The room was pitch-black when Stuart Bruxton awoke. He recalled that he had been sleeping fitfully. Two or three times he had half awakened, fancying that he heard sounds near his door. The sounds had ceased on each occasion, when Stuart had uttered drowsy growls. Now, for the first time, he began to realize where he was.
A peculiar sensation gripped the back of his head. In the midst of chaotic recollections, Stuart remembered the drink that the old man had given him.
It must have been doped — probably a powder in the glass. The old man had turned his back when he had poured the drink.
The direct cause of Stuart's awakening had been his injured leg. It was twisted beneath him in a painful manner. He tried to stand up, and found that he was barely capable of the effort, due to stiffness. He felt for his coat, which he had thrown over a chair. He found his watch and a box of matches. He lighted a match and saw that the time was midnight.
The throbbing in his head continued, but Stuart, despite his weakness, felt the need of action. He looked about the room, lighting a few matches, and managed to make a careful inspection of the iron shutter. No escape from the window he decided. The shutter was barred from the outside. The door offered no encouragement. It was a huge barrier, that might have belonged in a medieval castle. Stuart found one of the chairs, and realized that its frailness rendered it useless as a battering ram against that door.
He listened, hoping to hear some sound. Even the faint whispers of the storm would have been gladdening, but the storm was evidently ended long ago.
Stuart wondered why his life had been spared until this hour. He remembered those noises outside the door. Perhaps they had been afraid to attack.
The only answer that seemed logical was that the old man might be alone in the house.
Perhaps Grady had gone on some errand.
Stuart realized, upon thought, that probably the pair thought he was armed, and were waiting to try some strategy. Whatever their plan might be, he felt that now he would be safe until morning. But there was no surety.
Back on the bed, Stuart continued to listen. He heard an occasional noise, seemingly at some distance from the room. It sounded like a creaking somewhere in the house, but it was repeated too often to be such an ordinary sound.
Stuart rubbed his forehead. It was growing very stuffy in this unventilated room. The house had seemed musty and chilly when he entered; now it was stuffy and warm. Breathing was a difficult task. Stuart seemed to have caught a cold during the eventful evening. But now his nostrils scented something. Smoke!
He listened in alarm. Now he knew what the noise was — the crackling of fire! A terrible thought swept over Stuart.
The old man had set the house on fire — and he was here to be burned alive!
There was no time for lingering, now. Furiously, Stuart battered at the iron shutter, but to no avail. He seized a chair and beat against the door.
He demolished the chair with a few strokes, and he seized the other one. The result was the same. Then Stuart smashed away with the broken pieces, until they were splintered to bits.
The barrier still remained unopened.
Wearied, Stuart rested on the side of the bed. It would take a miracle to save him now.
The old man's scheme was dastardly.
Stuart knew that the fire must have been kindled directly beneath this room. The old house was a stone-walled structure, but the interior was a mass of wood. Within a few minutes, the place would be a holocaust, and he would be the victim.
The building was in an isolated spot. The flames would only be visible on the side of the hill which Stuart had descended in his car. There, the bridge was down over the river.
Help would be delayed — and the worst thought was that if help did come, it would not start on its way until the flames were first seen. By that time the old building would be a mighty torch, flaming skyward. Stuart felt the heat greatly now. The crackling had become a furious noise. A lighted match showed him that a mass of smoke was coming in through the slender crack beneath the door. He could smell nothing but the smoke now; still, he was astonished at its volume.
Sounds broke loose in the walls. Timbers were giving way. Once the flames came through the floor, there would be an open way — but the route would be through a roaring furnace! He was trapped, with fire beneath, eating its way up the sides. A hopeless position, to be followed by a terrible death. The doomed man leaped savagely upon the bed, breaking it apart, seeking to use the pieces in another futile storming of the door.
Nevertheless, it was the only task that could keep Stuart's mind from the death that lay so close. He not only beat upon the door, he shouted at the top of his lungs, seeking to outdo the roaring crackle of the flames.
At last, as he broke a final bed slat upon the door, Stuart sank exhausted, incapable of effort or outcry. It was then that his fevered mind heard what seemed to be an echo to his pounding. The door reverberated with heavy strokes from the other side. Stuart shouted again and heard an answering word.
"Steady!" came a voice, that seemed choked with smoke. "Back from the door! I've broken the bolts. Here goes the lock."
