Remember, we just dropped by. Whatever
we learn about Beaverwood is our own business."
     With that, Cranston was escorting Margo forward into a great patch of
light that spread from the open front door. Hardly had they reached the fringe
before Waycroft met them; he had been coming out from the mansion while Margo
was still making her rapid run. Brushing back her hair, Margo greeted Waycroft
with a smile.
     "Here I am again," said Margo. "I brought Lamont this evening. I hope we
aren't intruding, but he's so anxious to hear about last night, and you said
you wanted to talk with him."
     "I do, more than before," assured Waycroft, extending his hand to
Cranston. "Perhaps you can help us solve the local riddle, Cranston, even
though the crime - if there was any - is a thing of the past."
     With all his suspicions, Gordon Waycroft apparently did not know that
murder had been done the night before. There were facts upon which Lamont
Cranston, otherwise The Shadow, could have supplied important details that
concerned past crime. But that was only half the story - and the lesser half.
     Tonight, still unsuspected even by The Shadow, another path of doom
awaited the rising of the murder moon! Crime was to strike anew, in a style
more mysterious than the night before!


     CHAPTER VIII

     DINNER at Waycroft's was something of a bore to Margo Lane. At the start,
she felt it wise to remain inconspicuous, rather than have people notice that
her attire was still somewhat disheveled, more so than a trip by automobile
would account for. However, since Margo was the only lady present, no one took
particular notice of her clothes. Indeed, Margo was almost totally ignored in
the course of conversation.
     Waycroft discussed events of the night before, so far as he had witnessed
them. Kirk Brenshaw introduced a few reminders as did three other men present.
Like Kirk, these three were men of considerable consequence who had placed
demented friends or relatives in charge of Dr. Marsh. Naturally, all were
anxious to make sure that matters were right at Beaverwood, but like Kirk,
business was calling them back to New York.
     "Sharrock was the last man to come along the valley road," declared
Waycroft, gesturing to a mustached gentleman at his left. "That is, the last to
arrive at Gray Towers. He had Brighton with him" - Waycroft nodded toward a
quiet, gray-haired man across the table - "and they saw no detour sign. If they
had, they would have wondered about it, because both know that the road to
Beaverwood is a dead end."
     The term "dead end" impressed Margo. The Shadow had certainly found it
such the night before. His discovery of hideous murder was bad enough, but the
jeopardy in which he had placed himself was even worse. Margo could scarcely
repress a shudder when she thought of the huge risk The Shadow had taken in his
first trip across the brink of Indian Falls, a desperate pathway that he
calculated as safe, yet had never before tested.
     "The detour sign must have been planted later," continued Waycroft. "That
is" - his tone became dubious - "if there actually happened to be such a sign.
The whole thing is a complete mystery, like those shots that we heard later."
     Cranston's eyebrows lifted quizzically.
     "What shots?"
     "They came from the general direction of the gorge," explained Waycroft.
He took a pencil and drew some lines on the tablecloth. "Below the falls is a
deep, impassable gorge, quite short, because the hills taper away into the
valley, and the river widens before it reaches the covered bridge. When we
heard those shots, we started over toward the bridge, but turned up into the
gorge as far as we could go. There was no sign of anyone."
     Cranston did not even smile. The shots, of course, were those that he had
exchanged with Dortha, near the covered bridge itself. Cranston's steady eyes
warned Margo not to change her own expression. True to his tradition as The
Shadow, Cranston was working on the assumption that the more the element of
mystery in a case, the quicker it would crack.
     It developed during dinner that Sharrock and Brighton were going to drive
to New York in the former's car. They offered to take Kirk Brenshaw with them
and extended the same invitation to the last member of the group, an elderly,
tired-faced man named Abershaw. But neither Kirk nor Abershaw relished the idea
of a cramped ride in the folding seats of a coupe.
     "You can take us as far as the station," said Kirk, "so we can catch the
local at 9:10. We certainly ought to leave before nine o'clock in order to be
sure of catching the train."
     It was already half past eight and the moon was rising through the front
windows of the dining room; a blood-red moon, hanging huge above the horizon.
Out of the night came the chugging sound of a rattletrap car and Waycroft
tilted his head, to show a broad smile below his gray-eyed twinkle.
     "Our friend the sheriff," announced Waycroft. "I recognize his
gasoline-powered junk pile. I rather think he's worrying about those
unexplained shots, too."


     WAYCROFT went to the door and returned with the sheriff, who was talking
such a steady streak that he could only nod to the other persons present. The
sheriff was telling how he had posted deputies on strategic roads and to make
it all clear, he worked on the tablecloth map from the point where Waycroft had
left off. Soon the cloth showed a network of lines, with little dots all about.
     "We're checking every car that comes or goes," affirmed the sheriff.
"We'll find out if fake detour signs and strange trucks are real or not. If
anything funny happens around these parts tonight, our own men will be the
fellows who call up about it. I still can't figure who played that hoax last
night "
     "Some of my guests will be driving down to the station," declared
Waycroft. "How long will the deputies delay them, sheriff?"
     "They'll only have to go past Hapgood's post," the sheriff said. "He's
keeping out of sight by the big ledge, so's he can watch the road that splits
off to the station from t'other that goes around by Brown's Hill. A right smart
chap, Hapgood. He'll be Johnny-on-the-spot any time a car comes along."
     "In that case, I'd better pack my suitcase," put in Kirk. "We'll have to
get started early if Hapgood is going to stop us on the road."
     "Perhaps the sheriff can drive ahead," suggested Waycroft, "and wait there
while Hapgood checks you through."
     "Glad to," assured the sheriff. "I'll want Happy's report, anyway. Then
I'll drive around by Brown's Hill and stop at the other posts."
     "I'd better pack, anyway," said Kirk. "It's getting along toward nine.
Anything you want to see me about, Gordon?"
     "Only those letters," replied Waycroft. "They're in the study. I'll get
them for you."
     Remembering the letters, Margo wanted to mention them to Cranston, but
realized she would have to wait. It wouldn't do to discuss the apprehensions of
Waycroft and Kirk over matters at Beaverwood, even during their absence, because
their friends were still present, talking with the sheriff. After all, Cranston
personally could vouch that affairs were amiss at Beaverwood, hence the
conversation that Margo had heard while posing as a garden statue could hardly
be of great consequence.
     Shortly after they left, Waycroft and Kirk returned. Carrying a bag, Kirk
waved good night and said he would wait for the others in the car. The other
three guests got up and sauntered out to begin their roundabout journey along
the winding roads to the Hilldale station. Soon a honking horn told the sheriff
that he was wanted, so he went out to start his rattletrap. Both cars had pulled
away when Waycroft suggested that his two remaining guests - Cranston and Margo
- enjoy the coolness of the Italian garden.
     Margo could have smiled at that one, considering her recent sojourn in the
garden, but she was in too serious a mood. Noting that Waycroft was going back
to his study, Margo saw her opportunity to give Cranston the few details that
she had overheard outdoors, details that she hoped would add at least a bit to
the fund of facts that he had already acquired regarding the situation over in
Beaverwood. As they stepped from the side doorway of the mansion, Margo began:
     "The walk to the garden is just around the corner, Lamont. You can see it
easily, because some of the stones glisten. While we're on the way there, I'll
tell you some things I heard -"


     SUCH recollections left Margo's mind as a sudden sound interrupted. It
came with the quickness of a stab so forcefully that it jarred the girl's
nerves completely. The sound was the fateful voice of Bosco, the great hound,
raised in a distant cry that started as a yelp and turned into a bay.
     Weird, that howl, like a harbinger of death from the premises where Dr.
Marsh ruled!
     With the cry from Beaverwood came floating sounds of insane laughter that
might have been anywhere amid those grounds across the narrow river. It was a
chorus that betokened murder, amplified when the great dog repeated its mighty
howl, beneath the sky that was tinted blood-red by the rising moon!
     Though riveted by the curdling cry, Margo tried to stammer an explanation.
     "It's... it's only the moon!" As she gasped, Margo clutched Cranston's arm
so tightly that he knew she didn't believe her own words. "I... I mean Bosco...
he's baying at the moon... the way dogs sometimes do -"
     "Not old dogs like Bosco." Cranston's hand gripped Margo's arm and turned
her toward the front of the house. "Something had disturbed that dog. For all
we know, murder may be on the loose. It's our business to find out where!"
     At that moment Waycroft arrived, springing from the door as though
something had snatched him from within the house. He heard Cranston's words and
voiced further information.
     "You're right, Cranston!" exclaimed Waycroft. "It means death and Kirk
Brenshaw may be the victim. Either Kirk or some of his friends, though he's the
one most likely to meet up with it. We'll have to overtake them and warn them
before the menace reaches them! Hurry, Cranston - we'll use your car!"
     Waycroft's admonition was unnecessary. Already, Cranston was racing toward
the car, taking Margo along with him, so fast that Waycroft could just about
keep up. As they neared the roadster, Cranston sprang ahead; he had the key in
the lock while Waycroft was helping Margo into the car.
     "They can't be very far along!" panted Waycroft. "Maybe they're past the
covered bridge; at least I hope they are. The danger spot will be the road that
leads up to Beaverwood."
     "We can't overtake them that soon," said Cranston, as he gave the car a
swift twirl along the driveway. "We'll be lucky if we find them at the ledge
down toward the station. Still, if they get that far, the sheriff will be with
them."
     "He's going to pass them through," reminded Waycroft in an anxious tone.
"The station isn't far beyond. If that train doesn't come along, Kirk will be
stranded, with only Abershaw, who is old and feeble -"
     "But if the train doesn't come along, we will," assured Cranston, calmly.
"So sit tight, Waycroft, until we get there."
     There was a firmness in Cranston's tone that should have ended Margo's
qualms along with those of Waycroft, but the girl's heart kept beating hard.
Perhaps it was the presence of the bloody moon that worried Margo. There had
been murder and mystery both, last night when the moon was only silvery.
Tonight's setting was even stronger for such a double dose.
     At times, Margo's intuition could outvote her confidence in Cranston. At
this moment, all her instinct told her that murder was in the making, once more
prepared to strike before the arrival of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER IX

     A CAR had stopped by the big ledge where Hapgood, the deputy, was on duty.
It was the sheriff's car and he had pulled it to the side of the road, while he
gestured with a flashlight for the next car to come through. Thanks to down
grades, the sheriff had made rapid time in his rattletrap and Sharrock's car
had been speeding to keep pace with him.
     Off in the distance came the plaintive whistle of a locomotive, floating
from an adjacent valley. The train was still a few miles distant and wouldn't
reach Hilldale for another ten minutes, but the sheriff didn't want the men in
the other car to worry about missing it. So he waved them through and they went
past without stopping. A short way on, the coupe's tail-lights veered suddenly
as it twisted off along the station road.
     "Waycroft's guests," the sheriff told Hapgood, who was standing by.
"They're catching the 9:10. But don't let nobody else go through, without
questioning them. See you later, Happy."
     There was prophecy in the sheriff's tone, though he did not realize it. He
was to see Hapgood later, but under unfortunate circumstances and that later
meeting would be sooner than the sheriff expected.
     So far, the sheriff hadn't guessed that something new was amiss at
Beaverwood. His loud-spoken car had been making far too much noise for him to
hear Bosco's baying cry while traveling along the valley road. Nor had Hapgood
heard that sound, for the rise of woods behind the big ledge cut off all sounds
from the direction of Beaverwood.
     Climbing into his car, the sheriff pulled away and swung to the road that
led up Brown's Hill. As he went, it did not occur to him to look back. If it
had, the sheriff might have been able to prevent the tragedy that was due.
     Directly behind Hapgood was the big ledge and the deputy drew back into
its shelter as soon as the sheriff started away. Hapgood preferred to be close
to the ledge, because it kept him out of sight. Here, due to a twist in the
road, the moon was rising directly above the ledge and soon its light would be
playing on the road itself. Hence Hapgood's action was really a future
precaution.
     The deputy should have given more thought to the present.


     ALREADY, the moon was peeping through the trees above the ledge. If the
sheriff had glanced up there, he would have seen the thing that Hapgood
couldn't see. Atop the ledge, a huddled head and shoulders were moving against
the ruddy disk that formed a background for murder. An insidious figure was
engaged in a task befitting that ominous setting. It changed from a huddled
shape to something grotesque, that figure, because its hands were lifting a
loose chunk of the foliated rock.
     Over the edge it slid, like water across a brink. So easily did deft hands
ease it, that the falling missile did not make its tumble heard. No timing could
have been more exact; no aim more accurate. The two combined to produce a
hideous result. The toppled mass struck the back of Hapgood's head, with the
crushing momentum gathered in its dozen-foot fall.
     Death at least was merciful. The victim never realized what had hit him.
The result, however, was a ghastly sight. Hurtled forward by the impact,
Hapgood's body was a gory spectacle when it sprawled at the edge of the road.
Splitting as it struck the ground, the crushing stone broke into two segments,
as though announcing that it, too, had suffered while performing its ugly work.
     Above the ledge, the ever-rising moon was changing its ruddy circle to a
coppery hue. Seemingly, its tinge had been transferred to the victim whose
sudden death it had witnessed. No longer, however, was a huddled shape visible
against the surface of the murder moon. The great orb was beaming unobstructed.
Silently, the killer had slipped away along a path that ran above the ledge, the
very direction of his course as hidden as his motive.
     From somewhere along the valley road came the smooth, speedy rhythm of an
approaching car, rising, falling in relation to the curves and dips of the
highway. Closer than before came the ardent screech of the locomotive whistle,
announcing that the train had clipped half the distance into the Hilldale
station. All about lay darkness where the trees obscured the moon, and in that
thickened night a killer was taking complete advantage of the few vital minutes
he needed for departure.
     The scene was changed when a pair of powerful headlights swept around a
bend. The long-reaching glare caught Hapgood's body in its range and the car
came to a smooth but sudden stop. From the wheel of the roadster, Lamont
Cranston studied the gruesome exhibit lying in the road, while Margo Lane
turned her face away. From the far side of the car came a grim tone, the voice
of Gordon Waycroft.
     "Too late!" declared Waycroft. "It must be Kirk Brenshaw. Though how the
killer snatched him from Sharrock's car -"
     "He didn't," interposed Cranston, opening his door and stepping out. "The
victim must be Hapgood. I can see his deputy's badge. Take the wheel, Margo,
and keep going to the station. Warn Kirk before the killer overtakes him."
     Stiffening as she took the wheel, Margo started ahead and turned into the
road where Waycroft pointed with a shaky hand. The whistle of the locomotive,
shrieking for the grade crossing, was a discordant tumult as it neared them.
Here the road twisted along beside the tracks, and when Margo applied the
brakes on the final bend, she saw the moving tail-lights of Sharrock's car,
pulling over by the platform.
     Then, in the glare of the arriving locomotive, four men were visible as
they alighted from the coupe. Two were shaking hands with the other pair as the
train slackened into the station, until Waycroft sprang out and halted the
farewell ceremony. Above the tumult he shouted what had happened and his voice
was clearly heard while the train stood still. Then, seeing that there were to
be no passengers from Hilldale, the conductor pulled the bell cord and the
local chugged along its way. Waycroft's statement was brief. They must all
return to the ledge and stay close together until the sheriff could be
summoned. Through sheer force of numbers if nothing more, they could overpower
the murderer if they met him.


     BACK at the scene of crime, Lamont Cranston had under gone a rapid
transformation, thanks to a cloak and hat that he had brought from beside him
when he left the roadster. As The Shadow, Cranston had become part of darkness
itself and was listening for any sound that might disturb the newly gathered
silence. One thing was evident: Hapgood's murderer could not have traveled far;
but rather than start on a blind trail, The Shadow was hoping for an audible
clue.
     None forthcoming, The Shadow stepped past Hapgood's body and reached the
high ledge. The layers of that hovering rock formed a veritable ladder for a
climber like The Shadow. Digging his hands into crevices, The Shadow worked
upward, finding footholds as he went. He was reversing the route that the
falling missile had taken and accomplishing it in silent fashion. At the top,
The Shadow raised his head and shoulders to peer both ways along the path that
sloped behind the ledge.
     Soon there were sounds of cars down where the road divided; they were
stopping there to keep a respectful distance. Coming over the ledge top, The
Shadow began to probe with his tiny flashlight. He recognized this path; it was
the one that led down from the forgotten gateway at the corner of the Beaverwood
estate, the old road that had once crossed the valley highway and continued to
the station, forming a corner where now there was a fork. The Shadow was about
to turn in the direction of Beaverwood, when he heard men approaching Hapgood's
body.
     Like The Shadow, these arrivals decided to scale the ledge. It was obvious
that they would turn toward Beaverwood, so The Shadow decided to let them start
their search. Knowing the qualms of Waycroft and his friends, The Shadow
recognized that they would stay close together, giving him ample leeway to
circle past them. To let them begin operations, The Shadow moved silently down
the path toward the station road.
     That was The Shadow's one mistake!
     Flashlights burned with sudden brilliance from the edge of the ledge.
These weren't Waycroft and his friends, they were a pair of deputies who must
have been coming down from Brown's Hill when the cars returned from the
station. To avoid them, The Shadow sidled behind a thick tree on the lower side
of the path. He was just in time to receive another barrage of flashlights.
     The new glares were coming up the path and they picked out The Shadow with
their beams. Only momentarily did they hold him, as he made a swift glide for
thicker darkness, but in doing so, he met the accidental sweep of the lights
from the ledge. From the lower end of the path came a shout that The Shadow
recognized as the sheriff's and it was answered by an equally healthy yell from
the deputies on the ledge.
     "There he goes! Get him!"


