The stack of letters had dwindled by half during Bruce Duncan's reading. Bruce stopped for a moment's rest, and rubbed his eyes. Then he moved the last letter that he had perused, noting the sizes of the two heaps. Those that he had read were on the right; the unread letters were at the left edge of the desk.
Bruce had not neglected to read a single word. It had been an interesting task, this exploration into the adventurous life of his uncle. The letters had been mailed from many parts of the world, and they went into great detail over many matters.
Never before had Bruce Duncan realized the amazing features of his uncle's career. Remarkable facts and strange experiences were recounted in a simple, matter-of-fact manner. It seemed surprising that Isaac Coffran had been unable to recollect the contents of these letters.
Duncan resumed his reading. He had not yet reached the portion of his uncle's life that dealt with Russia.
Still, he had felt it wise to follow Isaac Coffran's advice and read all of the letters. There might be some slight clue in the early ones that would help later on.
Furthermore, he was gaining a valuable insight into his uncle's methods and purposes. This, he felt, was preparing him for discoveries that might come later on. The mere mention of a prominent Russian name might be the very thread of circumstance he sought!
He completed another letter. He felt a bit tired. How long had he been reading? It seemed scarcely more than an hour — more probably it was two or three. He was about to glance at his watch when he thought of Isaac Coffran's suggestion to forget time.
Rising from his chair, Duncan felt a sudden return of exhilaration. It surprised him. He realized that the air had become a bit stuffy, yet it seemed like a complete change now. He walked around the room. He stopped by the door, but did not try to open it. He looked at the button beside the desk. Well, he could summon Pedro if he wished. That might be a good idea, but he would read a few more letters first.
He sat at the desk. He seemed suddenly weary and out of breath. As he reached to the pile of letters at the left, he accidentally knocked them to the floor — all but one letter, the last of the group. Duncan picked it up and reached for the others.
As he stooped to the floor, a sudden feeling of nausea came over him. He seized the letters and as he held them, he began to choke. His throat seemed to form a solid lump.
It required a moment for him to recover after he regained his sitting position. He had picked up the loose letters hurriedly. In so doing he had added the final letter to the top of the pile. He was not aware of the fact, for he was fighting against an attack of temporary dizziness.
* * *
Duncan closed his eyes, and his senses returned. Mechanically he opened the letter that lay on top of the heap at the left. He began to read it, wearily, without actually noting the words. Then a sudden difference in the appearance of the note attracted his attention.
All of the previous letters had borne the introduction, "My dear Isaac." This one began with the simple statement, "Sir." Concentrating, Duncan followed each word. The task seemed laborious, his senses had become dulled. But even in his lethargic mental state, the full meaning of his uncle's writing burned itself into his mind with startling revelation. The letter read:
This is the end. For many years I have been a trusting fool. I believed in your friendship. I told you much. Now I know you for what you are — a fiend — a fiend that has assumed a human form! You have used the information that I have given you to prey upon helpless people. You have sought to injure me, but without avail. I know now why I was attacked in Singapore. I have found out the source of the plot upon my life in Russia. I thought the Reds were back of it. But you were the man who caused it! You have covered your tracks well. Only the man who tried to murder me in France could testify against you. He died beside me during an attack on the German trenches. He told me all, with his last breath. So you are safe. But your schemes can no longer reach me. I am on my guard. The secret that you seek will never be yours. I shall reveal it on my deathbed, and the one who hears it will be warned against you. No inkling of you and your evilness will ever appear in anything I write. I am too wise to trust such statements to paper. But my own words will tell—"
The letter fell from Bruce Duncan's hand. He had reached the end of the first page. He had learned all he needed.
Isaac Coffran was his uncle's enemy! The old man who had appeared so friendly had gained the secret after all. It was his messenger who had stolen the package and the envelopes!
Rising, Duncan felt that former feeling of exhilaration. His mind, suddenly responsive, grasped the details of what had happened.