Stuart heard a muffled revolver shot. Then another report. A third seemed to roar in his ears. It was fired through an opening in the door. The lock was broken. The door swung inward, Stuart crawling away to avoid its path.
The open doorway revealed an amazing scene.
A man was standing in the center of a surging swirl of smoke. All about him was a ruddy glow — the reflection of flames that were consuming the old house. The man was stooped forward, his head muffled by a coat, wringing wet.
As Stuart started to rise, he fell back, choked by the incoming smoke. The man stooped quickly and placed his own coat over Stuart's head.
Crawling, the rescuer spied Stuart's coat on the floor and picked it up. He threw this, likewise, over Stuart. Choking, he pressed the two coats together.
Stuart's coat was still somewhat damp from the rain. The added moistness sufficed to make it a good protection against the smoke. The stranger slipped the coat over his own head and tried to help Stuart to his feet.
Progress was slow at first. But Stuart, responding to his rescuer's heroic efforts, used all his strength. The man had dropped a revolver in his work; he picked it up. Together, Stuart and his companion made the stairs. There they began a terrible descent.
It was like a trip into an active volcano. The smoke came upward with blinding thickness.
Only by holding their coats tightly over their heads could the men make their way. Flames were licking up the side of the stairs. Some of the steps were charred. But ahead lay safety. The roaring furnace was directly beneath the room where Stuart had been, and the stairs led in the opposite direction.
Stuart was on the inside. The other man took the dangerous outer portion of the stairs.
Once his foot went through a burning step; he caught himself and continued.
The front door was straight ahead. It was partly opened. Before it seethed a ring of hot-tongued flame. Stuart staggered before they reached the bottom step. With a mighty effort, his companion seized him and dragged him roughshod through the fast-increasing blaze.
The rescuer used every ounce of strength to make the passage a rapid one. He virtually flung his helpless burden through the door and came staggering afterward. Then both men lay face downward on the rain-soaked drive, panting and choking.
Stuart felt his breath coming back; but he seemed incapable of motion. Behind him was the surging roar of the fire. A falling piece of wood landed blazing beside him.
But, again, the other man was equal to the task. Recovered from his furious fight through the smoke-filled house, he rose to his feet and lifted Stuart with him.
He lifted off the wet coats. Stuart saw the other man's face for the first time. Harry Vincent was the rescuer: but Stuart had never met him. He only knew that this brave chap had come in the nick of time. A few more minutes would have meant the doom of Stuart Bruxton.
"Come along," said Harry, "we've got to move!"
The warning was a timely one. The house, with flames sweeping from all corners, had become a menace at this close range. Burning beams were shooting outward and landing about it. Stuart limped along the driveway, by Harry's side. His companion noticed his difficulty, and gave him support on the left. They reached the road and turned toward the bridge. Stuart, trudging mechanically, never looked for the wreck of his car.
Harry was carrying the coats. He felt in the pocket of his own and produced a flashlight.
It was necessary, here along the ground, although the cloudy sky above was lighted with the glare of the burning house.
The light pointed out the fallen portion of the bridge — a section which extended downward from the nearest pier.
"Somebody got over by a rope, I think," said Harry. "I saw the end of it tied to the bridge.
We'll have to scramble for it — the way I came over. It's about twenty-five feet, but the water's hardly over your head here."
With that, he led Stuart to the edge of the swiftly moving stream, and the two plunged into the current above the fallen end of the bridge. Stuart was a good swimmer, but effort was difficult for him now. Harry helped him as they floundered through.
The current carried them downward, but before they were swept too far, they had covered the distance, and their feet were slipping on the fallen roadway of the broken portion of the bridge. Harry jammed Stuart against the rail and followed him. They made their way upward to the solid pier. From then on, the bridge was shaky, but safe. Weakened though it was, the center of the structure had not yet succumbed to the swollen branch of the shallow river.
To Stuart, this last stretch was more nerve-racking than all that had gone before. Each step seemed a tremendous ordeal.
They reached the road, and Harry urged his tired companion to a coupe that was parked sidewise off the edge of the road. Stuart entered and sank exhausted beside the driver's seat. The car spun madly up the hill as Harry shot it into second gear. They were driving away, posthaste, from the scene of the misfortunes that had almost overwhelmed Stuart Bruxton. They passed the barrier across the road. Here, Harry stopped long enough to replace it.
They continued upward, and at one spot Stuart looked to see great flames surging up above the treetops on the island, far below.
The coupe shot onward until it passed the fork that came in from the right. Then Harry, with a sigh of relief, slackened speed.