     INSTANTLY, the woods seemed alive with men. The sheriff must have met a
squad of deputies who were ready to be posted. Hearing of Hapgood's death, he
was making good use of his men, for they were boxing in The Shadow from two
directions. Waycroft and his timid friends weren't even needed in this sortie,
except as reserves. The thing had become a man hunt with The Shadow mistaken
for the missing murderer who certainly could not be far away!
     Knowing the deadly effect of shotguns when fired at close range, The
Shadow had very little choice. In the sweep of the flashlights that he was
partially avoiding, he saw a small gully off at an angle from the path. Darting
in another direction, The Shadow reversed course and took a long dive into the
depression, just as the shotguns ripped in devastating style. There were
thwacks as buckshot buried itself in tree trunks, tuned to the loud rips of
falling boughs, torn loose by the scattering slugs. Landing below the level of
the gunfire, The Shadow sank deep in a bed of dried leaves that cushioned his
spectacular dive.
     To those who glimpsed the first phase of his disappearance, The Shadow
seemed scarcely more than an intangible phantasm, an illusion created by the
sweep of their own lights. Still, they were in a mood to accept such things as
real and talk about it later. Flashlights continued their flicker, accompanied
by spasmodic bursts from shotguns. Among other things, men spotted the gully
and shouted that they were going to search it. Naturally, others shied away
from approaching lights, rather than be in the path of a discharging shotgun.
Taking advantage of that factor, The Shadow picked a quick avenue of escape,
traveling up and out of the gully as lights lowered to focus into its depths.
     The rustle of leaves meant nothing, since several men were trampling
through them. What bothered The Shadow was the incessant blinking of the
flashlights that men used to announce their own locations. They came from
various directions and whenever they outlined anything from a rock to a stump,
somebody let rip with a shotgun. Indeed, The Shadow was taking chances on
becoming a casualty even without being observed, until he introduced a piece of
strategy that was in keeping with the current procedure.
     Twisting the end of the tiny flashlight, The Shadow boldly began blinking
his own torch. Its widened beam sufficiently resembled the others to give him
the same security as the deputies who were hunting him. Coolly, The Shadow was
working outward through the irregular circle that was closing to trap him, his
blinks identifying him as a member of the searching party. The only flaw was
the fact that he was retiring instead of coming closer. Once clear, The Shadow
intended to extinguish his light and move off through the darkness, but the
sheriff spotted the gleam too soon.
     Mistaking The Shadow for a roving searcher, the sheriff shouted for others
to copy his tactics. Too many men were clustering around the vacant gully and a
wider search was in order. Hence The Shadow found himself in the curious
situation of leading a hunt for himself, since others promptly took his light
as a guide as they spread out through the woods. There was one advantage, and a
strong one, to this fan-wise search. Eventually The Shadow would be able to
douse his light and steal away, since by then the lights would be too far apart
for the sheriff to keep track of them. Meanwhile, however, the cloaked
investigator was following a blind course deep into the woods, away from any
direction that Hapgood's murderer would logically have taken.
     The trail that held death's riddle was lost, along with the fleeting
minutes that The Shadow needed to regain it!


     CHAPTER X

     DURING the progress of the singular hunt that The Shadow was conducting
for himself, a group of men were clustered by the roadside where Hapgood's body
lay. The group consisted of Gordon Waycroft and his erstwhile guests: Kirk
Brenshaw and three other men whose relatives were inmates of Beaverwood
Sanitarium. They spoke in hushed and fearful tones, those four, diverting their
eyes from the ghastly exhibit that lay at their feet. To a man, they agreed that
Hapgood was a victim of a maniac murderer escaped from Marsh's institution. The
consensus, though not openly voiced, was that Kirk's cousin, Hubert Brenshaw,
was the most likely candidate, since Hubert had recently exhibited homicidal
tendencies.
     The only stanch man present was Gordon Waycroft. He was not hushed; he was
silent, and with it grim. Waycroft alone was armed, but his weapon was merely
the one-shot antique pistol for which he had no ammunition. As on the other
night, Waycroft had brought along the ancient firearm to give himself
confidence. Moving away from the group, Waycroft stopped occasionally beside
Margo's roadster, where the girl was seated at the wheel.
     "I'm afraid they're getting colder," said Waycroft, referring to the
sheriff's men. "They're beating off through the woods as if they were hunting a
wild goose. They ought to be searching the path to Beaverwood."
     Margo agreed but did not say so. She felt sure that The Shadow was already
following that lead. It didn't occur to her that he had instead become the
object of a search.
     "I suppose Cranston is with them," continued Waycroft. "It would be a good
idea if Kirk and his friends joined the search. It would relieve their own fears
and they would be safer among the deputies. A crazed murderer is the sort most
likely to return to the scene of his crime."
     Acting on that thought, Waycroft went over and spoke to Kirk's group.
Immediately imbued with alarm, they started down the road toward the lower end
of the path where a deputy stood on guard. Their intent was to report to him
and offer their services in the hunt as Waycroft had suggested. As soon as they
were gone, Waycroft beckoned Margo from her car.
     "You're a game girl," complimented Waycroft. "You proved that last night,
Margo. Why don't we start up toward Beaverwood and find what clues we can?
Somebody ought to inspect that path before the deputies trample it."


     IT was Margo's opinion that the path was already being inspected by The
Shadow, though she happened to be wrong because he was still engaged in shaking
off the deputies by pretending to be one of them. Nevertheless that was a good
reason for accepting Waycroft's suggestion. If menace still roved, in the
person of a demented murderer loose from the asylum, the hazard could be
avoided by keeping close to The Shadow. So Margo, after due reluctance, decided
in favor of Waycroft's idea without giving the slightest hint as to her own
conclusions.
     Together Waycroft and Margo walked along the road a good hundred yards
beyond the ledge, in the direction of Beaverwood. There, Waycroft spotted an
easy slope with his flashlight and helped Margo up the embankment. Moving
through the trees they soon reached the path that led to Beaverwood and began
their probe, Margo using a flashlight of her own.
     It was Margo who made the first discovery.
     There were no footprints on the path for the ground was too hard, but
something grayish was lying fifty feet away. Reaching the object, Margo saw
that it was a rough, cloth glove, the fingers bearing mud stains. Obviously it
could have been used by the man who dislodged the rock that crushed Hapgood's
skull, hence this was evidence to prove that the murderer had started back to
Beaverwood after the crime.
     Looking back, Margo saw Waycroft's flashlight moving the other way. He had
decided to scout the trail from its beginning, down by the ledge. Rather than
call him, Margo decided to hunt for further clues. Carefully sidestepping the
glove, she continued on toward Beaverwood, flicking her flashlight left and
right. In less than half a minute she came upon a second clue as tangible as
the first.
     Lying beside the path was an old felt hat that had probably been brushed
from the killer's head by an overhanging bough that extended a few feet farther
along. The hat was lying brim up and inside the weather-beaten head-piece Margo
saw two markings, the traces of gold initials that had been inserted when the
hat was new. Stooping with the flashlight, the girl made out the initials. They
were H.B., dim yet discernible.
     Hubert Brenshaw!
     Looking at the bough, Margo calculated it as six feet above the ground.
Hubert, she had been told, was a bigger man than his stocky cousin, Kirk, about
the right height to encounter the obstruction. Naturally a fleeing killer,
particularly a deranged one, would care no more for a lost hat than a dropped
glove. Leaving the second clue where it lay, Margo continued along the path in
hope of finding a third.
     Luck was still good when Margo reached a soft patch in the path. Here was
a spot that a broad jumper could not have cleared; therefore a rational man
would have dodged around it to avoid leaving telltale tracks. But the trail
went right through in the form of two well-planted footprints, indicating that
the man who made them had been loping rapidly along the path, utterly careless
of anything that he encountered.
     Square-toed footprints; these. If they belonged to Hubert he had doubtless
made them with old shoes, which, like the hat and gloves, belonged among some
clothing that had been sent to him at Beaverwood. Once these items were tallied
and identified, the case against Hubert Brenshaw would be closed. It would be
hard to pin murder on an insane inmate of a sanitarium, but Dr. Uther Marsh
would unquestionably suffer for his negligence in letting a homicidal maniac
loose.
     There was much of the vindictive in Margo's mind as she pointed the
flashlight along the path to see what else lay beyond those telltale foot
tracks. The beam showed the picket fence of Beaverwood, some fifty yards ahead;
there, the path ended at the spot that Margo and Cranston had visited that
afternoon. Remembering the hollow space beneath the slab that represented the
old gatepost, Margo realized that it formed another link in this incriminating
trail that led to Hubert Brenshaw. The law needed only to prove that lunatics
could use a direct way in and out of Beaverwood; with such, the case against
Dr. Marsh would be clinched.


     SUDDENLY, that flood of thoughts was dissipated from Margo's mind. Fear
was the emotion that blotted out all else. As she focused the flashlight
through the fence, Margo saw a figure loom into the glare.
     Not the cloaked shape of The Shadow, who should be hereabouts, but that of
a monstrous creature, which, if human, might be a greater menace than any beast!
     Dropping back in fright, Margo found she couldn't force a cry to her lips.
Then, the very dread that riveted her to the spot brought her relief from
terror. The flashlight, glued in the girl's hand, retained its steady beam,
showing vacancy beyond the fence. Some curious reflection of the light, plus
Margo's own imagination, seemed wholly responsible for her hallucination.
     There was no one beyond the fence. Nothing but tree stumps to account for
the illusion of a looming, living shape. Margo remembered those tree stumps
from the afternoon; one was fairly near the fence, the others were spaced among
the trees through which the Beaverwood path continued.
     Catching her breath with a nervous laugh, Margo turned about and started
down the path, hoping to find Waycroft. She wanted to tell him about the clues
that she had found, though she would have preferred to contact The Shadow first
and acquaint him with the subject. In fact, Margo took courage from the prospect
of The Shadow's possible presence, believing that at any moment she might hear
an identifying whisper from her cloaked friend. The Shadow had a habit of
moving silently into a picture such as this.
     So did the figure that actually took up the trail. It came from beneath
the picket fence!
     There was nothing wrong with Margo's imagination. She had really seen a
crouching shape beyond that fence. What she hadn't noticed at long range was
the absence of the slab that belonged there; it was out of place, leaving a
gaping hole where it should have been. The figure that Margo momentarily
spotted had dropped into the space to escape her revealing flashlight.
     It was up again, that figure, but it was on Margo's side of the fence.
Moving with quick, crouched gait it was gaining on the girl. The silent pursuer
had a flashlight which he kept close to the ground and in the course of things,
his face came into the glow.
     The ugly, pock-marked face of Dortha, the stalwart who served the bidding
of Dr. Marsh!
     Reaching the soft ground where Margo had stopped, Dortha saw the
footprints and shuffled his feet across them, totally eradicating all traces.
When he saw Margo pause to take another glance at Hubert's hat, Dortha
extinguished his own light and crept rapidly forward; as the girl went on, he
scooped up the hat and rolled it into his pocket.
     Dortha was very close behind Margo when she gave her light a passing sweep
toward the gray glove lying in the path. He thrust his hand forward, almost to
Margo's foot, and snatched the glove as her light left it. This time, Dortha
was a trifle over-anxious. His foot struck a stone and rolled it Margo's way.
Startled, the girl turned about with her flashlight. The glow showed Dortha's
unsightly face rising at Margo's shoulder.
     Margo really screamed.


     THE whole woods echoed with that heartfelt shriek and the results were
immediate. A shout came back from Waycroft, down by the ledge, bringing
responses from the sheriff's men, who were scattered at large. Dortha didn't
lose an instant; with one great hand he clamped Margo's neck, while his other
fist, coming from the pocket where he had stowed the glove, brought a
cone-shaped object that he pressed to Margo's face.
     From that funnel which covered her mouth and nose, Margo inhaled a pungent
odor that reminded her of ether mixed with the strong scent of flowers. Clawing
wildly, she tried to knock the cone away, meanwhile inhaling its choking
contents. The flashlight, falling from her hand, struck between two stones and
wedged there with an upward tilt. Its glare, instead of aiding Margo, proved a
boon to Dortha.
     Into the glow loomed a cloaked figure that materialized from among the
trees in one swift, fantastic leap. Dortha saw the amazing rescuer whose eyes
burned a challenge that went with the aiming muzzle of an automatic. For all
Dortha knew, this fighter was the ghost of one who had vanished the night
before, but, whatever the case, Dortha wasn't taking chances.
     Turning Margo from a victim into a missile, Dortha literally swooped the
girl from her feet and flung her bodily at The Shadow to stop the cloaked
rescuer's drive!
     Rather than have Margo take a headlong pitch among the rocks, The Shadow
caught her with a backward pace that sent him stumbling into the bushes, so
great was the girl's momentum. Twisting full about, The Shadow eased Margo to
the ground and whirled to follow Dortha. By then, the big man was dashing along
the path, blinking his light ahead of him. When The Shadow fired, Dortha dodged
before the gun spoke. It wasn't that Dortha expected so quick a shot; he was
simply side-stepping, the soft ground where he had eradicated the prints of
Hubert's shoes.
     Other men were dashing up the path: Waycroft and a few of the deputies.
The Shadow retired into darkness to let them take up the chase, but they failed
to qualify. Dortha reached the hole beneath the fence before their lights were
fixed that far. Dipping there, he left the items that he had picked from the
path: Hubert's glove and hat. As he came up from the other side, Dortha waved
his arms and dived for the ground.
     There was a muffled explosion near the fence. A mound of earth quivered
and sank, side-slipping fashion, into the cavity beneath the fence, burying the
evidence of Hubert's trail. Not just the glove and hat were gone from sight, but
the cavity itself was obliterated. Neatly placed, the explosive charge sealed
the forgotten route beneath the fence.
     The dull reverberation jolted Margo back to her senses. Looking up, she
saw Cranston's face and felt his arm lifting her from the ground. Up ahead, men
were engaged in excited conversation with the sheriff's voice louder than the
rest, but Margo heard only Cranston's quiet tone, close to her ear.
     "What did you find?" was Cranston's query. "Anything that Dortha wanted?"
     "I... I don't remember," replied Margo. "It's all vague... so very vague,
Lamont. Something like ether, except it had the odor of flowers. Roses...
violets... there must have been lilies, the perfume was so heavy. But I can't
remember -"


     STEADYING Margo, Cranston helped her along the path. At the fence, they
found Waycroft and the sheriff looking through with flashlights. Three of
Marsh's servants had approached from the other side and their spokesman was
Cripp, the wiry chauffeur. With a sheepish grin on his sallow face, Cripp
gestured to the grim-mannered men beside him.
     "Just blasting a few stumps," explained Cripp. "The boss didn't want it
done in the daytime, while the patients were around. There goes another."
     Cripp gestured and waited. Dortha's guttural voice came from deep darkness
where the trees of Beaverwood cut off the glow of the rising moon. A second
later, there was another muffled explosion; with a burst of flame, the chunks
of a stump scattered in midair.
     Deciding that Beaverwood was completely fenced off from the outer world,
the sheriff turned away, gesturing for the others to follow. It was his opinion
that death's answer must lie elsewhere.
     Bidding good night to Waycroft, Cranston decided to drive into New York.
Soon, at the wheel of the roadster, he was pausing at the top of a neighboring
hill. With a glance at Margo, seated beside him, Cranston saw that she was
quite recuperated from her recent experience; whatever pallor her face retained
could be attributed to the moonlight.
     That glow showed something else.
     Off in the distance lay the beetle-like shape of Beaverwood, spread within
its restricted domain. Though the route beneath the picket fence was blocked,
Cranston still knew ways of reaching those preserves, as The Shadow. The
question was how effective future excursions would prove, when judged in terms
of the past.
     Whatever the origin of recent crime, those who dwelt in Beaverwood moved
fast upon its heels, for they had covered up all evidence with a minimum of
delay. Should that rule hold true, the place to watch for crime would be in
Beaverwood itself. So far, Cranston had depended on his other self, The Shadow,
to nullify schemes of death.
     It was time to reverse that rule. Judging from the wealth of Beaverwood's
present inmates, Lamont Cranston would be a welcome patient in that
institution, if furnished with credentials that satisfied Dr. Marsh. As he
gazed off in the moonlight, Cranston phrased a whispered laugh that to Margo's
startled ears was very much The Shadow's.
     Truly the bold plan could only have formulated within the brain of The
Shadow. No longer an outsider, The Shadow would soon be within the walls of
Beaverwood, the storm center of crime. Here he would renew his analysis of
murder, working from the inside out!


