Rajah Brahman, clad in full Oriental regalia, was listening at a secret panel which opened into his reception room. A smile gleamed upon his dark-dyed face. Carefully, he opened a slot in the panel. His keen eye peered through and observed the visitors who had assembled.
There were nearly twenty persons present all of them people of affluence. Shrewdly, the rajah took account of their identities.
The throng was about equally divided into men and women. Among the latter was the wife of a rich Chicago packer — a woman worth more than a million in her own right. She had come with hopes of communicating with a child that had died in infancy. Rajah Brahman smiled. He saw a man from Los Angeles an elderly gentleman who had long since retired from business. He was a regular contributor to the many mediums who thrived in the metropolis of southern California. A good prospect — but one who should be worked slowly, he had been corralled by the leader of the psychic circle in Los Angeles.
Weaned from his many spiritualistic interests, this man from the Pacific coast had made a special trip to New York to attend the seance of the renowned Rajah Brahman, whose fame lived everywhere. In a corner stood two men; both legacies from the now defunct circle once conducted by Professor Raoul Jacques. One of these was Benjamin Castelle — a skeptic, but a wealthy man whose presence was desirable.
The other was Thomas Telford, the prospective dupe whom Jacques had recommended. Rajah Brahman smiled once more. Those notes that Jacques had left were to prove useful even though the Hindu seer pretended that he had no need of them.
A middle-aged woman attracted the rajah's attention. This was Mrs. Garwood, from Philadelphia. One glance told the renowned rajah that here was a true believer. Impressed by the crude demonstrations of Anita Marie, she would be an easy mark.
The mystic's forehead wrinkled as he noted the young man who stood beside her. This was the nephew of whom Anita Marie had spoken. His presence was not pleasing to the seer. One last glance showed Arthur Dykeman, an elderly, gray-haired man who stood moody and alone, his face worn with care and unhappiness. He had come here to seek word from his lost daughter, the only child who had been in line for his millions.
Stricken with grief, the miserable father was willing to pay thousands for one brief glimpse of his departed child. So far, he had received but little solace.
To-night, Rajah Brahman reflected, happiness would come to the tired spirit of that man. Short happiness for Arthur Dykeman; continued profit for Rajah Brahman and his chief.
The tiny opening closed. Rajah Brahman walked into a darkened hall. He found Imam Singh — otherwise Tony — seated, turbanless, at a table, with a pair of earphones adjusted to his head. A sheaf of penciled notations showed that the assistant had been keeping close tabs on the discussions that were going on in the reception room. For the earphones were connected with a dictagraph that was hidden on the wall of the other room.
Rajah Brahman smiled and stroked his false beard as he watched Imam Singh at work. He reached out, removed the earphones from the man's head, and placed them over his own ears. Seating himself at the table, he listened intently, then pointed to the door. Tony understood the signal. It was his cue to usher the guests into the seance room. The servant put on his turban and left. The babble from the earphones died away. Tony returned and stood waiting. Rajah Brahman was carefully scanning the written notations.
"Good work, Tony," he said. "Wait for your cue — after I finish with Mrs. Furzeman, the fat woman from Chicago."
"O.K.," said Tony.
"You'll have plenty of time to make up," declared Rajah Brahman. "Is the table all loaded?"
"Yes."
"Let's go, then!"
Rajah Brahman was an imposing figure as he strode into the seance room. Faithful Imam Singh preceded him and stood waiting for the appearance of the master. Arms-folded, standing at the left of the throne, Imam Singh brought an awed silence to the seated group.
When Rajah Brahman appeared, a slight buzz of admiration arose, but it was quickly silenced by an impressive glare from the medium's dark eyes.
Seating himself upon the throne, Rajah Brahman assumed the passivity of the golden Buddha. After a few moments, his head turned slowly, and his eyes met those of different persons in the group. They singled out the woman from Chicago, and noted her enraptured gaze.
They rested calmly upon the face of Arthur Dykeman, the bereaved father. Finally, they stared directly at the face of Benjamin Castelle.
A faint smile appeared upon the skeptic's lips as he met the seer's challenging stare. Rajah Brahman was unmoved. He saw the smile fade slowly away.
"I speak," declared the rajah, in a voice that bore a foreign tone, "to those who are willing to see the light. To all others I say that your presence here is purposeless.
"I see among you some of the faithful who have learned my first lessons in Hindu occultism. I may say that all mediumship has originated in the Orient— among the Yogi of the Himalayas and the Mahatmas of Tibet.
"It is from such masters that I have learned my hidden knowledge. This must be understood by all who have not yet been versed in the true development of psychic mediumship.
"I see one" — the rajah's eyes assumed a glassy stare — "who has suffered a grief more recent than all others. One woman among you has come here tonight because she seeks advice of a person on whom she has relied for years."