His mad pace had been a wise one, for they had traveled less than half a mile before they met a rural fire truck. After it followed half a dozen automobiles, at intervals.
Harry glanced over his shoulder. Through the rear window, he could see the dull glare of the horizon.
"They'll think we've come over the open road," was his only comment. This proved to be correct, for a man hailed them from beside the road. He was standing by a car that had developed motor trouble. The vehicle was loaded with natives. Harry slowed down and looked through the window.
"Where's the fire?" came the question. "Down on the lower road?"
"Guess so," said Harry.
"Could you see it from the upper road, coming from Herkimer?"
"Was just looking at it," answered Harry, stopping the car.
"Must be the old house on the island," said the man.
"Anybody live there?" asked Harry.
"No," was the reply. "The owner died a year ago, and the place has been closed up since.
Some old beds in there. Maybe some tramps were living in the place. Those bums often start fires, drat 'em!" Harry drove on, and as they rode, he spoke to the man beside him.
"My names Harry Vincent," he said. "Yours?"
"Stuart Bruxton. Thanks for pulling me out of that mess."
"Forget that part of it," Harry interposed. "What I want to know is how you got into it."
Leaning his head back against the corner of the coupe, Stuart recited his story. Harry listened intently, while his eyes watched the road.
The fact that Stuart had been mistaken for Powell interested Harry greatly. So did the description of the old man, and the naming of Grady, the murderer.
The whole situation began to clear in Harry's mind. Stuart's bluff that he had left the papers in the hotel was the key.
Unquestionably, the old man had begun to doubt that Stuart was Powell. He had sent Grady to investigate. If Stuart had been Powell, Grady would have tried to get the papers.
Meanwhile, chancing it that Powell had not come, the old man was on watch for him, while Grady was searching at the hotel. Grady must have come in while Harry was waiting. There had been some queer ducks entering the hotel at that time. Harry recalled that Powell's manner was a give-away, when he had come down to the desk. Harry noted that Stuart Bruxton was tall and somewhat like Powell in appearance, except that he lacked Powell's rather gawkish manner.
Assuming that neither the old man nor Grady had ever seen Powell, Stuart would have answered the general description. But in the lobby, Grady must have recognized the man they were really after.
Piece by piece, Harry figured that Grady had dashed back after the murder, carrying the papers. The old man had been waiting at the bridge. He had gone back and set the house on fire.
Then Grady had helped him across the breach.
Now, Harry recalled that he had met a single car, a mile before the fork in the road. That might have been the two men of whom Stuart spoke.
Harry had left the Burnham House after he had viewed Wallace Powell's body. But he had felt shaky and uncertain. He had never dreamed that the trail of the murderer would lead directly to that spot where Powell was awaited. Grady, speeding ahead, had increased his lead.
"My car!" said Stuart suddenly. "It's back there on the island — wrecked — "
"And rifled, probably," remarked Harry, thinking of the old man during Grady's absence.
"What did you have in it?"
"A suitcase — in back. That lock would be easy to break. I guess they took it and the license plates, too. If they got the bag, they know who I am."
"Where were you bound?" questioned Harry.
"Up to Massachusetts, to see some friends."
"Your family?" Vincent questioned.
"Not many in it. They're all abroad."
"Then if no one knew what became of you — "
"If no one knew!" interrupted Stuart indignantly. "Say, I want everybody to know! I'm going to get those murderers — "
"That's just it," interposed Harry. "I'm out to get them, too. Remember, murderers is what they are. You're the only man who can identify them. You're safe if they think you're dead.
"When we've talked this over, I think you'll agree that you're safer working with me, and that you'll have a better chance of seeing them landed, than if you go to the police."
"You're the boss," replied Stuart quietly. "You hauled me out. I'd be a bum sport if I didn't play the game the way you want it."
Harry Vincent grinned in the dark. He liked this chap. He believed that he would be a good man working for The Shadow. That could be settled after they reached Baltimore.
The night had started well — then had come failure. But that one incident — the purloining of Wallace Powell's road map — had turned disaster into gain. There were two men to be traced.
Harry had descriptions of both, and knew the name of one.
More than that, Harry had rescued a man who would prove useful in this campaign.
Tonight, a full report would go to Rutledge Mann — a record of events that would reach The Shadow. That report would state the simple fact that Harry Vincent had foiled one fiendish crime that the enemy had planned. And then, Harry knew, The Shadow would act!