The Middletown newspapers were splashed with glaring headlines. Sensational developments in the affairs of the County National Bank were of tremendous importance in the entire region. On the same night that Roland Delmar, the president of the institution, had committed suicide, Hubert Salisbury, the chief cashier, had slain the investigator who was seeking to learn the cause of disappearing funds.
The link between the actions of the president and the teller was found in Delmar's note.
That sentence, "It may be that the County National Bank has been robbed by some employee in whom we have placed mistaken trust," was damning in itself.
The fact that Delmar's statement added that Salisbury was working with Wellington was taken as further proof of Salisbury's falsity.
It seemed obvious that Salisbury had slain Wellington, because the investigator knew too much. The very circumstances of the killing bore that out. Salisbury's story was thin; yet he persisted in it. The local police were quizzing him, and were doing their best trying to break down his statement. It seemed doubtful that Salisbury had premeditated his crime. More than likely, Wellington had mentioned something that had shown Salisbury his thefts would be uncovered if the investigator remained alive. So he had slain Wellington in cold blood.
The startling revelation that the County National had lost a large amount of money, brought a surge of excited depositors to the doors of the bank and all its branches. The bank officials declared that the institution was sound, and could meet its obligations; but under the circumstances, they could gain no financial aid in time to avert the run.
So heavy were the withdrawals, that every one expected the institution to close its doors.
Yet, for a while, the County National held out amazingly well. It called in all funds, and paid off depositors in full. One hope was support from Harvey Bronlon. Had the feudal lord of the territory come to the aid of the stricken bank, withdrawals might have stopped. But Bronlon refused to help. With that announcement, two days after the trouble had begun, the County National closed its doors. Its branches crashed with it, and the lesser institutions dependent upon the central bank failed also. It had required a total lack of confidence to accomplish this, for a great percentage of the depositors had been paid in full before the doors were closed.
The Middletown Trust Company was the only bank left in the entire region. Those who had saved their money from the County National crash were wavering. Then, with a general rush, they began to deposit their money in the Trust Company.
At the same time, doubtful persons were withdrawing their money. The volume of business was tremendous. Ferret and Butcher were deluged with work, at the tellers windows.
Major was busy at his job; and over all, the benign countenance of Judge was there to promote confidence. The gray-haired bank president announced emphatically that deposits were exceeding withdrawals. And upon the heels of this announcement, Harvey Bronlon declared that he had complete confidence in the affairs of the institution.
This brought the situation under control. The people who crowded the Trust Company's office were there to put in money — not to take it out.
For Middletown was a most prosperous community, and the crash of its oldest bank was laid directly to the fact that many thousands of dollars had been taken from its treasury. Hubert Salisbury was denounced as the culprit. The police tried to force a confession from him. Thus did Middletown enter into the most exciting period of its history, when the great bubble of expansion and industrial development threatened to burst with the collapse of the staid old County National Bank.
But the inexhaustible funds of the Middletown Trust Company proved well that this newer institution was capable of serving the needs of the district.
It was during the first days of readjustment that a gentleman named Henry Arnaud registered at the Darthmore Hotel, the huge, modern structure that had been financed by Harvey Bronlon. There were many visitors to Middletown, and this man was merely another guest at the new hotel. Yet Henry Arnaud was of unusual appearance. Tall, quiet of demeanor, and deliberate in action, he wore a countenance that never changed in its expression.
On the day of his arrival in Middletown, he might have been seen watching the crowds surging into the County National Bank, which was destined to close its doors shortly afterward.
Two days later, Henry Arnaud appeared among the throng of persons who were transacting business at the Middletown Trust Company. There, he presented a traveler's check of one hundred dollars denomination. Ferret was the man at the window, and while the teller was comparing the signatures on the check, Henry Arnaud watched him with piercing eyes.
As Ferret looked up, Henry Arnaud's keen gaze faded. Ferret saw nothing surprising in his appearance.
"All right, Mr. Arnaud," he said. "Glad to cash this for you. Will you be in Middletown long?"
"I expect to be here for several weeks," replied Arnaud.
"Glad you will be with us a while," said the teller pleasantly. "Come in any time. Consider this your bank while you are here. How will you have the money?"