Some one had visited his uncle. In his delirium, the dying man had fancied that Bruce had come at last.
He had revealed the message which he had intended for his nephew.
It could not have been Coffran. Even at the point of death, Uncle Harvey would have recognized his enemy. It could not have been the ape-faced man. It must have been a third person — an agent of Coffran's. It did not matter who it had been. The vital fact was that the secret had been learned.
While he, Bruce Duncan, had been ignorant of his uncle's enmity toward Isaac Coffran, there had been no need for murder. But now, since Bruce had admitted that he intended to detect the thief, he had become a menace.
He seized the letter and turned to the second page. He followed the denunciation that his uncle had written from the point where he had left off.
—the man who will continue to keep my trust. When your name is mentioned, he will be warned against another — your companion in crime, Bernardo Chefano — whose twisted lips will reveal his identity, no matter what disguise or alias he may employ. Chefano is clever, but you are cunning. Yet I defy you both and I—"
Dizziness was seizing Duncan. He had taken the chair again. He rose to his feet and gasped. The letter fluttered to the floor. Bending slowly forward, Duncan lowered his head inch by inch. Gradually he felt the sensation of weakness returning.
He rushed to the door. It was locked. Then he stood motionless, his mind alternating between fear and anger.
The room was a death trap! Locked in this small compartment, he was to be the victim of Isaac Coffran's fiendish methods. That was cruelly plain.
From somewhere — from hidden spots about the room, a slow, deadly poison gas was entering the compartment. It must be akin to carbon monoxide — a vapor that could not be sensed by smell. Heavier than air, it was creeping upward from the floor, gradually overcoming him.
The last letter that revealed the true Isaac Coffran would never have been reached by Bruce Duncan.
It was intended that he should die before he knew the truth. Now he had learned it. But to what avail?
He could cry for help; he could batter against the solid door. These efforts would all be futile; they would add to the misery of death.
He went to the desk and pressed the button. He waited. There was no response. Of course not. Isaac Coffran had probably received the signal and was gloating.
The air was stifling. Life, Bruce realized, was a matter of short duration, now. He might prolong it by standing upon a chair, with his head against the low ceiling. That would mean twenty minutes more, perhaps half an hour.
The little alcove attracted his attention. There was a button beside it — perhaps another signal. He staggered across the room and pressed the button. There was no result.
Should he lie on the floor and die? It might be best, he thought, but the ordeal was hard to face. No, he would defy Isaac Coffran to the last moment. He stood upon the chair and braced himself against the wall.
The relief was not great. Duncan fancied he could hear the insidious gas hissing into the death chamber.
Perhaps it was coming more rapidly now; possibly his imagination was ruling him.
He looked at his watch. Quarter past eleven. The room was beginning to whirl, so it seemed. He was losing his balance. In another minute, he would topple from his place of temporary security, and all would be over.
A sharp click came from across the room. He looked toward the oddly shaped nook in the corner. His eyes stared in sudden fascination. Was it fancy? No, it was reality! The corner section of the room, with its narrow opening, was slowly descending. Following it, from the ceiling, was emerging a sheet of solid wall.
For the fraction of a second, Bruce Duncan hesitated. In that infinitesimal space of time, a rush of conflicting thoughts filled his brain. Another trap! No trap could be worse than this. A terrible death! All death was terrible. A chance for life! It was a hope at least.
He plunged from the chair, holding his breath as he fell to the floor. As in a nightmare, in which muscles fail in their task, he fought his way across the room. The descending compartment was more than halfway down, yet he crawled through the breach, then slumped in a heap, completely inside the downward-moving alcove.
His smarting eyes caught one last glimpse of the gas-filled room. Then the opening was closed. He was in total darkness — a terrible darkness that seemed to smother him for an instant.
He opened his mouth and gasped; he breathed deeply. Through his nostrils came the reviving tonic of sweet air that brought relief to his bursting lungs.