     CHAPTER XI

     IN New York, Lamont Cranston found pressing business that occupied him
longer than he expected. This business took him to the office of his investment
broker, Rutledge Mann. There were several such visits and they remained
confidential, because when Cranston arrived, Mann instructed his secretary not
to answer any telephone calls, or let anyone know that he was in his private
office.
     They formed a distinct contrast, Cranston and Mann. Calm-faced, keen of
eye, Cranston was far more impressive than Mann, whose round features gave him
a moon-faced air. But when it came to analyzing investments, the keen Mr.
Cranston had great faith in the ability of the slow-minded but methodical
broker. It was Mann's systematic mind that made him useful to The Shadow in
accumulating other information and Mann had certainly combined his talents in
the present instance.
     The investments under discussion were those owned by Kirk Brenshaw and his
demented cousin, Hubert. Along with them, Mann had gathered a complete history
of the Brenshaw family and its various tribulations.
     The two Brenshaws had come into a business owned by their grandfather. Of
the two, Kirk was by far the more conservative, the sort of man to harbor
resources. Contrarily, Hubert had preferred speculative ventures and their
variance on policy had threatened to split the Brenshaw fortune. Always
reasonable, Kirk had tried to prevent the breach until Hubert, getting out of
hand, had become so eccentric that he needed a physician's care.
     Mann's records, composed of newspaper clippings and various documents,
confidentially acquired, covered Hubert's case quite well. Incensed at his
cousin's attitude, Hubert had indulged in drunken brawls and shown himself so
generally irresponsible that he had been sent away for a rest cure. That was
when the persecution complex seized him; not only Kirk, but others, felt
themselves in danger. Hubert had been sent to one institution, transferred to
another, and finally, as a last resort, he was committed to the care of Dr.
Marsh.
     The Brenshaw case was a fair sample of several others. Such men as
Sharrock, Brighton and Abershaw all had relatives at Beaverwood and in every
instance large finances were involved. That went without saying because Dr.
Marsh charged high fees for his permanent patients; hence only wealthy people
could afford to send their unfortunate relatives to Beaverwood. That, in turn,
accounted for the difficulties that Marsh had with his patients.
     "It's always the same story," remarked Cranston, casually. "Once a man who
is used to wealth and luxury begins to lose his mind, he can never be contented
with the simple life. Put him away and he will talk about the fortune that he
once possessed, claiming that he was robbed of it."
     Mann gave a solemn nod. He was acquainted with several such cases among
his brokerage clients.
     "I've seen fortunes melt," declared Mann, "when men have let absurd ideas
control them. They come here trying to buy wildcat stocks, refusing to listen
to sound advice. Next, their families begin to beg me to stop them from
squandering their fortunes, but how can I prevent it?"
     "You can't," assured Cranston. "There's only one thing you can do, Mann.
That's tell them to go to a psychiatrist and have their heads examined."
     "But they would be insulted -"
     "Perhaps there are exceptions to that rule," interposed Cranston, with a
calm smile. "It might be interesting to put it to a test. Well, Mann, we've
covered all the necessary ground. I'll see you when I come back from my trip "
     As the door closed behind Cranston, Mann gave a perplexed stare. He hadn't
supposed that Cranston would be taking a vacation at this important time. Mann
never could quite figure out the purposes that Cranston had in mind.
     Those purposes could also puzzle Margo Lane. At present she was trying to
reconcile her own knowledge of events at Hilldale with the absurd theories that
the newspapers were furnishing the public. From all reports, there had been no
crime near Beaverwood.
     So well had Dortha covered up the first trail, that no one connected it
with Judd. Instead of publicizing the mystery of a vanished truck and driver,
the newspapers agreed that no truck had driven up to Beaverwood the night when
some practical joker claimed to have seen a detour sign on the valley road.
     As for Hapgood's death, it was attributed to the chance fall of rock from
the ledge. Someone had claimed that the blasting at Beaverwood could have
dislodged the rock, but that theory fell of its own weight, when the testimony
was checked to prove that Hapgood's death occurred before the blasting began.
     At present, Margo was preserving a sane mood by telling her versions of
the Hilldale episodes to a very willing listener. The man who listened was
Harry Vincent, most capable of The Shadow's agents, to whom Margo could talk
quite freely. He was a keen chap, Harry, with a reserve that made people
willing to confide in him.
     "A glove, a hat, and finally the footprints," tabulated Margo. "They added
up to Hubert, but the funny thing was I couldn't remember them until two hours
later, when Lamont was driving us back to New York. That gas Dortha gave me
knocked me silly."
     "What did Cranston say about the clues?" asked Harry.
     "Only that they didn't count," replied Margo. "That is, not legally.
Anybody could say they saw things lying around."
     "The stump act was a neat one," remarked Harry. "Odd, though, that Dortha
should be covering up for a killer like Hubert. I'd consider it more likely
that Dortha was the real murderer, trying to pin the job on somebody else."
     "I had the same idea," returned Margo, "but when I told it to Lamont, he
laughed. He said Dortha wouldn't have planted a lot of evidence and then
gathered it up. Lamont's answer is that Hubert could have slipped out and back
before anyone could stop him. Maybe Dortha didn't even know there'd been a
murder."
     "He knew there'd been one the night before," reminded Harry. "Still, the
thing makes sense. I begin to see what it's all about. Dortha was covering up
Marsh's negligence in letting chaps like Hubert loose."
     "To say nothing of letting Dortha loose!" exclaimed Margo. "It was weird,
the way he popped up from that path. I suppose I should have seen him coming
under the fence, the way he must have, but it was dark under those trees. They
were all thick evergreens and the moon hadn't risen high enough to shine
through."
     Harry nodded as though picturing the scene. He began to talk about the
mysterious gas that Dortha had given Margo in the ether cone. Evidently it was
some secret formula that Dr. Marsh had devised to subdue his more difficult
patients.
     "It fits with certain types of treatment for insanity," elucidated Harry.
"Anything that jars a person's memory is supposed to bring results. It puts
them back to scratch, so to speak, and gives them a different start when they
wake up. Something on the order of the insulin treatment, but from all I've
heard, Dr. Marsh is against such methods."
     Margo inquired why and Harry returned a prompt explanation, one that Margo
had already heard, though she did not connect it with the case in point.
     "Dr. Marsh says that all insanity cures are valueless," declared Harry. "I
heard the old boy lecture on that subject once. Despite all the scientific terms
he used, he made his point quite plain. Attempted cures merely increase the
mental disturbance, like a stimulant producing a depressed after-effect. That's
the way Marsh summed it up."
     "He must have experimented at least," remarked Margo. "Otherwise he
couldn't denounce cures the way he does. That would account for his having a
supply of the funny gas."
     Harry nodded.
     "A good deduction," he approved. "The chief will like that one. Don't
forget to tell him about it, Margo."


     FINDING Cranston to tell him anything was quite a problem in itself. Margo
hadn't seen him in the last twenty-four hours, nor did she have an idea where he
might be. As it happened, Cranston was at the office of his physician, Dr.
Rupert Sayre.
     "I need a vacation," Cranston was telling Sayre. "I ought to go some place
where I could have a complete rest. What would you say to Beaverwood?"
     It wasn't easy to startle Sayre, but that question did it. When his wits
came back, Sayre stared at Cranston for a full minute and then declared:
     "If I thought you meant it, Cranston, I'd say that you belonged there. No
one but an absolute lunatic would ever think of entering Beaverwood."
     "That's why I plan to go there," returned Cranston. "It strikes me that
Marsh's theories and methods should be checked by someone who is actually sane."
     Sayre shook his head significantly.
     "Preserving one's sanity might even be a problem," he declared. "If Marsh
ran an ordinary asylum, I think he would have come up for investigation long
ago. He has gone too far, expressing the opinion that all insanity is
incurable."
     "It has brought him business, Sayre."
     "Yes, he receives cases that have been classed as almost hopeless, which
is clever on his part. Should anyone begin to question Marsh's judgment
regarding his patients, he would refer all inquiries back to the institutions
where those patients came from."
     Cranston's eyes met Sayre's in a prolonged, penetrating gaze. Sayre knew
what those eyes meant, for he had met their gaze before. There were times when
Cranston assumed the commanding force of The Shadow, without changing to his
other character. Under such circumstances, his demands became law.
     Sayre owed much to The Shadow. His life had been saved by the cloaked
master, and the hypnotic power of The Shadow's eyes revived such recollections
in Sayre's mind. Any refusal on Sayre's part would be a matter only of
apprehension for Cranston's welfare and The Shadow's piercing gaze removed that
factor.
     "You will arrange for me to enter Beaverwood." The tone was The Shadow's
whisper. "I command it, Sayre, because it is imperative."
     Sayre's response was a nod. The burning gaze lessened until Sayre found
himself facing the mild glance of Cranston. Immediately Sayre began to make the
arrangements.
     "I can pronounce you insane," Sayre told Cranston, "but only if you give
me a signed statement regarding your purpose."
     "You have already declared it," smiled Cranston. "Dr. Marsh needs
investigation. I should like to undertake it."
     "That helps immensely," decided Sayre. "Other physicians will have to
agree with my findings in order to commit you. Fortunately I know several who
would welcome this opportunity to learn what goes on in Beaverwood. Still,
there are legal complications -"
     "I can arrange those," put in Cranston. "When I tell the police
commissioner that several reputable physicians have urged me to undertake this
venture, he will subscribe to the plan himself. That should certify it, Sayre."
     "I think it should."
     Sayre was nodding as he spoke. Other points were in his mind.
     "It is too easy to commit people to asylums," declared Sayre. "Insanity is
sometimes difficult to diagnose. Mere eccentricity or unwillingness to conform
to certain social conventions is apt to be mistaken for dementia."
     "And sometimes purposely mistaken?"
     "I am afraid so, Cranston," replied Sayre. "There are cases where persons
have been thrown deliberately into institutions to get them out of the way. Dr.
Marsh may be operating on a similar basis; that is, keeping patients after he
once gets them. In this case, he may be suspicious of you, Cranston."
     "What should I do?" queried Cranston, with a smile. "Develop some
imaginary mania?"
     "It might be advisable "
     There was a box on Sayre's desk that contained a mounted butterfly. A
blank expression growing on his face, Cranston let his hands crawl forward and
seize the box. Immediately his features showed a mad delight and an idiotic
laugh cackled from his lips.
     "Save that for Marsh!" exclaimed Sayre. "The act would fool me, Cranston,
if you continued it long enough. If the commissioner is doubtful that Marsh
will receive you, I'm sure you can convince him otherwise."
     From his desk drawer, Sayre began to assemble the necessary papers to
start Cranston on his trip to Beaverwood. The eyes that watched again took on
the burn that characterized The Shadow's gaze. More was at stake than even
Sayre imagined.
     The Shadow was on the trail of murder!


     CHAPTER XII

     DESPITE his much-expressed opinion that insanity was incurable, Dr. Uther
Marsh was quite willing to accept all types of patients at Beaverwood provided
they could pay their way. He classified some as "border-line cases" and
Cranston fell into this category, partly because he had not been an inmate of
another institution and partly because Sayre was sending him on a trial basis.
     It all amounted to this: Dr. Marsh had made it his business to prove that
every other expert was wrong. If insanity could be cured it was only because it
wasn't insanity in the first place. As master of his own little world, Marsh ran
everything on that principle and allowed no argument.
     What a little world it was!
     Spread like a starfish, the Beaverwood building contained long, gloomy
corridors, with lighting fixtures feeble and far between. Through a labyrinth
of passages, Cranston was conducted to a wing reserved for patients of his type
and every one of those passages looked alike. Doors with wicket windows were on
either side and the rule applied even to the office where Cranston was halted
for a brief interview with Dr. Marsh.
     The office itself seemed the product of a monomania. Behind a large desk
sat Dr. Marsh, backed by a dull mass of gloom, since his lights were purposely
turned to throw their full power on the patient's face. Against that
background, Marsh's face formed a gray outline, the effect created by his
grizzled beard. His eyes resembled deep sockets; his lips, a heavy pencil line
that never deviated. There were moments, however, when Marsh leaned forward far
enough for his eyes to reveal a glare and on those occasions his lips seemed to
magnify with livid effect.
     All about Marsh were other shapes that stood like silent ghosts. They were
special machines that Marsh used when examining or treating his patients as
Cranston was soon to learn. For the present, however, Cranston showed complete
disinterest in Marsh and his paraphernalia. What interested Cranston most was
the box that contained the beautiful butterfly, given him by Dr. Sayre. Only at
moments did Cranston look up; then only to cackle a happy laugh as though to
gain approval from an imaginary audience. Flanking Cranston were two husky men
who had brought him from New York, but he was ignoring them along with Dr.
Marsh.
     Cranston's conductors were giving Sayre's detailed report and Dr. Marsh
made notes while he listened. Occasionally he put sharp queries that were
promptly answered. Marsh learned for instance that Cranston's mental whirls
were intermittent, though each was worse than the one before. Recently, he had
shown a sudden improvement; hence Sayre had no longer kept him under close
observation. As a result, Sayre was unable to report where Cranston had been
during the past several days.
     It might have amazed Marsh to know that this new patient was a house guest
fresh from Gray Towers except for a brief stop in New York; that is, if Marsh
would have been amazed at anything. Instead, the bearded doctor seemed to take
Cranston's case as a matter of course. His findings were brief and succinct.
     "An observation case," defined Marsh. "You may tell Sayre that I shall
return his patient in thirty days."


     THERE were puzzled looks from the men who guarded Cranston. Leaning
forward into the light, Marsh revealed his face quite plainly as he warmed up
to a favorite theme.
     "Psychiatrists as a rule show poor judgment," asserted Marsh, "when they
refuse to accept what they term exploded theories. For instance, the very word
lunacy is derived from the Latin luna, which signifies the moon. The ancients
recognized that cases of recurrent phobia or mania were timed to the phases of
the moon, but today, in their great wisdom, modern physicians tend to reject
that idea.
     "This great wisdom of theirs!" There was a scoff to Marsh's tone. "What is
it but the accumulation of previous observation that has gone on for centuries?
Look over there!" Marsh gestured to a mammoth bookcase looming in the corner.
"Those volumes hold the records of thousands of unique cases that occurred
generations before our modern medical experts were born. Cases that may occur
but once in a thousand years! Yet these modern savants ignore them."
     There was a creaking sound as Dr. Marsh leaned back in his chair. The deep
gloom practically swallowed him, but his voice droned on. Perhaps he was
speaking for the benefit of Cranston, hoping that the new patient would show
some glimmer of interest or intelligence, but Cranston's attention was fully
focused on the butterfly, so far as Marsh could see.
     "Why do astronomers flock half around the world to witness an eclipse?"
queried Marsh. "Why do they look eagerly through their telescopes in hope of
sighting a comet? They know there are such things, so why should they bother?"
Coming forward with a creak, Marsh thrust his face into the light and banged
his fist upon the desk. "I shall tell you why! Because astronomers are true
scientists. They learn, they believe, yet they still have the urge to learn!
     "As for psychiatrists, as self-styled experts in mental ailments call
themselves, they have but three rules. To deny - to deny - and to deny. They
reject the fundamental basis of all insanity and thereby are able to concoct
dozens of theories which must of themselves be false since they have no
groundwork. Look! I shall prove what I say!"
     Going into a forward crouch, Marsh was half reclining on the desk, his
head tilted upward so that his half-closed eyes could take a slanted, bird-like
look at Cranston. For the first time the new patient was becoming restless and
beginning to lose interest in his butterfly. Having assumed a listening
attitude, Cranston appeared intent on something distant, when with an impatient
gesture he flung the box aside, letting it crash upon the floor and spill its
precious butterfly with a shower of breaking glass.
     "He hears," declared Marsh. "His ears are tuned. It will come in a moment,
loud enough to reach all of us."
     It came.
     From remote portions of the building voices rose in plaintive, melancholic
cries. Some broke into wild peals of mad laughter; others choked off with
unhappy sobs that were dreadful in their discord. Other shrieks were rising to
replace those that faltered and the crazed chorus gave the effect of breaking
waves that dwindled finally into a chilling stillness.
     Then Cranston, tilting his head, delivered a high, outlandish screech that
subsided into a horrible chuckle. Darting his head from left to right he threw
such vicious, suspicious glances that the two men beside him were quick to grip
his arms.


     "THE moon has risen," declared Marsh, blandly. "This always happens when
the moon is at the full. It began a few nights ago and it has about reached its
crest. Do not worry about our new patient" - Marsh gestured toward Cranston -
"because his spasm has passed and appears to be merely a sympathetic reaction.
But always, when the moon is full, I keep my patients tightly locked away at
night. My rule is to have all present and accounted for."
     Well did Cranston understand the emphasis behind the words of Dr. Marsh.
The master of Beaverwood was impressing the men from New York with the idea
that none of his patients - specifically such men as Hubert Brenshaw - could
have been at large on the last few nights. Even though the huskies who brought
Cranston here were unimportant individuals, they had at least been sent by
Commissioner Weston and would report back to him. Thus Marsh was establishing
something that might prove of later value.
     Clanging a little bell, Marsh summoned Dortha and two other attendants.
Compared with his companions, Dortha loomed like a colossus, yet the pair with
him were quite as husky as the two men from New York. Turning Cranston over to
Dortha, Marsh bowed his visitors from the office. At the door, he said:
     "I trust you will report my statements both to the commissioner and Dr.
Sayre. You may tell Sayre that I approve his diagnosis for the present; that
Cranston, unlike most of my patients, appears to be a borderline case. I am
keeping him for thirty days to watch his reactions between now and the next
full of the moon. Such intervals are the proper time for study, to learn if a
patient is merely subject to what I term pseudo-mania, or false insanity. If
the term is new to Sayre, it will be because he does not know that such a
status exists. You may tell him so for me."
     Cranston caught those words as he was going around a corner of a corridor,
off on his long walk through the labyrinth. The wings of Beaverwood had
apparently been built at different times, for the floors were on different
levels, which meant many short flights of stairs. The average person would soon
have lost track of his direction and that applied particularly to any of Marsh's
patients, even a pseudo-maniac of the type that Cranston might prove to be. But
all the turns, all the ups and downs, were carefully recorded in Cranston's
presumably demented mind.
     In the course of things, Cranston soon recognized that Dortha and the
other attendants were giving him the walk-around, trying literally to have him
lose himself by taking him through the same corridors and back over stairways
along the route. When they finally introduced him to the upstairs cell that was
to be his room, Cranston knew that he was in wing next to Marsh's office but on
the other side of it.
     Cranston's bags were in the room, including a brief case that was filled
with papers bearing scribbles. Among the latter were some hand-drawn pictures
of butterflies, nicely finished in water-color tints. They represented the one
subject on which Cranston could concentrate in sane fashion, so Sayre had
insisted upon sending them along with the peculiarly scrawled papers that might
help Marsh in psychoanalyzing this patient. Apparently Dortha had already
searched through Cranston's belongings, for he simply pointed the patient to a
bed; then stepped to the hallway where the other attendants waited, and closed
the door, locking it from the outside.


