The Shadow 080 by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

DESCENDING the slope, The Shadow suddenly came upon new traces of the same trail that he had taken from the clearing above Table Rock. Evidently the stroller on the hillside had cut down to the road in the same fashion as had The Shadow.

A cigarette butt was the clue that proved this fact. Reaching the road, The Shadow discovered footprints in thick dust. A toe pointed right, that was toward the mill.

The Shadow followed the trail no further. Keeping to the side of the road, he headed left. A westward walk of more than a mile brought him to the good dirt highway. He followed it until he came to the upper end of the old abandoned road on which Harry Vincent had left the flivver. The Shadow took to the abandoned road.

A coupe was parked beside the birch trees when The Shadow arrived at that spot. A man was standing beside it, looking up the path. The Shadow approached and scuffed a stone as he advanced. The man spun about to show a face that was keen and alert.

He was Clyde Burke, reporter from the New York Classic. Wiry built, active of manner, Clyde started tensely as he awaited the arrival of the walker. He said nothing as he studied the immobile features of Henry Arnaud.

The Shadow raised his left hand. On the third finger, Clyde spied a gem that glittered despite the shade of the trees above. The stone was a fire opal, a glimmering, living coal of varied hue; The Shadow’s girasol.

“They’ve all gone back to town,” stated Clyde, solemnly. “I told the sheriff I wanted to poke around here a while. The other reporters went into Paulington. I’m to meet them at the office of Burgess Dowden.”

A slow nod was The Shadow’s response. In the steady manner of Henry Arnaud, he entered the car and took the wheel. Clyde joined him.

“Remain at the Paulington House,” ordered The Shadow, in Arnaud’s steady tone. “Await instructions; and have reports available. I shall require this car.”

“All right,” agreed Clyde. “The sheriff found nothing up on the slope. It looks like there’d been people around there, all right, but none of them left enough traces to count.”

“Did he discover anything at the cabin?”

“Nothing. But he says - and it sounds likely, too - that whoever blew the place up could have gone around and picked up any traces of - of -”

“Of the man who died there.”

Clyde had hesitated, choked as he sought to utter the name of Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s response, in level, solemn voice, had completed the sentence for him.

Clyde nodded. He appreciated the fact that The Shadow had spoken without mentioning Harry’s name. To Clyde, the tragedy was as great as it had been to Cliff Marsland.

The Shadow was driving toward the fork and Clyde studied his masklike countenance as they jounced from the bad road. In the features of Henry Arnaud, he saw an inflexible, unyielding expression.

Grim fervor seized Clyde Burke. Like Cliff, he had vowed vengeance upon murderers.

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