The Shadow 032 The Ghost of the Manor by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1933-05-31T22:00:00+00:00

“Yes,” said Humphrey. “I have heard that you aroused his anger. I knew that you must have done so by means of outrageous statements.”

“You are wrong there, Humphrey.”

“Perhaps” - Humphrey paid no attention to Warren’s words - “you also warned him against a brother’s wiles. Possibly you told him that I - not Jasper - was plotting to end his life.”

“You mean that I -“

“I mean,” said Humphrey clearly, “that I know the truth concerning Winstead’s death. My elder brother was murdered; and his slayer was -“

“Jasper!” blurted Warren.

“Not Jasper!” exclaimed Humphrey in new frenzy. “Not Jasper, you fiend! You are the man who murdered my brother Winstead!”

Humphrey was on his feet again. He had pushed the chair back from the desk. He was standing close to the paneled wall, his pale face turned crimson, his lips trembling, and his fists shaking in anger.

Warren Barringer sat in astonishment. Fierce resentment swept his mind; but the startling effect of Humphrey’s words held him motionless.

“You came here to kill Winstead!” accused Humphrey. “You are here to kill me! You will not succeed. I can call Wellington to my aid before you can overpower me.”

With these words, Humphrey dropped his hand to his pocket. Sensing that his cousin might be drawing a revolver, Warren leaped to his feet. He started toward the door, believing that he could gain it before Humphrey could produce a weapon.

Then came blackness. At this moment of crisis, the lights in the room were entirely extinguished. A gasp of alarm came from the wall where Humphrey was standing. Warren, groping in the darkness, stumbled against a chair and nearly lost his footing.

AS he caught himself against the huge desk, Warren heard a long, rasping sigh. Something struck against the desk, and Warren felt the woodwork shift toward him. Rapping, clawing sounds rattled only a few feet away.

The lights came on. Warren blinked as he saw the same illuminated scene. Then his eyes bulged with horror.

Sprawled across the desk, face upward, lay the form of Humphrey Delthern!

Dying fingers still beat a mild tattoo upon the woodwork. Staring eyes glared upward. The fingers ceased their motion, and Warren Barringer gazed in awe at the huge handle of a knife that jutted from his cousin’s breast.

It required moments for the terror of this tragedy to impress itself upon Warren Barringer’s mind. As he realized that this was no illusion, that the sight before him was reality, Warren shrank away from the desk, and gripped the arms of a chair.

How long the lights had been out, he did not know. It might have been only seconds - perhaps minutes.

The passage of time escaped his recollection. But after he stared about the empty room, and saw no one, Warren Barringer finally focused his eyes upon the figure of his cousin.

Humphrey Delthern was dead; a knife blade in his heart. Silently, some murderer had done dastardly work amid the blackness. The handle of the knife bore mute evidence of evil crime. Warren Barringer was alone

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