     SEATED on the bed, Cranston twiddled his thumbs and chuckled. His keen
sense of hearing, already observed by Dr. Marsh, was thoroughly alert. Cranston
was waiting for Dortha to leave, and when he detected guarded footsteps going
away along the corridor, he knew that his moment had come. Reaching for the
brief case, Cranston displayed a trick that Dortha had not guessed.
     The brief case had two compartments with a division between. The scribbled
papers were in one side, the butterfly drawings in the other, and the middle
wall appeared to be vertical. Actually, the effect was an optical illusion, for
that division was shaped like an inverted V, tapering outward imperceptibly
toward the bottom of the brief case.
     Turning the brief case over, Cranston twisted a metal rivet; then, with a
long stroke, zipped the bottom open. Between the arms of the V was another
section from which Cranston removed flat-packed garments, consisting of black
cloak, slouch hat, and gloves. These were the accouterments of The Shadow,
lacking only his famous automatics, which would have given the game away by
their weight.
     However, there were other articles that could prove equally useful. One
was a fine, thin-bladed saw, very light in weight. Another was a compact box
which contained some small tubes of paste, two fountain pens, a tiny
flashlight, and a few other small items. Placing the box in his coat pocket,
Cranston slid into his cloak and hat, slipped on the gloves, and picked up the
special saw. In this room, illuminated only by the glow of moonlight, Cranston
became The Shadow, and therewith was invisible in the gloom.
     A whispered laugh announced that Marsh's new patient had approached the
window. It was a sane laugh, that tone of The Shadow's, though it carried a
more chilling note than all the wild merriment that had recently broken loose
through Beaverwood. The reason for The Shadow's whispered satisfaction was
visible outside the window. There, despite the ruddy moonlight that was out
lining the sprawled building, large patches of brown and black awaited along
the walls, up by the eaves, and even where great trees over-shaded the roof, or
gables blocked off the vermilion glow.
     Shadows of night were awaiting their master, The Shadow, on his coming
foray through the preserves of Dr. Marsh!


     CHAPTER XIII

     THE little saw was cutting steadily, noiselessly, with a smooth but
powerful bite. It was chopping into the framework of the bars that blocked the
window of The Shadow's third floor cell. The bars themselves would have been
swifter, easier to attack, but the Shadow, thinking in terms of a long stay at
Beaverwood, preferred a method that would leave less evidence.
     Having partly cut the frame at all four corners, The Shadow moved back to
the cot and turned his attention to one of its iron leg posts. Here the saw had
very little work to do; it was merely a case of cleaving two iron rivets to
release the post. Once he had detached the post, The Shadow used it as a lever
to pry the window bars. The corners of the framework yielded and the top and
bottom segments came away, bars and all. Setting it aside like a grating, The
Shadow took the post back to the cot and jammed it into place.
     On this excursion, The Shadow lacked the famous suction cups that he often
used to scale sheer walls. He had seen enough of Beaverwood to know that its
stone and wood construction would allow sufficient grips and toeholds to
navigate without the use of special appliances. Swinging from the window, The
Shadow took a grip on the eaves above and worked his hand up to a gutter. Next
he swung outward, dangling over sheer space, only to end with a wide pendulum
swing that carried one foot up to the eaves.
     From there The Shadow worked along to the shelter of a gable; completely
obscured from the moonlight, he crawled invisibly upward and reached the roof
ridge at a spot where an intervening tree still blocked the light. There The
Shadow paused to study the landscape which was rapidly acquiring a silvery
sheen, now that the moon was higher above the horizon.
     Repressed yet powerful in murmur, the sound of Indian Falls reached The
Shadow's ears. Trees cut off a view of the river with its lower gorge, but Gray
Towers was plainly visible. Apparently Waycroft had no house guests this evening
for there was only one light visible, in a room that represented Waycroft's
study. That fitted with what The Shadow had learned in New York during his last
checkup with Mann. Kirk Brenshaw and other of Waycroft's guests were all back in
town.
     Working down the other side of the roof, The Shadow found an inner corner
where two wings joined and used it as an easy route to the ground. This
deep-set portion of the building was particularly advantageous as it lay
sheltered completely from the moonlight. Once on the ground it was easy to spot
Marsh's office, for though the bearded doctor used bars on the office door, the
window lacked them. Keeping to the shelter of the wings, The Shadow reached the
window, worked it open, and entered.


     HARDLY had The Shadow arrived before a key turned in the door. Twisting to
a corner, The Shadow found a perfect hiding place behind some of the bulky
apparatus. When Marsh entered and turned on the light, The Shadow was visible
only as a motionless mass of blackness which appeared to be part of the usual
background. He had been quick enough to close the window, hence Marsh hadn't an
idea that he was receiving a secret visit from his latest patient.
     With Marsh were two other men. One was Dortha, who constantly shared the
doctor's full confidence. The other was Cripp, the sallow chauffeur, who was
ordinarily the only man who left the Beaverwood grounds. Closing the door,
Marsh locked it and gestured the chosen pair to the desk. There, he rearranged
the light for a conference which showed all faces plainly.
     "Everything is quiet tonight," expressed Marsh, tersely. "The question is
how long it will remain so."
     "It all depends on when those guys come back to see Waycroft," put in
Cripp. "It's them being there that starts those nuts upstairs acting the way
they do."
     Cripp, of course, was referring to such men as Kirk Brenshaw. As "nuts" he
was cataloging patients like Hubert Brenshaw and others whose relatives visited
Waycroft. Dr. Marsh nodded reluctantly as though he only partly accepted
Cripp's idea.
     "If any of my patients have been at large," declared Marsh, firmly, "it
has occurred without my knowledge. The same applies to both of you. Am I
correct?"
     Dortha's big head responded with a nod. Cripp added his corroboration in a
quick tone, saying: "Sure thing, doc." Glancing from one to the other, Marsh
decided that their stories would stand. Then:
     "We have a traitor among us," affirmed Marsh, solemnly. "Someone who for
reason of his own is trying to instigate trouble in this sanitarium. Since we
have a staff of half a dozen men, it is difficult to pick the culprit."
     "You mean somebody is letting the nuts loose?" queried Cripp, shrewdly.
"What would be the game, doc?"
     "I don't know," replied Marsh, slowly, "but I am not at all sure that the
inmates have been released. It would be possible, you know, for the culprit to
be committing the crimes himself and blaming it on the patients."
     Cripp gave a shrug as though he considered the theory too farfetched. But
Dortha, speaking for the first time, showed complete agreement with Marsh. In a
heavy tone that matched his brutal-looking face, Dortha suggested:
     "If you get rid of all of them, doctor, you will have no more trouble.
Cripp and I will stay here, because we are the ones that you can trust. And
then -"
     "It won't do, Dortha," interrupted Marsh. "Whoever the traitor, he may
know more than is good for himself - or for us. Nor would it do to cut our
staff at a time when people claim we are not keeping our patients under proper
restraint. No, we can not afford to dismiss a single attendant. Rather, we must
watch them."
     "No chance, doc," argued Cripp. "I'm in and out too often and whoever is
pulling something knows enough to keep out of Dortha's sight. So how can you
watch anybody?"


     FOR answer, Marsh reached into his desk and brought out a sheet of paper
that he passed to the other men.
     "I am running this blind ad in tomorrow's newspaper," said Marsh,
"offering an excellent position to a reliable young man who can furnish certain
qualifications" - pausing Marsh dipped his hand into a drawer and produced a
bundle of printed folders - "as specified in this questionnaire. From the
replies I shall choose the man most suitable and bring him here as soon as
convenient.
     "From then on, he can serve as our counterspy, checking on any of our
number who may be plotting against us. I know that I can trust you two" - Marsh
looked again from Dortha to Cripp - "but I am not certain of the rest. Of
course" - here Marsh inserted a dry chuckle - "none of our men could possibly
suppose that I would take a newcomer into my confidence. Therefore our new
helper, whoever he may be, should prove just the man to gain the information
that we want. Well" - Marsh leaned back and spread his hands - "what do you
think of my plan?"
     Dortha approved it, of course. Anything that Marsh said or did appeared to
go with Dortha, who stood dumbly by with the expression of a stolid ox. It was
Cripp who wanted to know more details of Marsh's coming campaign. Cripp began
by plucking a printed folder from its stack.
     "What's extra special about this questionnaire?" asked Cripp. "It just has
a lot of the usual questions."
     "But I shall expect unusual answers," returned Marsh with a wise smile.
"Here in this drawer I have a key list made out the way I would prefer it. Only
an unusual applicant will send back a list that tallies. But that is my own
concern. Have you any other criticisms, Cripp?"
     "You could save yourself some time and trouble," said Cripp, "if you went
to a private detective agency and hired an operative. I could do it for you,
doc -"
     Marsh raised his hands to interrupt the chauffeur.
     "I rejected that alternative," declared Marsh. "To begin with, private
detectives are easily identified as such. Again, they are notoriously
unreliable or willing to sell out to a higher bidder. Finally, their testimony
is often banned from court."
     "From court?" echoed Cripp.
     "Certainly," nodded Marsh. "Should any more incidents occur in this
vicinity, the sheriff will almost certainly blame us for them. In that case I
shall have to prove myself innocent, perhaps through the testimony of the new
man we hire. That is why I prefer to select him in my own way."
     Rising, Dr. Marsh went to the door and unlocked it. Pausing there, he
added a few admonitions.
     "Not a word of this to anyone," warned Marsh. "Remember, we have been
lucky - perhaps too lucky so far. The death of the truck driver was not
connected with these premises, while that of the deputy was charged off as an
accident. We owe you thanks, Dortha, for the quick wit that you showed on both
occasions."
     The smile that spread on Dortha's face was quite as ugly as his
countenance, but it proved definitely that his dumb pose was largely sham.
Dortha was smart enough to look dumb when it counted, a fact that The Shadow
had already recognized. "As for you, Cripp," continued Marsh, "I want you to
get the car ready and drive down to the station to mail my letters. The bundle
of questionnaires must be sent to New York on the last train in order to be
sent from there tomorrow."
     "You'll still be wasting time," objected Cripp. "Maybe by the time you get
the man you want there'll be another murder on our doorstep."
     "There is no immediate danger," declared Marsh. "I doubt that Waycroft
will be receiving guests until the weekend. We may look for trouble then, even
though the moon will be past the full."


     MARSH opened the door and went out with the others, though he left the
door ajar, indicating that he would soon return. Promptly The Shadow
materialized from darkness; far from being handicapped by the light in the
office, he took advantage of it. The Shadow's first move was a reach into the
desk drawer to find the questionnaire that bore Marsh's own answers. Unfolding
it, The Shadow indulged in a whispered laugh.
     Drawing a pen from his pocket he copied Marsh's answers on a blank
questionnaire and promptly folded the sheet. Putting this paper in an envelope,
The Shadow sealed it and looked at Marsh's mail. Among the letters was one
addressed to a fire insurance company, probably relating to a policy on the
Beaverwood building. In a style that closely resembled Marsh's own handwriting,
The Shadow inscribed that address on the envelope containing the questionnaire
and placed the other envelope beneath his coat.
     The fountain pen went along and in its stead The Shadow produced the other
that he carried. Next he did a very curious thing. Between the lines that he had
just inscribed, The Shadow wrote something else, but his pen appeared to be dry,
because it did not make a mark. That fault was too late to correct, for The
Shadow heard Marsh returning. Putting the envelope in the stack, The Shadow
glided quickly to the window, where the moonlight was briefly obscured by his
cloaked form.
     Blackness was fading when Dr. Marsh entered the office a few moments
later; likewise the window was closing noiselessly with The Shadow on the far
side. Marsh did not notice the double phenomenon; he had come to pick up his
mail. What he did do was check through the letters before handing them to
Cripp, who was waiting at the office door. The letters looked all right to Dr.
Marsh.
     It wasn't until Cripp put those letters on the night local that the
transformation really began. Then, the address that The Shadow had copied began
to fade, while the address that hadn't registered began to show itself. The
answer was very simple: with one pen, The Shadow had used a disappearing ink;
with the other, a fluid that became visible a short while after its
application. The address that appeared was that of Harry Vincent, in New York.
     Complete silence lay over Beaverwood when Cripp returned from his trip to
the station. Tonight the silence included the whole countryside, peaceful
beneath the moonlight. As Cripp was putting the car away, the tiny light was
extinguished in Waycroft's study, over at Gray Towers; then other lights,
turning on and off singly, marked Waycroft's path to an upstairs room, where
the last light shortly disappeared.
     Anything resembling murder seemed far removed from the placid area of
Hilldale. How long that lull would last was a problem even for The Shadow, now
a resident in Beaverwood, the place which rated as the storm center of unsolved
crime!


     CHAPTER XIV

     THE letter that Harry Vincent received was self-explanatory; that is, if
it could be called a letter at all. It was simply Marsh's questionnaire with a
few notations in the corner relative to answering the blind advertisement. This
was all that The Shadow had gained time to write before Marsh returned to the
office.
     From the moment that he began to read the questionnaire, Harry was busy
jotting the answers in pencil. The reason was that The Shadow had used his
disappearing ink, which acted soon after the air struck it. This was in case
someone opened it instead of Harry; needless to say, The Shadow's own notations
were in a code that he and his agent read at sight. So the result was that Harry
had the question sheet and its answers, but to use them, he had to answer the
newspaper advertisement.
     Finding the ad, Harry learned that applicants were to send their names to
a certain office in order to receive an application blank for a highly
desirable, and lucrative, job somewhere outside of New York, exact location
unstated. Harry recognized the address as that of a bureau which specialized in
handling mail for clients who preferred to remain anonymous. So he mailed a
request for an application blank and awaited its arrival.
     It came the next morning, a duplicate of the one sent by The Shadow. Harry
filled in the answers precisely as his chief had ordered, realizing that the
process would probably give him top rating for the job. For it was almost
inconceivable that the average applicant would come anywhere near fulfilling
the quirks demanded by the anonymous author of the questionnaire.
     For example, the sheet wanted to know if the applicant regarded himself as
honest. Any ordinary applicant would have answered "yes," but the correct reply
was "no." Another sticker was the question, did the applicant have strong
objections to taking a job without knowing what it was. Naturally, the logical
reply was "no" because the sending of the application seemed to nullify any
objection. But the answer wanted was "yes" so that was what Harry stated.
     These were but samples of a dozen other queries that Dr. Marsh had framed
as catch questions, all the sort that seemed very obvious. Of course, someone
might have answered them all wrong, just to be different, but Marsh had
provided for that eventuality. The majority of the questions, which totaled
about fifty, were supposed to be answered in conventional fashion, except for a
few that really allowed the applicant a personal choice.
     Rather than delay the application, Harry sent it to the office by
messenger and stayed at his hotel to await results. Because of the information
supplied by The Shadow, Harry anticipated those results by night fall.


     LATE that afternoon, events began to shape up. A bundle of letters arrived
at Beaverwood and were delivered to Dr. Marsh in his office. As he began to go
through the batch, Marsh gave a shrug of disappointment which pleased neither
Dortha nor Cripp, who were standing by. The bundle of letters was none too
large, which indicated that Marsh would not find the right applicant among them.
     "You'd better pick somebody fast, doc," advised Cripp. "It's getting close
to the weekend, when the nuts begin to act up."
     "You forget yourself, Cripp," said Marsh, coldly. "My incurable patients
are influenced by the phases of the moon. They do not act in terms of weeks."
     "They know when guests are coming out to Waycroft's," argued Cripp, "and
they know who those guests are likely to be. It's no use to dodge the fact that
Hubert Brenshaw has got it in for his cousin, Kirk. Ask Dortha if you don't
believe me. Kirk Brenshaw is only one sample."
     Marsh looked at Dortha, who gave a slow nod. It was no use keeping facts
from Cripp, the only other reliable man in Marsh's employ. Noting Dortha's
reaction, Cripp pressed home another point.
     "I've been listening to the trained seals," said the chauffeur, referring
to the attendants who worked for Marsh. "They say things around me that they
won't around Dortha. The hinges were off Hubert's door the other night and the
bars are loose in some of the other rooms."
     Marsh threw a sharp, reproving look at Dortha, whose ugly face actually
betrayed blank surprise.
     "They wouldn't report it, of course," added Cripp. "They figured you'd be
sore, doc. So they fixed things tight again, but that won't help. If the
sheriff ever puts the quiz on these trained seals of yours, they'll blab. It
was smart of Dortha, closing those trails, so smart that they're no good as
evidence, but if too many people told all they know, you'd be in a real jam."
     Instead of replying, Marsh turned his full attention to the applications
as though eager to choose a new helper even if the man did not fully qualify.
He was almost through the batch when he came suddenly to his feet, his face
triumphant.
     "We've found him!" exclaimed Marsh. "The very man we need. He qualifies
beyond my expectations. We must have him come here this evening and start work
at once. I wish I could see him, though, before I summon him." Pausing, Marsh
knotted his forehead in a deep furrow; then, glancing at the clock, he came to
a decision. "I have it!" Marsh added. "There is still time to catch the
afternoon train. Get the car ready, Cripp. I want you to take Dortha to the
station."
     As soon as Cripp had gone, Marsh gave explicit instructions to Dortha;
then, finding there was still some time to spare, Marsh summoned the other
attendants. Instead of questioning them, Marsh delivered a brief but pointed
speech.
     "Odd things have happened here lately," declared Marsh when the group sat
assembled. "Of course, you understand they were not of my making; in fact, they
were nothing more than accidents that might be misconstrued by the wrong
parties. For example, one night there was trouble at the gates, or at least we
thought there was trouble, but it proved to be imaginary. Am I correct?"