The seer's head turned and stared directly toward Maude Garwood. The widow pressed her nephew's arm, as she sighed in rapture. The stern face of the rajah softened.
"All cannot cross immediately the barrier that lies between the earthly plane and the astral," he declared.
"Your husband, madame" — a gasp of astonishment came from Maude Garwood — "has not yet reached the higher plane from which I can hope to conjure his spirit. But perhaps I may gain a message of hope." He clapped his hands three times, and Imam Singh bowed before the throne. The rajah spoke a few words in Hindustani.
The servant walked to the side of the room, and returned with a tall, gilded table. He placed it before the throne. Opposite, he set a large chair. He turned toward Mrs. Garwood, and made a salaam. The woman understood. She was to seat herself in the chair.
She arose with a short, happy glance toward her nephew, and sat opposite Rajah Brahman.
"It is in the dark that spirits manifest themselves," stated the seer. "But as conditions are not yet such that I can produce a complete manifestation of your departed husband, I believe that we may accomplish our wish without the aid of darkness."
He clapped his hands thrice, and Imam Singh approached with a large slate. Rajah Brahman asked that it be passed about the circle. Meanwhile, he spoke softly to the woman who sat before him, murmuring a jargon of English and a foreign tongue.
Imam Singh arrived with the slate, and placed it on the table. He added a piece of chalk. Ignoring the chalk, Rajah Brahman showed the slate. He requested Maude Garwood to put the slate under the table, holding it in her own hands, keeping its upper side against the under surface of the table. The woman complied with the request.
"This semblance of darkness," declared the rajah, "may bring us the message that we require. Let us listen."
An impressive silence followed.
"Let me remove the slate," suggested Rajah Brahman.
He did so, and placed the object on the table. The upper side of the slate was still blank The seer viewed it thoughtfully.
"Perhaps," he said, "a declaration of your identity might induce a response from the spirit. Will you write your name upon the slate, with this chalk?"
Maude Garwood complied.
"One moment," said the rajah. "Is there any one here whom you know — one in this circle who could identify the writing of both yourself and the one who has departed?"
"My nephew," declared Maude Garwood.
"Request him to join us," said the mystic.
Dick Terry approached and stood on one side of the table. Imam Singh was opposite him. Dick noted his aunt's signature upon the slate. He saw Rajah Brahman lift the slate and place it in Maude Garwood's hands.
"Beneath the table," said the medium. "That is right. But be sure to turn it so your signature is downward. Spirits, like mortals, write from above. Listen!"
The final word commanded silence. The room was breathless. A soft scratching sound seemed to come from the table. The noise ceased Rajah Brahman nodded to Maude Garwood. The woman brought forth the slate and placed it on the table.
There, in chalk, was written the message:
You were right, Maude, dear. Have faith. My spirit will be with you. Geoffrey.
"My husband's writing!" exclaimed Maude Garwood. "Look, Dick! Geoffrey's own words." Dick Terry scanned the words. He was familiar with his uncle's hand. He was forced to admit that every stroke, even to the signature, was a facsimile of Geoffrey Garwood's inscription.
Dick's face appeared puzzled. Then, with a sudden thought, he reached quickly forward and turned over the slate!
Rajah Brahman smiled. On the opposite side appeared Maude Garwood's signature, exactly as she had written it. Dick was dumfounded.
Imam Singh politely lifted the slate and passed it around the circle. He brought it to Maude Garwood, who had returned to her own chair. He let her keep the slate, and the woman smiled while her tear-dimmed eyes shone.
The table was carried away by the Hindu servant. Thoughtfully, Rajah Brahman stared into space.
"I see a little child," he stated, "a child living in the spirit realm. A child who has dwelt in the astral plane since infancy. Does anyone recognize the spirit? It is close to one who is here to-night — close to a woman in our midst."
The woman from Chicago was nodding. Rajah Brahman motioned to Dick Terry and to Benjamin Castelle. He extended his arms and asked each man to stand beside him. Simultaneously, the lights went out as Imam Singh pressed the switch.
"Hold my wrists, good friends," said Rajah Brahman. "Hold my wrists. One on either side." The men obeyed. They could feel the mystic's arms touching them. A long sigh came from the medium, then a short moan. A tiny flicker of light floated about in the air above the sitters. The light grew; then gradually disappeared. It emerged again and developed into a flitting, luminous form. It took the vague shape of a baby that floated back and forth, close to the floor, then high above the heads.
Directly from the spirit shape came a low, baby cry. It grew louder; then faded. With its passing, the tiny shape began to disappear, exactly as though it were entering an unseen dimension of space. A prolonged gasp came from Rajah Brahman. He wrenched his arms, and for a moment, Dick thought the man would totter from the throne. Then came his call to Imam Singh.
