The Condor by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
Amazon: B003AYPUDA
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1935-06-15T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN AT THE MILL

THICK darkness lay beneath overhanging trees. Silence of night was disturbed only by the ripple of a little stream. Then, barely audible in the gloom, came the closing of a door, followed by a momentary swish.

The Shadow had found the side road to the old mill. He had followed it until he discovered an open space beside the road. There he had parked the coupe, between the road and the stream close by. His car was well obscured by the surrounding trees.

Moving stealthily along the bank of the stream, The Shadow chose a sure course toward the old mill. Despite the sloshing mud that brinked the water, he progressed so silently that all sound of his advance was covered by the babbling of the stream.

At the end of one hundred yards, The Shadow encountered a structure of wood. It was the trough of an old millrace, a crude flume that came from a dark building bulking up ahead.

The Shadow followed this new line. He reached the wooden wall of the mill; moved to the right across a shaky timber; then skirted the side of the building to find the dim light of a window.

Here The Shadow edged head and shoulder to the lower corner of a grimy pane. The glass was absent from the upper sash. As The Shadow looked into the building, he could hear the sound of muffled voices.

Two men were seated in an oddly furnished room. It had once been combination office and storeroom; now it had been fashioned into a crude living room. In one corner, The Shadow saw a battered counter; in another, shelves that were sturdy in construction. There was a roll-top desk beyond the counter; a stove in the center of the room.

Added to these relics of the mill's forgotten glory were stuffed chairs and heavy tables that had come from an old-fashioned parlor. The illumination was provided by two kerosene lamps; the light was sufficient to show the faces of the occupants.

One was a brawny, long-limbed man whose face was hatchetlike. Hard-eyed, smooth-shaven, this individual was dressed in clothes that were new, but poor in fit. It was plain that he must be the proprietor of the old mill.

The other was a gawky, dull-faced rustic, whose chinless lower jaw was engaged in gum chewing. Seated on the edge of a chair, his elbows slouched upon a table, this youth was drawling in a high-pitched voice.

"You know, Uncle Hiram," he was saying, "folks was a-tellin' me that this here old mill oughta be opened up again. Hain't many places hereabouts where they kin get the kinda flour they like."

"No?" queried the hatchet-faced man gruffly. "Well, if the folks you talk about would mind their own business, it would be more to my liking."

"They say you've got enough money to start it goin' again, uncle," put in the youth. "They allow that you was right smart buyin' an' sellin' property. They say there ain't no need for a man to be retirin', when he's no older than you be.

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