     OF the stolid faces that faced Marsh, not one showed the slightest change.
All trained by Marsh himself, these attendants were accustomed to agreeing with
the eccentric doctor. Closely though he scrutinized them, canny though his own
mind was, Marsh failed to note a single man who differed sufficiently from the
rest to be regarded as a traitor in the tribe.
     "The night we were blasting stumps," continued Marsh, "you had orders to
watch for any prowlers, who might turn out to be some of our patients on the
loose. You saw none, because all of our patients were securely locked in their
rooms for the night. I am sure you will all testify to that fact."
     The attendants were also sure they would so testify. Every man gave Marsh
a solemn nod, Dortha style. That pattern of opinion proved annoying to the
doctor, considering the rumors that he had heard from Cripp. Pounding the desk,
Marsh demanded:
     "Have any of you found anything wrong with the doors or windows of the
rooms where we keep the patients? Anything that would prove negligence on the
part of anyone?"
     This time, the attendants exchanged glances that produced head-shakes. In
a way, the response satisfied Marsh, for it indicated that these retainers were
loyal, but at the same time it showed that some might have their doubts. To
clinch the situation, Marsh added that he had sent Dortha to inspect the rooms
in question and that the chief attendant had found nothing amiss.
     "There is only one room still to be examined," declared Marsh. "I refer to
the room where we placed our new patient, Cranston. Of course, he arrived here
after the nights I mentioned and is still to be regarded as a temporary patient
under observation. Nevertheless, to set your minds at ease, I shall have Dortha
show you how thoroughly he inspected the other rooms by doing the same with
Cranston's.


     FIVE minutes later, Lamont Cranston lifted his head from the cot where he
was taking an afternoon nap and responded to the brisk raps at the door. He
recognized those raps as coming from Dr. Marsh, so he gave the word to enter.
Accustomed as he was to meeting surprises, Cranston managed to cover the one he
received when the door opened and Marsh introduced the complete personnel of
attendants with the sole exception of Cripp, who did not rate as a full-time
attendant anyway.
     The group crowded into the room in trained-seal fashion and from the
stupid way they stood around, Cranston assumed that this was nothing more than
a formal introduction by Dr. Marsh. Supplying a vague smile, Cranston stared
happily from one stolid face to another as though welcoming the surprise visit.
The only man he ignored was Dortha, whom he took more or less for granted.
     Dortha was too much to take for granted. The big man was really the center
of the show and to prove it, he stepped to the window, clamped his hands on the
bars, and gave a powerful wrench to show how much strain they would stand. A
moment too late, Cranston sprang about with a wild, spasmodic laugh, hoping to
divert Dortha's attention. By then, the damage was done.
     Under the force of his own wrench, Dortha reeled backward, bringing the
window bars with him, the two portions of the frame included. Neatly though The
Shadow had wedged that sawed frame in place, it couldn't stand the power of
Dortha's twist. Coming half around, Dortha encountered Cranston, and thinking
that the patient's lunge was meant for an attack, the big attendant slashed the
heavy combination of bars and metal frame at Cranston's head.
     Perhaps Dortha expected Cranston to duck, but he didn't. The cot was in
his path, too close for him to escape Dortha's swing, for the heavy window bars
gained an added momentum from their own weight. What Cranston did was grab the
bars and dispute their possession with a hard yank that carried Dortha off
balance. Spilling to the cot, Dortha flattened with it, for the force of his
landing knocked loose the leg post that Cranston had so carefully jammed back
into place. The clatter of the metal post gave an immediate clue to the fact
that Cranston had used it as a lever to pry the bars loose. This added evidence
of Cranston's strength was too much for Marsh's trained seals.
     With a combined lunge, they overwhelmed Cranston, the whole six of them.
Partly to ward off their drive, partly to alibi the matter of the bars by
adhering to his character of a violent mental case, Cranston put up a hard
struggle that sent the attendants skidding right and left. The man who came to
their aid was Dortha, up from the broken-down cot. Taking Cranston from behind,
Dortha flung him forward to the floor and the rest of the crew piled on.
     There was one way to deal with so troublesome a patient and Dr. Marsh
called for it. While he still struggled against the overwhelming odds, Cranston
found himself entangled with a strait jacket, brought by Cripp at Marsh's loudly
shouted order. The attendants strapped the jacket so tightly that Cranston could
not budge a muscle when he fought against it. All he could do was roll around
the floor, batting against the legs of his captors, until he found that he
could use his legs to propel himself like an inch-worm.
     Red in the face gargling madly, Cranston started the act that was common
where violent insanity was concerned. He drove himself toward the wall,
intending, to bash his head there. Attendants kept stopping him and turning him
away from his foolish goal, but Cranston persisted in his frenzied purpose. At
last Dr. Marsh took a hand.
     Since Dortha was leaving for the station with Cripp, Marsh assigned others
to pick up Cranston, strait jacket included, and dump him in a padded cell where
he could continue his wild efforts until exhausted. That done, Marsh personally
locked the door of the cell with a special key and walked away with a knowing
smile.
     Did Dr. Marsh know that by confining Cranston in strait jacket and padded
cell, he had automatically produced The Shadow's exit from the local scene?
     Only time would tell - and shortly!


     CHAPTER XV

     IN his room at the Hotel Metrolite, Harry Vincent was still awaiting word
from the application that he had filled and sent along its way. It was very
nearly dark and Harry had confidently expected an answer before nightfall; an
answer at least from The Shadow, who had engineered this affair.
     It didn't occur to Harry that his chief might have met with serious
complications; to picture The Shadow - even as Cranston - helpless in a strait
jacket on the floor of a padded cell, was something rather beyond Harry's
imagination. Not that The Shadow had never encountered such dilemmas; his
experiences actually included situations that were even worse. But in this
particular case, Harry assumed that The Shadow had matters well in hand.
     All of which proved that Harry Vincent was so far ignorant of the crafty
devices sponsored by Dr. Uther Marsh. Though he did not suspect it, Harry was
soon to be educated on that subject.
     It began with the ringing of the telephone bell.
     Answering the call, Harry recognized that it was from out of town, though
its exact source was not specified. A brisk voice spoke, addressing Harry as
Mr. Vincent. The voice announced that his application was acceptable. Then:
     "There is one provision, Mr. Vincent," the voice added. "Before I tell you
my name or where you are to come, you must agree to keep both matters strictly
confidential. Is that understood?"
     "Absolutely," replied Harry. "Go right ahead."
     "My name is Dr. Uther Marsh," declared the speaker. "I am calling from the
town of Hilldale where I own and operate a sanitarium called Beaverwood. Your
duties will be those of a confidential secretary. Do you understand?"
     "I understand."
     "Very well," Marsh concluded in a decisive tone. "You will take the next
train to Hilldale and wait at the station until my car arrives. This order is
final, unless you hear from me to the contrary. But remember, you are to tell
no one where you are going and when. To even attempt to do so would be very
unwise, as I shall explain when I meet you. Is that clear?"
     "Quite clear."
     "And you agree?"
     "I agree."
     The call ended abruptly. Since Marsh had not stated when the next train
left. Harry phoned Grand Central Station and found out for himself. The train
did not go for nearly an hour, which allowed Harry ample time to pack. He made
a notation of the train time, folded the paper and laid it along with a few
items from his pockets that he intended to pick up later. But all the while he
packed, Harry was remembering a very special duty; that of informing other of
The Shadow's agents where he was about to go.
     Promises such as the one he had made to Dr. Marsh could be forgone where
The Shadow's business was concerned. After all, Harry's whereabouts would
remain strictly confidential as Marsh wanted. The only question in Harry's mind
was whether to call Mann or Burbank. Both served as contact men for The Shadow,
but Mann kept office hours, whereas Burbank handled the night shift. Since Mann
might still be at his office, Harry decided to call there first.
     It proved an unwise choice.
     All the while that Harry had been packing, he had failed to notice a
connecting door that led into the next room. That door was slightly ajar,
though it should not have been. Even when he stepped to the telephone, Harry
did not observe the door, because his back was toward it. When Harry started to
phone Mann, the door opened a trifle farther.
     Mann's office answered, but the voice was that of the broker's secretary,
stating that Mr. Mann had stepped out but expected to return. She said she
would have him call back, so Harry replied:
     "Very well. Tell him that -"
     The call ended right there. A big fist clamped itself so suddenly on
Harry's throat that he couldn't gurgle. Another hand plucked the telephone from
his grasp and clamped it on the stand, cutting off all contact with the outside
world. Snatching at the fist that choked him, Harry wrenched it away, only to
have the other hand come swooping over his shoulder.


     FROM then on it was a fierce but short-lived struggle. Trained in trick
jujitsu holds, Harry used every possible device to shake off his powerful
attacker, but none sufficed. Harry did manage to wheel his antagonist around
until they faced a mirror, where the man's reflection loomed like something
from a nightmare. Over his own excited face, Harry saw an ugly, pock-marked
visage, quite as formidable as the hands that insisted upon choking off Harry's
breath. Sight of such a foe rallied Harry and he gave a long, forward pitch that
carried the bulky man with him, but that surge for freedom led to Harry's own
undoing.
     As he landed on his knees, Harry instinctively shoved one hand forward to
break his fall. That, in turn, enabled his enemy to relax one hand. From his
pocket the big man snatched a cone-shaped object that he brought around and
clamped on Harry's face. At the same moment the man relaxed his throat grip so
that Harry could take a long, much needed breath.
     To the odor of ether, mingled with the strong scent of flowers, Harry
lapsed into a senseless condition. As he rolled to the floor, the cone followed
him in the expert clutch of Dortha, who kept the object on Harry's face long
enough to count to ten. Then Dortha arose, pocketed the cone and lifted Harry
bodily.
     From the way Dortha carried his senseless adversary to the window, it
appeared that he intended to pitch Harry to the street as punishment for trying
to ignore the orders of Dr. Marsh. Dortha's plan, however, was less violent and
more subtle. He poked Harry's face into the outside air, let the helpless man
inhale enough clear atmosphere to partially revive him. Then, taking Harry's
arm, Dortha guided him from the room.
     It was a most curious parade. Under the influence of the peculiarly
impregnated ether, Harry became a human automaton. He walked mechanically,
staring straight ahead, but his gait was firm. As they reached the elevator,
Dortha spoke close to Harry's ear, repeating the same instructions given by Dr.
Marsh, but including the fact that Harry had learned for himself; namely, when
the next train left for Hilldale. Pressing the elevator button, Dortha strode
to a stairway and descended, carrying Harry's suitcase.
     Through his daze, Harry remembered what to do. He entered the elevator
when it arrived and rode down to the lobby. Everything was blurred and misty,
but his step was steady and his purpose set. Marching straight out to the
street, Harry told the doorman that he wanted a cab. One was available, so he
stepped into it. There, for the first time, Harry missed his footing because he
couldn't see the cab step through the blur. The doorman caught him, slid him to
the seat, where Harry muttered the words: "Grand Central."


     THERE was a witness to this procedure, a person close enough to see it
plainly, yet unable to reach the cab before it pulled away. That person was
Margo Lane, who was parking her car in front of the Hotel Metrolite. Too far
parked to swing out and follow the cab, Margo alighted from her roadster and
asked the doorman where Harry had gone. Unfortunately the doorman hadn't heard
Harry's mutter, so he suggested that Margo go in the hotel and inquire at the
desk.
     Following that advice, Margo found that Harry hadn't even stopped at the
desk. Going to a phone booth, Margo called Mann's office and learned that he
was still out, but that someone had called him a short while before, only to be
cut off. Quite certain that something was really wrong, Margo took an elevator
to Harry's floor. There she found his door open; entering, she recognized
immediately that there had been a struggle. The bureau was out of place because
Harry had gripped it while viewing Dortha's face in the mirror. Chairs had been
shoved to corners and the open window was something of a clue, considering that
the air was too chilly to require it. The connecting door, wide open, spoke of
an invasion from the adjoining room, but there was a final clue that meant more
to Margo than all the rest.
     Throughout the room, despite the airing it had received. there still
persisted the faint aroma of flowers, tinged with an odor that Margo recognized
as ether!
     Another person might not have detected that combination, but Margo's own
experience with the subtle anesthetic was recent enough to jog her memory, if
indeed she could have forgotten the overwhelming effects of her last meeting
with Dortha. Definitely sensitive to the sickening fragrance, Margo could well
appreciate Harry's present condition, though she wondered why Dortha had
finally released him. While in that quandary, Margo saw the slip of paper that
Harry had folded. Opening it, she read the notation of the train time.
     Picking up the phone, Margo called Grand Central and asked about the next
train to Hilldale. Its departure tallied with the time on Harry's slip. The
train was due to leave within five minutes hence there wasn't any chance of
reaching the terminal before it started. There was just one chance, as Margo
saw it; that was to get to Hilldale ahead of the local. She believed she could
make it in her car, considering the train's slow schedule.
     As she hurried down to the street, Margo Lane was impressed with something
else. She was gaining the answer to another riddle that bothered her quite
badly; in fact, it was the reason why she had come to the Hotel Metrolite to
talk to Harry Vincent. For the past two days, Margo hadn't heard a word from
Lamont Cranston. Even Commissioner Weston hadn't seen his friend, while both
Rutledge Mann and Dr. Sayre had avoided the subject whenever Margo called them.
Something curious was afoot, something that everyone seemed anxious to hide, and
Margo had begun to believe that Lamont's best friends had allowed themselves to
be duped into aiding a plot against him.
     This trail to Hilldale answered the burning question. First Lamont
Cranston, now Harry Vincent, had fallen into the power of Dr. Marsh; of that,
Margo was certain. It was all so logical: Cranston sending word to Harry, the
man he trusted most, only to have the call for assistance go astray and Harry
with it. To argue this with Weston would be useless and Margo felt that the
same applied to Mann and Sayre.
     As she started her car away from the hotel, Margo remembered that Cranston
had other friends who certainly would listen. Though they were not friends of
long standing, they at least were linked in the common cause. Margo Lane was
thinking in terms of Gordon Waycroft and his week-end guests: Kirk Brenshaw and
the others who suspected the evil work of Dr. Marsh, even though they could not
prove it.
     There was no longer any doubt in Margo's mind. Dr. Marsh rated as worse
than a man of negligence who let insane patients slip his toils to seek
imaginary vengeance on relatives and friends who were actually concerned about
their welfare. Marsh was a fiend in his own right, who deliberately let those
killers loose and then covered their trails of crime. There was no other
answer, though Marsh, of course, would deny it. The thing to do was learn the
reason for Marsh's deep-dyed game and thereby ruin it. To overtake Harry was
the first step; the next would be to contact Waycroft and arrange Cranston's
rescue.
     Perhaps Lamont was already past rescue. Margo fought off that fear by
thinking in terms of Harry as she wheeled her car through heavy traffic toward
the express highway that would take her to the open country. At least there was
still a chance of saving Harry from his path of doom.
     There was just one point that Margo overlooked. She, too, was taking such
a path while The Shadow, the one friend who could really aid her, lay helpless
in the toils of Dr. Marsh!