"A fifty, a twenty, and the rest in tens," suggested Arnaud. Ferret counted out the amount.
Arnaud walked away from the window; then turned back. He noted that Ferret was busy with another customer, and that a line had formed by the window. So Arnaud stepped into the shorter line by Butcher's window.
"Let me have change for this ten, please," he said to the second teller. "A five and five ones—" Butcher complied with the request. He started to place the ten-dollar bill at the left of the window; then swung his hand over to the right and dropped it there.
Pocketing his money, Henry Arnaud strolled from the bank. He walked leisurely along the block, studying his surroundings. He came to the downtown corner, and turned up the side street, stopping to look in different windows.
His slow, purposeless gait eventually brought him to the funeral parlor. Here, Henry Arnaud chanced to glance up. In the window, he saw the tall, mournful form of Deacon, garbed in his habitual black.
Deacon was staring out into the street. As Henry Arnaud gazed at the new undertaker, the eyes of the two met.
Each studied the other momentarily, with expressionless face. Then Henry Arnaud strolled onward, and the brief meeting ended. It was scarcely more than a passing glance, yet each of the participants retained an indelible impression of the visage that he had just seen.
Deacon's face clouded. It became more solemn than before. His eyes, staring across the street, visualized the countenance that he had seen.
Instinctively, Deacon was wondering about that passing stranger. He wondered what the impressive visitor's purpose was, here in Middletown.
The faint trace of a smile appeared upon the thin, straight lips of Henry Arnaud as the tall figure stopped before another window. He was picturing the face of Deacon.
The chance encounter was of vital moment to each man. Not a word had been spoken; not a sign given. Still, two keen intellects had been at work.
Deacon looked the part of an undertaker to perfection. Nevertheless, Arnaud had suspected some other reason for his presence here. Arnaud, in turn, had all the appearance of a chance passer-by; yet Deacon had seen a double purpose in his approach.
Returning to the Darthmore Hotel, Henry Arnaud purchased copies of the evening newspapers. He retired to his room and looked from the window, surveying the main street of Middletown. His gaze wandered over the city, and he seemed to be locating certain spots for future interest. Seating himself, Arnaud began a study of the newspapers. They told of the latest developments in the financial crash of the County National Bank.
Henry Arnaud finished his reading, produced a small pair of scissors, and carefully cut out the latest clippings. He added them to a pile of other items that he took from an envelope in his pocket. The entire collection formed a complete history of recent events in Middletown.
Arnaud quietly reread the account of the murder in the bank.
He noted the sensational story of Roland Delmar's death. With it was a facsimile reproduction of the note that had been found upon the banker's table.
This, Henry Arnaud laid to one side. He studied it again; then stared from the window.
His keen eyes seemed to be weaving their way through the buildings that lay below, seeking to learn secrets hidden within solid walls.
From his pocket, Arnaud took a wallet. He extracted a wad of bills. It was not a thick packet, but as the man laid each bill aside in turn, the value of the fund became apparent. The first bill in Henry Arnaud's bank roll was a gold certificate of ten-thousand-dollar denomination!
Then came a second; and a third. Five thousand-dollar bills followed, then a dozen intermingled hundreds and fifties.
Arnaud drew a few of the latter from the mass, and replaced the rest in his wallet. He counted the amount that he had retained — five hundred and fifty dollars in all. He thrust these bills in his vest pocket, as one would deal with small change.
Now, he brought forth the modest sum that he had obtained at the bank. He counted this money carefully: a fifty, a twenty, two tens, a five, and five ones.
After making a note of the serial numbers, he rolled the crisp notes, and slipped them in another pocket of his vest.
Again, Henry Arnaud's eyes were peering from the window. He was engrossed in thought, and as he stared, a soft laugh echoed from his lips. It was a strange, weird laugh.
Arnaud's left hand was resting on the window sill. Upon a finger glimmered an ever-changing gem — a translucent stone of fading and renewing hues. It was a rare girasol — unmatched in all the world. Had Deacon heard that laugh; had he been here to note that sparkling, mysterious jewel, his suspicions would have been justified. He would have known with certainty that Henry Arnaud was indeed one whose presence he might well fear.
For Henry Arnaud was The Shadow!