     CHAPTER XVI

     THE conductor shook Harry's shoulder and said: "Hilldale." Waking from a
solid doze, Harry arose, picked up his bag, and started mechanically to the
door of the railway coach as the train slackened for the station. Half a minute
later, Harry was alighting on a darkened platform where the crisp air struck him
with a jolt.
     With a warning blare from its whistle, the locomotive chugged from the
station, dragging its two cars across the highway crossing. Harry watched the
mar lights fade around the bend, then looked across the single track. There he
saw the station itself, a gloomy, deserted building, but there was no sign of
the car promised by Dr. Marsh. So Harry stepped across the track and entered
the station to wait. At the door, he paused to look back, impressed with the
notion that he saw someone on the platform that he had just left. Charging that
off to imagination, Harry sat on a bench inside the station and picked up his
broken thoughts.
     Recollections arranged themselves up to the point of Dortha's entry at the
Metrolite. Harry remembered talking to Dr. Marsh; he recalled that he had tried
to phone Rutledge Mann. Now he was at Hilldale, but something had happened in
between; but hard as Harry groped, his mind couldn't account for the interim.
There had been a mist, amid it a face, but all that seemed a dream. So Harry
decided that he must have caught the Hilldale local and fallen into a peculiar
slumber that he hadn't yet shaken off.
     Mann should have called back; that much seemed certain. Trying to picture
himself back in the hotel room, Harry was suddenly startled by the jangle of a
telephone bell. Looking around, he saw that the sound came from a phone booth
in the station. Since the ringing persisted, Harry decided to answer it, on the
hope that Mann had learned where he had gone.
     A smooth voice came over the wire inquiring for Mr. Vincent. Acknowledging
his identity, Harry waited to hear more.
     "My name is Cripp," said the speaker. "I am Dr. Marsh's chauffeur. There
is some trouble with the car so you will have to walk up to Beaverwood. Just
follow the road to the left and turn right after the first mile. We're very
sorry, Mr. Vincent."
     "Of course," said Harry. "Thank you for calling. I understand."
     To prove that he understood, Harry returned to the bench, leaned back and
lighted a cigarette. He smoked it to the finish, then decided he would light
another to while away the time. As he struck a match, Harry heard an approving
laugh from the doorway of the station. Coming to his feet, he met the bearded
man who entered.
     There wasn't a doubt that this was Dr. Uther Marsh. This man with canny
eye and straight-lipped smile fitted Harry's expectations. When he spoke, Marsh
used the same tone that Harry had heard across the telephone.
     "My congratulations, Vincent," spoke Marsh. "I told you my order was
final; that you were to wait here for my car, unless you heard from me to the
contrary."
     Harry nodded.
     "You did hear from me through Cripp," continued Marsh, with a slight tilt
of his head. "He told you to walk up to Beaverwood. Why didn't you?"
     "Because Cripp might have been anybody," returned Harry. "You just spoke
my answer for me, doctor. Your order was final unless you countermanded it,
which you didn't."
     "Why didn't you tell that to Cripp?"
     "Because our business is confidential. Anyone who might pry into it could
say that he was your chauffeur. So I gave him the brush-off. By the way,
doctor, do you have a chauffeur named Cripp and was he the man who called?"
     Marsh gave a nod, watching Harry closely all the while. Then in a sharp
tone that carried a crisp crackle, Marsh declared:
     "You tried to phone somebody in New York, to tell them you were coming
here. That wasn't in our agreement."
     "Of course it wasn't," returned Harry, "but you read my answer to your
application sheet. I was very explicit on two points. I said that I objected to
taking a job blindly and I admitted that I was not an honest man. Add those
together and you have my answer. To protect myself I wanted certain friends to
know where I had gone. Since I made no claim to honesty, I felt under no
obligation to you."
     Dr. Marsh gave a hearty chuckle that Harry did not like, even though it
resembled a tone of approval. Hooking a big cane over his left arm, Marsh
clapped his right hand on Harry's shoulder.
     "You are the right man for the job," declared Marsh. "You have shown
yourself adaptable to circumstances. Come, we shall walk up to Beaverwood
together."
     They followed the road from the station until they reached the path that
led up behind the ledge where Hapgood had met death a few nights before.
Gripping Harry's arm, Marsh gave a gesture with his cane; then in an undertone
the bearded man said:
     "It is shorter by the path - and safer. That is why I came to meet you
personally. I wanted to show you the right way back, provided you proved
worthy."
     Harry thought that over as they climbed the first stages of the path.
Then, in a tone as frank as his companion's, he queried:
     "And what if I'd come by the road as Cripp told me?"
     The shrug that Marsh gave was visible in the moonlight that trickled
through the trees.
     "The risk would have been yours," he said. "Of course, I would have
followed you and tried to keep you out of trouble, but it would be impossible
to guarantee results. There is a plot against me, Vincent" - Marsh's eyes took
on a vivid glitter in the moonlight - "and it is only right that I should turn
the proof against the perpetrators."
     "So you were going to use me as a guinea pig," chided Harry, "but when you
found I might be more valuable, you changed your mind. Is that it, doctor?"
     Marsh halted. Leaning on his cane, he faced Harry squarely. Perhaps the
moonlight was unfair to Marsh, the way it gave his eyes a maddened glare, but
to Harry, the bearded doctor certainly made a perfect picture of a complete
fanatic. Nevertheless, Marsh kept his voice restrained and its steady tone
proved him sane, at least to a degree.
     "There was another question in the application," reminded Marsh. "I asked
if certain ends could justify the means used to acquire them. Your answer was
yes."
     "I remember," nodded Harry, "but I did not include murder as one of those
means to an end."
     With his cane, Marsh gestured toward the far edge of the path.
     "A man was killed below that ledge," stated Marsh. "I had nothing to do
with his death; still if I could have captured the killer by letting murder
take place, I would have done so."
     "But why?" demanded Harry. "If the crime had not been done, there would
have been no criminal."
     "There you are wrong," Marsh declared. "These crimes are recurrent. They
are all part of a very vicious plot, which has been going on for years. What is
the life of one person, compared with the welfare of many? There is only one way
to trap those who are behind this evil work; that is to trap them in the act."
     "You spoke of one murderer," reminded Harry, "and now you are talking
about several."
     Marsh gave a knowing nod; leaning forward, he gripped Harry's arm in a
clutch of surprising strength. His glowing eyes took on a bulging aspect as he
hissed:
     "Those murderers are harbored by a monster named Waycroft, who has his
headquarters at Gray Towers across the river from Beaverwood! For years,
Waycroft has swindled innocent victims, stopping at nothing, not even murder!"
     Harry gave a surprised look as though he had never heard of Gordon
Waycroft. On sudden impulse, he inquired:
     "Can you prove any of this, doctor?"
     Marsh shook his head.
     "Waycroft is too clever," he declared. "He came here purposely to extort
money from me, on the assumption that anyone managing an institution like mine
would be easy prey. When I refused to listen, he tried other methods. Right now
he is working with persons whose relatives are in my care. Twice they have done
indiscriminate murder in hope that it would be charged to someone at
Beaverwood."
     Drawing Harry along the path, Marsh stopped at another vantage spot and
pointed with his cane. Between the trees, Harry saw a sharp curve in the road,
where a high cliff reared on one side and a deep gully on the other. Full in
the moonlight, the spot formed a clear panorama only a few hundred yards away.
     "There is where crime will happen," predicted Marsh. "I know, because I
have analyzed Waycroft's mental process. He learns everything, Waycroft does,
therefore he must know that I am expecting you tonight. If you had walked along
that road, death would have stalked you, Vincent, because you would make an
excellent victim."
     At that moment Harry was struck with the idea that death already stalked
him. From close on the path came the tramp of a footstep crunching dried
leaves. Wheeling suddenly, Harry saw a face etched in the moonlight against a
framed space in the trees. One look at those pock-marked features jarred his
memory. It was the face that Harry had seen in the hotel mirror!
     "This is my servant, Dortha," introduced Marsh, blandly. "He came on the
train with you, Vincent, to protect you. Even though I might have used you for
a necessary experiment, I still had your welfare at heart."
     Before Harry could reply, the rumble of a motor sounded from the road. A
moment later, the headlights of a car whipped into sight, taking the very bend
that Marsh had proclaimed as murder's lurking spot. If he'd really believed
that Marsh meant all he said, Harry would have demanded some prompt action to
prevent a tragedy. Even at that, little could have been done, for the car took
the curve too quickly to be flagged.
     The car was a roadster and in the moonlight Harry could see that its
driver was a girl. A sudden fear gripped him that the girl might be Margo Lane,
returning to these parts. Yes, it was Margo on her way to Gray Towers, a logical
destination, considering that she had heard nothing from Cranston. Added to that
was the chance that Margo had learned of Harry's sudden disappearance, which
would account for her coming past the station and taking the dangerous valley
road. Such thoughts flooded Harry's brain, only to dispel themselves when he
realized that all his trepidation was based on the absurd notions voiced by Dr.
Marsh.
     "Keep watching, doctor," suggested Harry, blandly. "You'll see that
nothing happens."
     Something did happen. As though struck by an invisible and gigantic hand,
the cliff above the road was cleaved apart. As its whitish walls collapsed, the
sound of a dull explosion arrived and the ground trembled beneath Harry's feet.
But that was nothing compared with the scene on the road. As the highway
quivered, Margo's car stopped with a shriek that drowned the girl's own. With a
wild gesture, Margo looked upward to see the riven heights descending from the
moon. Mercifully, the unleashed rock itself blotted out the moonlight, for all
went black beneath the down-rushing avalanche.
     Lost from sight, the car no longer had a chance in the few momentous
seconds that remained before the coming crash. If Margo had tried to drive
ahead, she would simply have gone into the midst of it. As it was, she and her
car were just within the danger zone, yet too far advanced to return. Harry
hoped wildly that Margo would manage to reverse the roadster, but she was
evidently as petrified as the mammoth chunks of rock that were hurtling down to
crush her.
     The great mass struck. Stones flew apart as they hit the road and with
them blackness seemed to break in patches. The full fury of the light that
flickered through a huge, landslide roared onward into the gully, carrying all
it encountered, Margo's car included. In the moon-rising cloud of dust, Harry
saw the roadster turning over and over like a toy thing as it was hurled into
the depths of the ravine. A few moments later, the rest of the shattered cliff
was overtaking it, to bury it completely.
     Dr. Marsh was right. Murder was in the air tonight and Harry Vincent had
witnessed its progress. Crime had struck anew, despite The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XVII

     IN the hush that followed the echoes of the landslide, Harry Vincent was
seized by a mingled urge. He wanted to find the men responsible for the
destruction he had witnessed, but first he wanted to reach the spot where the
car had gone, even though he knew that no victim could have survived beneath
the crush of mighty rock.
     Before he could start forward, Harry was restrained by Dr. Marsh, whose
hand again demonstrated its powerful clamp.
     "It's no use, Vincent," asserted Marsh. "The girl is dead. I assure you
that I had no idea that the stroke would be so formidable. Otherwise I might
have prevented it."
     Angrily, Harry shook away from Marsh's clutch, only to be gripped by
Dortha. Again, the big man took Harry from in back, pinning his arms so firmly
that he couldn't budge. Bowing a polite acknowledgment to Dortha, Marsh
produced a revolver and pointed it squarely at Harry.
     "Calm yourself," said Marsh. "We have work to do. I would advise you to
assist us, Vincent, if you really wish to place guilt where it belongs."
     Those words proved effective, though Marsh may not have guessed at Harry's
full reactions. What was going through Harry's mind was this: if murder had left
a trail, Marsh would look for it to prove his case. It might be that Marsh would
be covering his own tracks while attributing them to someone else, but in that
case, Harry was confident that he could spot any deception. Craning his head
from Dortha's grasp, Harry gave a nod and Marsh ordered the big man to release
him.
     Next, they were starting along the path which went well in back of the
knob that had once been a cliff. All the while, Marsh wagged the gun as though
in readiness for a murderer, but Harry was quite sure that it would turn his
way if he showed further signs of rebellion.
     Before they reached the fence surrounding Beaverwood, Dr. Marsh changed
course, cutting back toward the road. Sending Dortha ahead, Marsh stayed right
behind Harry, explaining why they were taking the new direction.
     "There's a path from the cliff," panted Marsh. "It runs into the private
road that leads up to Beaverwood. Maybe we'll have a chance to intercept the
murderers."
     Dortha was stumbling through the underbrush, trying to find his way. Large
rocks and little gullies soon slowed the process to a point that made it futile,
but Marsh kept ordering Dortha ahead. At last they reached the path almost at
the private road, only to find that all was quiet. The perpetrators of the
blast were gone.
     A few steps farther along. Dortha jumped as though he had met a
rattlesnake. Pointing to the ground, he indicated a stick of whitish substance.
Marsh stooped and picked it up to examine it in the moonlight as they reached
the road.
     "Dynamite," announced Marsh. "The brand we use, Dortha. We'd better not
let the sheriff find it."
     Looking toward Beaverwood, Marsh saw something else lying in the road.
Leading the way, he stopped and picked up a length of fuse, another piece of
discarded evidence. Turning to Harry, Marsh declared quite simply:
     "You see what we're up against, Vincent. Always there are trails which
would indicate that inmates are loose from my sanitarium. Come, we must look
for more."
     They found another at the big gate. Since Hapgood's death that gate had
been chained and padlocked. The chain was broken, the padlock dangling from it.
Marsh disposed of that incriminating evidence by simply handing the chain and
lock to Dortha.
     "Dispose of them," ordered Marsh. "We are not required to keep the gate
locked. We do not have to say that these were here. Now stir up the gravel to
dispose of any footprints."
     Harry assisted in that task and followed Marsh into the Beaverwood
grounds. As they neared the sprawling building, they were met by Cripp, who was
carrying a flashlight. Apparently Cripp didn't notice Harry, for he began
telling facts to Dr. Marsh.
     "Hubert was loose again, doc," said Cripp. "How long, I don't know,
because he won't say. We caught him out back near the dynamite shack. We asked
him about the explosions, but he'll only talk to you, so he says."
     "That is enough, Cripp," interposed Marsh. "When the sheriff comes here, I
shall talk to him. By the way, this is our new man - Vincent. You can show him
to his quarters while I hear what Hubert has to tell me."
     Over at Gray Towers, Gordon Waycroft was seated in his study, talking to
the sheriff. Occasionally sounds of voices came from the Italian garden and the
sheriff seemed to be listening for them. Noting the sheriff's attitude, Waycroft
remarked:
     "It's only Kirk Brenshaw and his friends, sheriff. I told them to decide
matters tonight. They don't know whether to keep their relatives at Beaverwood
or -"
     "I know," interrupted the sheriff, "and I can't blame them. They must be
worried or you wouldn't have asked me to post two deputies down by your front
driveway. I guess those nuts would come around from Beaverwood if old Marsh let
them loose long enough. But I'm not listening to that talk in the garden; if I
wanted to hear it, I'd go out there. I'm worried about that blast we just heard
a while ago."
     "More stumps, I suppose," said Waycroft. "After all, Marsh has the
privilege of blasting on his own property."
     "No longer he hasn't," retorted the sheriff. "I told him to lay off.
There's been too much excitement hereabouts. And now -"
     A pounding sounded at the study door. Rising from behind his ornamental
desk, Waycroft pushed a light chair aside and answered the knock. The man who
entered was one of the deputies from the driveway, a beefy fellow who spoke in
an excited tone.
     "Just got a report from down the road," announced the deputy. "Somebody
blew the whole top off of Lookout Cliff. Maybe it was some of them crazy guys
from Beaverwood."
     Waycroft sprang to the window and called to his guests. A few moments
later Kirk Brenshaw and the others came rushing in from the garden to hear the
news. They, too, had attributed the blasting to a stump operation on the
Beaverwood grounds. Hearing the real facts, they insisted that the sheriff
investigate at once.
     When the group arrived at the scene of crime, the moonlight showed them
the devastation wrought by the toppled cliff. The road was still blocked with
rock, but the vast portion of the landslide had continued into the ravine,
forming a great heap that would require days to clear. There was no sign of a
car, for the ill-fated roadster lay buried deep from sight. Nevertheless, the
whole scene gave the impression of tragedy, enough so for the sheriff to decide
upon a trip to Beaverwood. When he asked if anyone wanted to go along, Kirk
Brenshaw volunteered. The others went back to Gray Towers with Waycroft.


     FROM his chair behind the office desk, Dr. Marsh smiled in friendly style
when Dortha ushered Kirk and the sheriff into the room. Cripp and Harry were
there, also, but they were cued to let Marsh do the talking. The doctor
expressed surprise when he learned of the damage down the road. Then, stroking
his beard, he questioned:
     "On your way up here, sheriff, did you find any evidence to indicate that
the perpetrators of the outrage might have fled in this direction?"
     The sheriff admitted that he hadn't, though he had stopped to search the
path that led back from Lookout Cliff; but he added bluntly that the dynamite
could have come from Beaverwood.
     "It might have," agreed Marsh, "but it didn't. You are free to inspect our
dynamite shack out by the beaver dam. You will find that it has a very strong
lock and that none of the dynamite is missing. Here is a record of the last
supply we purchased."
     Marsh didn't add that he had just come from the shack where he had found
that the lock, like the one on the front gate, was broken. Replacing a padlock
was a simple matter and so was the changing of the record sheet that Marsh
tendered to the sheriff. Maybe Kirk Brenshaw suspected such things, for he
suggested something else.
     "Suppose you bring my cousin here," said Kirk. "I'd like to talk to
Hubert. Don't start that business about visiting hours; this is a special
occasion."
     Marsh dispatched Dortha to bring Hubert. When he arrived, Hubert proved to
be in a calm mood, perhaps because he looked so sleepy. When Kirk asked him if
he had broken loose this evening, Hubert gave his head a bewildered shake, as
if such a thing could never happen.
     "I am keeping my patients in close custody," assured Marsh. "One man
became unreasonable today, so we put him in a strait jacket. Hubert knows that
he can expect the same treatment if he disobeys my orders."
     "Then you don't like it here, do you, Hubert?" queried Kirk. "How would
you like it if I sent you somewhere else?"
     "I like it here," returned Hubert, gruffly. "I want to stay at Beaverwood."
     "And you will stay," added Marsh, "unless your cousin can prove that
something is wrong here. You happen to be in my permanent custody, Hubert. As
for you, Kirk" - Marsh continued his kindly tone - "I would advise you and your
friends to stay away from Beaverwood. It is your presence that annoys my
patients."
     "I intend to stay away," snapped Kirk. "For your information, Dr. Marsh,
Waycroft is closing Gray Towers. He says this neighborhood annoys him and I
can't blame him."
     The visitors were gone and Hubert was being taken to his room when Dr.
Marsh lifted his hand from beneath the desk where it had been all along. As he
laid a revolver on the desk, Marsh gave Harry one of his solemn smiles.
     "Nice of you to maintain silence, Vincent," complimented Marsh. "Though I
was ready for any eventuality, I was glad that nothing spoiled my interview
with Kirk Brenshaw and his friend the sheriff. Perhaps our troubles are ended
here at Beaverwood."
     "They may have just begun," returned Harry. "When the sheriff digs away
those rocks and finds a dead girl in that car, the crime will be listed as
murder. I'm willing to side with you, if you can answer certain questions to my
satisfaction. But if you can't -"
     There was an interruption from the door, a sharp knock that Marsh
apparently did not recognize, for he made a quick reach for the gun. Gesturing
the weapon as he eased it behind the desk, Marsh ordered:
     "Open the door, Vincent."
     As Harry drew the door inward, a shape came lunging at him. For an instant
he recoiled; then, realizing that the person was actually falling in his
direction Harry made a grab. Dr. Marsh sprang up from the desk, staring in
amazement as he saw Harry catch the form of a girl, who twisted so that her
face came up into the light.
     The girl wasn't dead; indeed, she was quite conscious, though somewhat
bruised and very bewildered. If that pleased Dr. Marsh, it overwhelmed Harry
Vincent. He recognized the girl was Margo Lane, who by every rule of reason
should have been lying dead beneath the rock heap in the ravine below Lookout
Cliff. What Harry knew for fact, Marsh must have reasoned on his own, for the
doctor said with a dry chuckle:
     "Apparently murder failed tonight. I shall summon the matron and have her
take care of our new guest. This is very fortunate. Most fortunate indeed."
     Whether Marsh was actually pleased remained a question in Harry's mind. If
the answer were affirmative, it could mean that Marsh had become troubled at
Harry's mention of the evidence to be revealed when the rock pile would be
cleared away. After the matron arrived and took Margo to the women's wing.
Harry noted that Marsh still seemed troubled by the mystery of the girl's
arrival. Summoning Dortha, Marsh suggested that they visit the padded cell and
told Harry to come along.
     The padded cell was on the top floor of one wing; the hall outside it
slanted at the ceiling, because of the sloping roof. The door had no barred
wicket, because its interior, like the walls, floor and ceiling, was thoroughly
padded. Unlocking the door, Marsh took a long look at the figure that was lying
on the floor. Harry recognized Cranston in the strait jacket, so worn out with
his struggles that he was sound asleep.
     "Let him stay that way tonight," decided Marsh. "It is the best treatment
for a violent patient. We must take no chances with this case until I have
diagnosed it more thoroughly."
     As the door closed to leave him in solitary confinement, Lamont Cranston
opened his eyes. His drawn lips relaxed and from them issued the whispered
laugh of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XVIII

     THREE days had passed, strange days for Harry Vincent. In those days he
learned much, yet very little. For one thing, he talked with Margo Lane, who
was recuperating from her ordeal. Harry found her in a wheel chair under a
tree, and since they were alone, Margo could talk quite freely.
     "It all happened so suddenly," Margo told Harry. "There must have been a
hundred tons of rock coming right at me when something snatched me from the
car. None of the stones struck me, but I hit the road real hard and everything
went black. I wasn't hurt badly; they say I'll be all right by tomorrow, but I
was certainly dazed."
     "Too dazed to know who rescued you?" queried Harry.
     "I could say that everything went black," replied Margo, with a knowing
smile. "In fact, that's just what it did do, even before I landed clear of that
avalanche, at least twenty feet in back of the car. And blackness means -"
     "The Shadow," supplied Harry, "when he's able to get around. But do you
know where he was at the time of your spectacular rescue? Look up there and
see" - Harry pointed to the top floor of a Beaverwood wing - "that spot where
there isn't any window. It happens to be a padded cell where our friend
Cranston sleeps in a strait jacket every night."
     Margo's eyes showed a horrified sparkle.
     "How terrible!" she exclaimed. "Why, I was just beginning to trust Dr.
Marsh. But if he's doing that to Lamont -"
     "It's all right," interposed Harry. "The chief seems to expect it. During
the daytime he's managed to slip me a few notes. He thinks that Marsh has
connected him with Waycroft and therefore is keeping him out of circulation."
     "Then it isn't all right," argued Margo, "because Waycroft couldn't have a
thing to do with all this trouble, nor could his friends. I'll tell you why,
Harry. There's no way they could get from Gray Towers to Beaverwood and back
again, except by crossing the falls and that's so dangerous that only The
Shadow would attempt it."
     Harry nodded. In his pocket he had a slip of paper sent him by The Shadow.
Just for emergency it had included a chart of the stone-strewn path across the
brink of Indian Falls and Harry had spent half the afternoon studying that
route at close range. Like Margo, Harry was sure that only The Shadow would
attempt that crossing without first testing it. Certainly men like Kirk
Brenshaw could not try it without long practice, which would be impossible at
the Falls itself.
     "Don't worry about the chief," were Harry's parting words to Margo. "He's
leaving it to us to handle matters for him. I may get to the bottom of this
murder business very soon."
     Later that same day, Harry was summoned to Marsh's office. Entering, he
found Dortha and Cripp, which was encouraging, since he had come to know that
they were the two men fully trusted by Marsh, which seemed to put Harry into
the same category.
     "About Waycroft," declared Dr. Marsh, solemnly. "He's plotting something,
Vincent. We've been watching Gray Towers every night and the same thing always
happens. Waycroft leaves his study; you can tell it when he turns off the
light. From there he goes up to his room, turning lights on and off along the
way.
     "After that, he begins to flash signals, which can be seen over here.
Dortha has reported them and so has Cripp. They come from one of the towers,
just above Waycroft's room, only we haven't been able to decipher them. Tonight
will be your turn to watch and the best spot is from the little pergola near the
edge of the gorge, about a hundred yards south of the Falls."
     On a sheet of paper, Marsh drew a floor plan of Waycroft's house.
Evidently the doctor had called there, early in his acquaintance with Waycroft,
for he described the furnishings of Gray Towers, to give Harry some estimate of
Waycroft's wealth. All this tallied perfectly with descriptions that Harry had
received from Margo.
     Apparently Waycroft was a man of exquisite taste, for Marsh, like Margo,
mentioned that all the tables, chairs, and even the pianos were of delicate
construction and beautifully designed. But Marsh emphasized that point as an
indictment against Waycroft, saying that any man who spent a fortune on
furniture and tapestries would need to acquire money in the first place.
     "Love of luxury can become a man's undoing," moralized Marsh. "Such is the
story with Gordon Waycroft. When his attempts to blackmail me failed, he knew he
was dealing with an honest man. That is how he gained the clue that enabled him
to start his present game."
     "I understand," nodded Harry. "Since you won't come through, Waycroft is
trying to pin murder on you -"
     "Not on me," interposed Marsh. "He wants to prove that my patients are
criminally insane. In that attempt he is aided and abetted by Kirk Brenshaw and
others who have relatives here."
     "But what could they gain?"
     "It is not what they could gain, Vincent. It is what they have already
gained and wish to keep. For instance, you have seen Kirk's cousin Hubert.
Would you class Hubert Brenshaw as insane?"
     Wondering what Marsh was driving at, Harry decided to be tactful. He
replied that in one meeting with Hubert, the man had impressed him as quite
normal; however, Harry did not consider himself qualified to judge. That put
the burden back on Marsh, who didn't seem to mind it.
     "Your uncertainty is persuasive in itself," declared Marsh, in a pleased
tone. "Except for a few temporary inhibitions which he allowed to escape his
control, Hubert Brenshaw is as sane as you or I. The same applies to several
other patients here at Beaverwood, specifically those whose relatives have been
frequent guests at Gray Towers. What is the answer to all this? Read it for
yourself."
     Marsh slid a book across the desk. Its title was "Insanity in Its
Incurable Phases" and the name of the author was Dr. Uther Marsh. With a
chuckle at his own expense, Marsh added:
     "I wrote that book with a secret purpose. My idea was to impress wealthy
men who had shipped unfortunate relatives to mental institutions in order to
deprive them of their share in large fortunes, a practice which is more common
than you suppose, Vincent. On the basis of my book, I opened Beaverwood as a
place from which no patient would ever be known to return. As a result, I
received the very sort of cases that I sought: men who were literally being
persecuted into insanity.
     "Somehow Waycroft learned my real purpose." Marsh narrowed his eyes until
they flashed with anger. "He informed Kirk Brenshaw and similar rogues that
they were endangering their own schemes in trusting me, which is about the only
true thing Waycroft ever stated. With Waycroft as their leader, at his own price
and terms, they have tried to discredit Beaverwood and mark its occupants as
homicidal maniacs. Should I be convicted of criminal negligence, the inmates
would be transferred to other institutions, branded for life."
     Stepping from the desk, Marsh laid a friendly hand on Harry's arm, though
in the grip Harry felt the same power that he had noticed before, a strength
that made Marsh seem dangerous and formidable. In contrast, the doctor's tone
was a smooth, convincing purr, as he guided Harry out through the front door
and pointed him toward the pergola beside the gorge.
     "You will help us, I am sure," said Marsh. "Watch Gray Towers and you will
learn that what I say is true. I need more time to piece the evidence against
Kirk Brenshaw and the rest, so that when I pronounce their relatives sane, I
can expose the whole crooked game."
     Alone at the pergola, Harry watched Gray Towers through the gathering
dark. Marsh was right; the little summer house made an excellent observation
spot, but that did not prove the truth of all the other statements made by the
doctor. For a full hour, Harry waited for the gleam to appear in Waycroft's
study, yet all the while Gray Towers grew darker and darker under the clouded
sky, through which the moonlight, when it appeared, took on a speckly tinge.
     Probably Waycroft was out in the Italian garden, perhaps in secret huddle
with Kirk Brenshaw and the rest. As he felt himself making that assumption,
Harry suddenly realized that perhaps he was being personally hoaxed by Dr.
Marsh. Perhaps something was to happen in Beaverwood instead of Gray Towers; in
that case, Harry was being decoyed to a useless vigil. At least there was one
way to learn the truth, a way that appealed to Harry when he noted that the
moonlight was struggling through the clouds.
     Sneaking away from the pergola, Harry reached Indian Falls just as the
moonlight gained a real brilliance. There, etched in the foam, Harry saw the
stepping-stones as represented on The Shadow's chart. So pitiful did they
appear that Harry would have hesitated, but for an approaching cloud that
threatened to cut off the moonlight. Boldly, Harry stepped toward the roaring
torrent and began the breath-taking journey.
     The hazardous trip was over while Harry still fought mentally to ignore
the gushing roar about him. As he started across the lawn to Gray Towers, the
cloud darkened the moon, giving him the advantage of a hidden approach. Added
to that, Harry gained another reward.
     A light had appeared in the window of Waycroft's study exactly as Marsh
claimed it did nightly!
     Before Harry reached the house, the light went off. Another glimmer
appeared from a hallway to be extinguished in its turn. Pausing, Harry watched
the very phenomenon that Marsh had described. Lights turning off and on,
Waycroft was going up to the room beneath the tower from which signal flashes
had been reported!
     Reaching the study window, Harry found it open and drew himself across the
sill. Working from memory, he moved through the darkness, hoping to avoid all of
Waycroft's fragile furniture. Miraculously lucky, Harry groped to the stairs
without incident and crept up to the top. He was getting close to Waycroft's
room when he heard footsteps coming down a ladder. Evidently Harry had missed
the signals from the tower. but that did not matter. Reaching in his pocket,
Harry drew an automatic to prepare for an encounter with Waycroft.
     The man came past Harry in the dark. Oddly, he was going downstairs again,
using darkness for the return trip. This promised something that Marsh had not
guessed, so Harry waited until the creaks were at the bottom of the stairs.
Carefully, he followed, anxious to learn where Waycroft went next; pausing, he
heard the front door open. By then, Harry had crept down to the landing and was
ready to begin a downward dash, when a great flood of moonlight suddenly came
through the windows.
     Instantly the front door slammed. Dashing down the stairs, Harry reached a
window and looked out. He saw a man running down the driveway, looking back
across his shoulder, but the fellow wasn't Waycroft. Harry recognized his bulky
figure with its forward crouch and knew the face the moment that he saw it.
     The man was Dortha!
     On a new impulse, Harry wheeled and stared at the interior of Waycroft's
mansion. He was in a great hallway that opened into the reception room and
both, according to description, should have been thick with furniture. Instead,
the entire floor was bare, without a vestige of Waycroft's lavish household
possessions.
     Back through the hallway and into Waycroft's study, Harry found the same
barren scene. All furnishings - desk, chairs and tapestries - were gone from
the study, along with everything else. What Kirk Brenshaw had predicted was
true; Gordon Waycroft had moved from Gray Towers and his departure must have
taken place the night before, if not earlier.
     That, in turn, belied the statement that Dr. Marsh had made tonight.
Clever of Marsh, to place his new man Vincent, where he could watch an empty
mansion in which Dortha, Marsh's tool, could readily provide a by-play for
Harry's special benefit. What they had not figured was that Harry could work
his way across the river, right to Gray Towers itself.
     To Harry, Dortha's hoax proved one thing. Crime was due tonight and though
its purpose was obscure, Harry could tell on which side of the river it belonged
and would occur. Beaverwood, not Gray Towers, was the goal that Harry Vincent
wanted, there to deal with crime as best he could, while his chief, The Shadow,
lay helpless!


     CHAPTER XIX

     THERE wasn't any use in investigating Gray Towers further. Harry needed to
get back across the river while the moonlight still could guide him. It was
fading again, that moonlight, under a single cloud that was the forerunner of a
huge bank coming right behind it. Taking advantage first of darkness, Harry
started across the lawn without pausing to follow the glistening walk that led
to the Italian garden.
     Harry wasn't interested in the marble statuary. Remembering Margo's
account of how she had posed as part of the group, Harry recalled that at
present she was an occupant of Beaverwood, the place that once had frightened
her, but which Margo now regarded as a haven. Harry wanted to get back there
before Margo learned that she'd been right the first time. He was thinking,
too, of Cranston's plight, laced in a strait jacket for another night. That
might prove a mild discomfort compared to Marsh's coming plans for Cranston and
Margo.
     Reaching the Falls just after the cloud had passed the moon, Harry lost no
time in negotiating the brink. He had studied The Shadow's diagram backward and
this time he didn't even notice the turbulent water that almost washed the tops
of the oddly spaced stepping-stones. Gaining the other side, Harry kept to the
shelter of the trees along the gorge until the moon darkened again. Veering
toward the pergola, Harry reached it and resumed his place. Instead of watching
Gray Towers, he kept a steady eye on the sprawling mass of Beaverwood, biding
his time impatiently.
     Nothing would happen until Dortha returned; on that point, Harry felt
certain. It would take Dortha at least half an hour to come around by the road,
so Harry resolved to wait unless he noted unexpected lights in the sanitarium.
At last there was a crunch of gravel, telling that Dortha was coming up the
driveway. Immediately a lantern appeared at the front door and came forward, to
veer in Harry's direction.
     Recognizing low voices as belonging to Marsh and Dortha, Harry stepped out
to meet the pair. Lifting the lantern in Diogenes fashion, Marsh thrust his own
face into the glow while he studied Harry's. Casually, Marsh asked if Harry had
seen the lights go on and off at Gray Towers. When Harry nodded, Marsh wanted to
know about the signals. Stumped only momentarily, Harry came back with a happy
inspiration.
     "I couldn't see them," he declared. "The moon came out all of a sudden and
its glare dazzled me. I'm sure I saw some blinks, but they were very few."
     "Extremely few," replied Marsh. "So few that there were none at all.
Still, you were expecting some, so you imagined that you saw them. A very
common form of delusion, Vincent, as I have learned in analyzing the human
mind."
     It was fortunate, Harry thought, to be dealing with a man so well versed
in mental quirks. Nevertheless, it wouldn't do to play too dumb with Marsh.
Putting himself a jump ahead, Harry asked how Marsh knew that there had been no
signals. The reply that came completely nonplused Harry, for it exploded the
accusations that were forming in his mind.
     "There were no signals, Vincent," declared Marsh solemnly, "because
Waycroft was not there. It may sound incredible, but he has left Gray Towers;
lock, stock and baggage, if I may indulge in a mixed metaphor. You see,
Vincent" - Marsh's eyes narrowed in their canniest style - "tonight I sent
Dortha around by road to check closely on Gray Towers while you were watching
from longer range. Finding no one there, Dortha went through the place,
following Waycroft's usual route. He reports that Gray Towers has been vacated."
     Had Marsh meant to tell the truth right from the start, or was he
displaying a peculiar insight? Could he have guessed that Harry had somehow
crossed the river and learned that Gray Towers was empty? Was he simply
covering up for Dortha's sham on the assumption that the trick had failed?
     Searching for an answer, Harry found one by its absence. That answer was
Cripp, the only other man whom Marsh trusted. Cripp wasn't with the doctor, nor
had he gone with Dortha. Perhaps Cripp had been assigned to watch Harry and had
thereby learned of the latter's trip to Gray Towers!
     While these thoughts roamed through Harry's mind, Dr. Marsh spoke again,
earnestly pressing his opinions, whether genuine or not. His tone was sincere,
but Harry could no longer see his face for Marsh had lowered the lantern.
     "Dortha and I are going to look around," said Marsh. "Wait for us here,
unless something suspicious occurs. In that case report to Cripp. He is in my
office. We must keep check on the other attendants tonight. The patients are
all right with one exception. He has been handled in the customary fashion."
     That reference covered the case of Lamont Cranston, who at present was
beginning another sojourn in the padded cell in the restraining embrace of a
tightly strapped strait jacket. But Marsh and his hirelings - even including
Harry Vincent - would have been quite amazed at Cranston's actions. Something
more incredible than Waycroft's wholesale departure was taking place in the
padded cell.
     Rolling on the cushioned floor, Cranston was struggling with the jacket.
Usually the occupants of such restraints fought stubbornly to spread their arms
within the long sleeves that held them crossed. Cranston was acting more
intelligently, working one arm upward to get it over his head. It wasn't easy,
as was evident from the gyrations that carried the struggler all over the floor
and against the wall, but the padded cell was helpful in speeding his escape.
     At last Cranston's right arm went over and he relaxed with a tired smile
to ease the strain that had almost wrenched his shoulder from its socket. Then,
rolling about the floor, he maneuvered his left arm across his head so that the
sleeves dangled down behind him. With what amounted to a back somersault,
Cranston doubled himself through the loop formed by the long sleeves, which
were linked by straps at the bottom.
     There were no wrist holes in those sleeves, they were blind, like big
mittens, but once he was seated with the sleeves in front of him, Cranston was
able to work his fingers within the cloth and undo the various straps and
lacings of the strait jacket. Free at last, he rose and stretched himself as
though this were a usual routine, which it was. His escape from the strait
jacket accounted for his split-second rescue of Margo Lane, the night when the
falling cliff had overwhelmed her roadster.
     Next came the question of an exit from the padded cell. Reaching along the
wall, Cranston took a section of the thick, wide quilting and tugged it
downward. The padding peeled from a stretch of slanted roof and revealed an old
trapdoor that had once been a skylight. Dr. Marsh had evidently forgotten that
old outlet after turning this room into a padded cell, but Cranston had
remembered it from his trips along the roof.
     To reach the trap, Cranston merely rolled the loosened padding into a huge
bundle that reached his shoulder level. Climbing upon the roll, he worked the
trapdoor open, drew himself through, and reached the roof. It was dark here,
because of an adjacent gable toward which Cranston crawled. From beneath the
eaves of the gable he drew the cloak and hat of The Shadow; he had cached them
here to save time going back to his old room.
     Once clad in his familiar garb, The Shadow became as invisible as night
itself. Moonlight might have revealed him in the shape of a great beetle, as
sprawly as the building over which he crawled. But there was no longer any
moonlight. Darkness was so thick that it made a farce of the search that Marsh
and Dortha were conducting, as indicated by the bobbing of a lantern here and
there about the grounds.
     Easing down behind the end of the wing, The Shadow heard whimpers from
Bosco's kennel, occasionally amplified by growls. The big dog was not aware of
The Shadow's presence, for the cloaked adventurer used this course nightly.
Perhaps it was the lantern that annoyed Bosco. The Shadow did not wait to
learn, moving off behind the building he kept listening for other sounds in the
dark. When he was out of Bosco's earshot, The Shadow delivered a low, whispered
laugh.
     Out by the front door, Harry Vincent was stealing through the dark. He
too, had heard Bosco's whimpers and considered them an excuse to report to
Cripp. The sallow chauffeur was one man who might talk under due persuasion and
Harry wanted to find out where Cripp had been this evening. Stealing into the
building, Harry reached the office and gave a quick knock. Cripp's voice came
nervously:
     "Who is it?"
     "Vincent," was Harry's reply. "Let me in. I have something important to
tell you."
     The door opened promptly and Cripp stepped aside. As Harry entered, he
stopped short and stared at Marsh's desk. A man was seated there, smiling very
calmly; a gray-haired man, whose face was serious despite its upturned lines.
With a thrust of his square jaw, the man pushed his hand across the desk,
offering its clasp to Harry.
     "I am Gordon Waycroft," the man declared. "Cripp has told me that you can
be trusted. I came here to have a showdown with Dr. Marsh. Between the three of
us, I am sure we can demand one."
     Harry nodded and sat down. Not only Waycroft's attitude, but the mere fact
of his presence here, promised to put new facts in line.
     "Cripp has been working for me," explained Waycroft, frankly, "not as a
spy, as Marsh would define him, but more as an investigator for my own
protection. You see, Vincent, Marsh has a way of twisting facts about, as Cripp
can tell you."
     "Tonight was the first time old Marsh really talked," put in Cripp. "That
stuff about a shake-down was the other way around. He's been working on Mr.
Waycroft here, Marsh has, and trying to make trouble for such fellows as Kirk
Brenshaw."
     "By letting their insane relatives loose," added Waycroft, "to create
disturbances in this vicinity. For example, Hubert Brenshaw is unquestionably a
maniac who has sane periods. If Marsh pronounced him cured and put him back in
circulation, Hubert would be a constant threat to Kirk. Marsh evidently thinks
that Kirk would pay well to prevent such a misfortune."
     The statement was logical in itself; the only thing that did not tally was
the question of Marsh's policy. Hoping that Waycroft had the answer, Harry put
the problem.
     "Isn't Marsh overplaying it?" queried Harry. "Letting these madmen loose
to commit murder? Look at the trouble it has caused him to cover up for them."
     "But he has always succeeded," reminded Waycroft. "That is why his game is
potent. Each new victim might have been a man like Hubert Brenshaw and that is
what worried them. Add it for yourself, Vincent, and you will realize that
murder could only have originated here at Beaverwood."
     Slowly, Harry nodded. All trails had led to Beaverwood, even though they
had been shortened. On every night of murder, Waycroft and his friends had been
isolated at Gray Towers, at least at the time when crime was rampant. There lay
the flaw in the claims advanced by Dr. Marsh: that Waycroft and such men as
Kirk Brenshaw had played a hand in crime. They couldn't have; not with the
Indian River a barrier between.
     "I've moved from Gray Towers," declared Waycroft, "but Cripp thinks Dortha
went around by the road tonight. Did you see any lights there, Vincent?"
     "I saw Dortha," returned Harry. "I went over there myself. You've been
lucky, Waycroft, you and your friends. If Marsh had studied those Falls the way
I did, he could have sent his pet maniacs straight to Gray Towers. Here's how I
crossed the Falls."
     Harry unfolded The Shadow's chart and placed it on the desk, confident
that it would impress Waycroft. An expression of amazement traced itself across
Waycroft's face; totally intrigued, he failed to hear the light tapping that
came from the office door. Cripp threw a worried look at Harry, who smiled as
he recognized the knock. Opening the door, Harry admitted Margo Lane.
     The girl was evidently intending to leave Beaverwood, for she was fully
dressed and carrying a small suitcase. Seeing Harry instead of Marsh, Margo
gave a relieved sigh.
     "This place has begun to frighten me," declared Margo. "The whining dog,
people moving outside my window, and everything so dark -"
     Peering past Harry, Margo was further relieved when she saw that the man
at the desk was Waycroft, not Marsh. Advancing eagerly, Margo greeted Waycroft
as another friend in need. With a welcoming smile, Waycroft arose and extended
his hand; at the same time, he brushed Harry's chart aside. Looking down, Margo
saw the diagram.
     "Why, that's the path to your Italian garden!" exclaimed Margo. "I should
say part of the path, the part I know by heart. Those are the stones that
glisten and made me want to play hopscotch. That's not so silly as you think,
because those stones attracted other people, too. Why, one night I saw Kirk
Brenshaw -"
     A savage snarl interrupted. It came from Gordon Waycroft, above the level
of the one-shot pistol that he liked to carry. The gun was leveled straight at
Margo, while at the same moment Harry felt the nudge of a revolver supplied by
Cripp.
     Crime's proof lay in plain view, supplied unwisely by Harry Vincent and
corroborated unwittingly by Margo Lane. No longer could Gordon Waycroft cover
the fact that he was the master mind behind the evil that reigned in Hilldale.
     While The Shadow still was seeking to expose the guilt of Gordon Waycroft,
the culprit himself had revealed his hand to Harry and Margo, the persons slated
to be his next victims!


     CHAPTER XX

     No longer did Gordon Waycroft mask the evil that was in him. His game was
as plain as the diagram on Marsh's desk, which in its turn was the only
evidence needed. Every crime committed in the neighborhood of Hilldale, two
murders and a third attempt, could have been traced to Gray Towers except for
the supposed isolation of that lonely mansion.
     Waycroft was a man who engineered murder and let others commit it. Dr.
Marsh was right; Waycroft had made a deal with men like Kirk Brenshaw, who had
railroaded their relatives to asylums from which Marsh had brought them, one by
one, to Beaverwood. It was Waycroft who had learned that Marsh intended to help
those unfortunates, and true to form, Waycroft had swung to the other side.
     They had paid plenty, Kirk and others like him, for Waycroft's services in
framing Dr. Marsh. They had done murder at Waycroft's order, all on the strength
of the alibi that he had given them. Always, Waycroft was at home and invariably
his friends appeared on call, either from his study or the garden, so soon after
crime had happened that they could not possibly be blamed.
     That was because they knew the short cut right through Beaverwood and
across the supposedly impassable Falls. Long had they practiced on those
glistening stones in Waycroft's garden, a replica of the seemingly impossible
route that The Shadow had discovered on the torrential brink between Beaverwood
and Gray Towers. That such thoughts were flooding the minds of his prospective
victims, Waycroft recognized quite well.
     "You are right," sneered Waycroft. "Kirk and his friends murdered the man
in the truck and made it look like an insanity job. Where Dortha took the truck
and the victim, I neither know nor care. Our second killing was better planned."
     His eyes half closed, Waycroft reflected on the case of Hapgood, the
murdered deputy.
     "I sent Kirk ahead by the short route," declared Waycroft. "That was why
the dog howled; it heard Kirk cutting through here. The sheriff thought that
Kirk was in the coupe along with the others, the same coupe, by the way, that
planted a fake detour sign the night before. Kirk waited by the ledge and after
both cars left, he shoved the rock on Hapgood.
     "Kirk's friends were waiting for him just around the next turn. He hurried
after them and went along to the station. It should have been a perfect crime,
for on the way down from Beaverwood, Kirk left a glove, a hat, and footprints
from a pair of shoes, all belonging to his cousin Hubert. Unfortunately, Dortha
heard the dog and followed in time to destroy the false trail. Blasting earth
into that old hole beneath the fence was too ingenious for Dortha. I feel
confident that Dr. Marsh suggested it."
     Coming around from the desk, Waycroft still kept his gun muzzle trained on
Margo. Tonight the girl was sure, indeed too sure, that Waycroft had lied about
lacking ammunition for that weapon. Knowing that a false move would mean death,
Margo stayed rigid.
     "Kirk and the rest collaborated at Lookout Cliff," completed Waycroft.
"Cripp told us that Vincent was coming, so we intended to make him the victim.
When you drove along, Miss Lane, you made a suitable substitute. How you
escaped, baffled me, but you will still make a very pretty victim, to go with
Vincent.
     "The sheriff believes that I have gone away. He is coming here shortly for
a talk with Dr. Marsh. When he arrives, he will find murder on the premises,
here in Marsh's own office. There will be no need to lay a trail tonight, nor
do we care who is blamed: Marsh or his patients. Either will suffice, if we lay
the scene properly."
     Tilting his head, Waycroft listened. There were no sounds from Bosco's
kennel; instead, Waycroft heard the noise of a distant motor which he
recognized as the sheriff's rattletrap. Then came closer sounds, those of
footsteps in the hallway; slow precise treads representing Dr. Marsh, heavy
clumps indicating faithful Dortha.
     "When the door opens, Cripp," undertoned Waycroft. "The shots first; then
a rush for it. Dodge away from Dortha so that I can slug him; then we can both
spill Marsh. I'll plant the guns and fix the setting while you are out front
shouting bloody murder to the sheriff. I'll take the back way out, while you
are bringing him here."
     As he spoke, Waycroft was pushing Margo to one corner and motioning for
Cripp to urge Harry to another. The footsteps had stopped outside the door; in
another moment, the opening barrier would itself be the signal for death. Harry
tensed for the last effort; in another moment, he hoped to be racing Cripp's
shots in a mad endeavor to grab Waycroft's gun before the murderer fired it at
Margo.
     The moment was almost here. The knob of the door began its fatal twist. As
it turned, the silence was shattered by a terrific crash.
     Not the door, but the window, was opening in the fastest possible way. The
whole pane was breaking inward accompanied by portions of the frame. In with the
smash surged blackness, living and laughing as it came. Fierce blackness, its
mirth sinister - The Shadow, hurling a last moment challenge to men of crime!
     Even before that blackness changed to a cloaked shape, it disgorged a huge
torrent of gray. Out from the very folds of The Shadow's cloak leaped Bosco,
enlisted as an ally in this cause. As the great hound leaped ahead, The Shadow
diverted his own drive and became his cloaked self in the light.
     The Shadow's system was perfect. He sent Bosco at Cripp, who might have
used his revolver to finish Harry, before turning to fight off another foe.
Bosco's lunge was too long and powerful for Cripp to get in any preliminary
trigger work. Bowled over by the great dog's rush, Cripp fired wildly at the
ceiling. A moment later Harry was upon him, snatching his gun away.
     As for The Shadow, he was taking Waycroft, but in different style. The
moment he announced himself, The Shadow knew that the menace to Margo would be
lifted. Waycroft's gun held but a single slug; he would therefore use his shot
against The Shadow. True to form, Waycroft wheeled and stabbed his bullet
toward the surge of blackness.
     It was empty, that blackness.
     With a sidelong fling, The Shadow was diving behind Marsh's desk, leaving
only the background of the window, which Waycroft, in his haste, mistook for
the cloaked shape that originally loomed toward him. With a drive, The Shadow
sent the heavy desk straight at the man who held the smoking pistol and nearly
bowled him against the wall. With a last-moment spring, Waycroft came across
the desk, swinging his gun at The Shadow.
     Out of rising blackness, a hand clutched Waycroft's wrist and twisted it.
Howling as the gun fell from his fist, Waycroft wrenched away and started for
the window, grabbing at one of Marsh's cumbersome machines to block The Shadow
with it. The blockade served just long enough for Waycroft to dive to the
ground outside.
     The lights of the sheriff's arriving car showed Waycroft racing around the
end of a building wing. Behind him came a cloaked pursuer, vaguely outlined in
the glow, while farther back a great dog swung into sight, to join in the
chase. A strange accompaniment to that scene was the sound of a dull explosion,
much like a roar of distant thunder, off somewhere in back of Beaverwood.
     More of Marsh's dynamite, no doubt, but the explosion for the present was
a mystery. Unquestionably The Shadow had set it, for he had gone in that
direction originally. However, the distant blast had no immediate bearing on
the situation at hand.
     Waycroft had reached the woods that skirted the narrow river just above
Indian Falls. There, in response to Waycroft's yell, men sprang out with
blazing revolvers. Kirk Brenshaw and his friends, awaiting Waycroft here, were
trying blindly to stop the pursuers that they could not see. They might as well
have fired at the thick clouds that were drifting from the moon. The Shadow and
Bosco were not the sort to run into pot shots in the dark.
     A fierce laugh chimed with an angry snarl as two figures tangled with
four. The Shadow, a mass of living blackness; Bosco, a creature of mighty paws
and teeth, were literally overwhelming the men beside the stream. Kirk Brenshaw
and his friends had nerve enough to cross the treacherous stepping-stones that
brought them to Beaverwood, but that was only through long practice. Waycroft
hadn't educated them in close-range fighting.
     Kirk's gun spoke and with it the fellow screamed. The Shadow had turned
the weapon against its owner and now was snatching it from the murderer's
loosening hand. A shriek from Sharrock ended with a gurgle that was drowned by
a satisfied growl from Bosco as the big dog buried its fangs in the killer's
throat. A sudden flood of moonlight showed The Shadow downing Brighton with a
hard swing of the gun relinquished by Kirk. Old Abershaw, stumbling toward the
river bank, sprawled with a wild shriek, thinking that both The Shadow and
Bosco had overtaken him. A revolver jounced from Abershaw's hand and landed
almost at the water's edge.
     From the first of the steppingstones, Waycroft snatched the weapon and
started across the brink. Halfway over, he paused where the course took a sharp
turn. Coming full about, Waycroft aimed toward the Beaverwood bank, hoping to
spot The Shadow in the moonlight. From among the trees came a fading laugh. The
Shadow was gone and with him he had taken Bosco. Other men were coming through
the trees to replace them; the sheriff and a squad of deputies.
     Savagely, Waycroft laughed. With this fresh revolver, he could rout these
newcomers and continue on to Gray Towers, where a car was hidden for escape. He
had shipped his furniture by a back way that old Marsh had never guessed about
and the same course would conceal his flight. None of the sheriff's men who
might dodge Waycroft's bullets would dare to cross this brink.
     The mere roar of the water would terrify them. That was the point of all
Waycroft's instructions, the reason for the hours of practice that Kirk and the
rest had been given on the garden path. To keep one's mind off the roar was
all-important and it was accomplished by concentrating on the stepping-stones.
Should it seem to gather force, that roar, as it was doing now, the trick was
to gaze upstream and forget the Falls altogether.
     To while away the few seconds before the stupid deputies became simple
targets, Waycroft took a look upstream. In the moonlight, his face became as
frozen as the rock on which he stood, as white as the foam that flecked close
to his feet.
     The increased roar was no product of Waycroft's imagination. It came from
a great wall of water that was piling down Indian River, brimming clear above
the banks, a tidal wave that bulked as high as Waycroft's head!
     That blast a short while ago!
     The Shadow had blown the beaver dam. All the contents of the two-acre pond
had broken through to form a single billow. The great crest was gobbling the
yardage with a speed that held Waycroft hypnotized. He, the man who delivered
horror, was experiencing it to a degree that made him helpless. The precious
seconds that Waycroft might have used were gone before his whirling mind could
even count them.
     From the bank, the sheriff and his men witnessed the end of Waycroft's
ordeal. They saw the steppingstones as a clear path in the moonlight, for
Waycroft's presence at the center of the brink was proof that the stony route
was passable. The master of murder was personally demonstrating the fact that
men could cross from Gray Towers to Beaverwood at will.
     It was more a revelation than a demonstration, for Waycroft did not budge
from the fatal spot. Like his crimes, the route that made them possible was a
thing of the past. Like a monster of vengeance, a great hulk of water reared
head-high and swallowed Waycroft as it swept him from the halfway pinnacle.
Lost in the mighty mass, the man of murder accompanied its ground-quaking
plunge as it roared down to the gorge below.
     For minutes the river raged like a tremendous sea that disappeared into a
rising mist so dense that the very treetops were dampened by the dew. As the
tumult dwindled, Indian Falls began to shape into a semblance of its old self,
but the brink was changed. The stones that had survived so many seasons were
gone; the cataract toppled from a smoother ledge, completely buried by the foam.
     The route to Gray Towers was closed, like the case against the man of
murder who no longer dwelt there. Somewhere among the rocks of the great gorge,
searchers might find a few traces of what once had been called Gordon Waycroft,
but even that was doubtful.
     As if carried by the moonlight, a weird tone arrived from somewhere in the
distance, to mingle with the subsiding tumult of the waterfall. It was a peal of
mirth, solemn as a knell, marking the departure of The Shadow, conqueror of
crime. Murder's truth was known, its perpetrators dead or captured. Restitution
was assured for Hubert Brenshaw and the other unfortunates whose cause had long
been furthered by Dr. Uther Marsh.
     Strange mirth that clung to the spot where Gordon Waycroft, master of
murder, had perished.
     The final triumph, like the last laugh, belonged to The Shadow!


     THE END