The lights appeared to show Rajah Brahman, with arms outstretched, leaning upon the two men for support.
Eyes looked toward the ceiling. There was no sign of the vanished spook.
Mrs. Furzeman was at the rajah's throne, pouring forth her gratitude. She had recognized the spirit of her child. For the first time, she had seen a full materialization.
The rajah bowed in acknowledgment of her thanks. He could see that the entire group was awed, and now he prepared for the greatest spectacle of the evening.
A cabinet, mounted on a light but broad platform, was carried forward by Imam Singh. The spectators watched curiously as the Hindu servant arranged it in the center of the circle. The cabinet had upright corner rods and a thin, black top.
There were curtains at the sides; these were controlled by a single tasseled cord, the end of which was carried to Rajah Brahman by his servant.
Imam Singh went to the wall, and changed the lights until only a mild, indirect glow produced a soothing luminosity. Under that illumination, the high ceiling alone showed traces of light. The floor all about the cabinet was vague and obscure.
Not even the white-clad Hindu servant was visible. Only a faint sparkle from the costume of the jeweled rajah reflected the lights from above.
"Within these curtains," said Rajah Brahman softly, "I shall materialize a spirit — one that someone here shall recognize. Be thoughtful in your speech with the spirit. Remember that it will appear from another plane—"
The voice ended as the curtains swished down. The rajah had released the cord. A tenseness came over the circle. Minutes ticked slowly by, until the rajah drew the cord to raise the curtains. The bare vacancy of the cabinet was scarcely discernible.
"Let us wait," said Rajah Brahman solemnly. "My psychic vision shows that one will soon be with us—" As his mystic tones dwindled, all eyes watched the cabinet. A luminous spot was appearing upon the platform, which stood a foot above the floor. The spot enlarged. It became a shapeless mass. Taller, taller it grew, until a radiant form of light stood swaying in the cabinet. The outline of a human face was visible. It turned about as though seeking some one in the circle. It stopped, and as it lingered, those who watched saw the countenance of a beautiful young girl.
"My daughter! Stella!" The cry came from Arthur Dykeman, the man from Cincinnati. Dykeman was pressing forward; seeking to grasp the ethereal vision, but the materialized girl waved him back. A voice came from the spirit — a plaintive murmur — and Dykeman paused to listen to its message.
"I must return to the astral plane," were the words. "I cannot linger long to-night. I have found the guide who can bring me here again. Have faith, dear father. Have faith."
"Are you happy, daughter?"
"Yes, father. All is happiness on the higher plane. All is happiness—" The spirit extended her hands.
"You may touch her hands," said Rajah Brahman, in a low tone. "Be careful, that is all. She is completely materialized. Step back when she commences to sway—"
Dykeman was clasping the hands of the gorgeous spirit. The form shimmered weirdly, and the father moved away. Still, the form remained.
"She is waiting for you to speak," said Rajah Brahman. "She wishes a token of your love — a token of remembrance—"
Arthur Dykeman was fumbling in his pockets. He brought out a jewel case. As he opened it, the sparkle of gems showed as they reflected the dazzling luminosity of the spectral vision. The girl spirit was out of the cabinet, now — a few paces forward.
"Your jewels, darling" — Dykeman's voice was faltering — "your own jewels — those that belonged to your mother before—"
One by one, the man placed the glittering rings upon the fingers of the shining, extended hands. As the task was ended, the form began to sway. Dykeman stepped back, and the vision dwindled. It moved toward the cabinet; there it became a swirling patch of light, until finally all was blackness. The curtains swished upward.
A long silence followed. At last, Rajah Brahman spoke, in a low, weary voice.
"I no longer feel the presence of my spirit guide. Like the materialized form, he has returned to the astral plane."
The man on the throne clapped his hands, weakly. Lights came on in the room. Imam Singh was standing by the door. Rajah Brahman was reclining on his throne.
He dropped the tasseled cord as Imam Singh approached. The servant drew the cord to reveal the bare cabinet. He drew the contrivance away to the side of the room.
The sitters knew that the seance was ended. Some obeyed the gestures of Imam Singh, who motioned them toward the reception room. Others, a trifle more bold, approached the rajah's throne. All had been impressed by the amazing seance — particularly the ones who had seen spirits which they recognized.
Dick Terry and his aunt were close by when Benjamin Castelle was speaking to Rajah Brahman.
"A wonderful demonstration," Castelle was saying. "I am a skeptic, you know, but seances such as this will make me a believer. This gentleman" — he indicated Thomas Telford, standing near — "told me that he was anxious to speak to you. He is new in psychic research—"
Rajah Brahman was looking toward Telford. He saw a tall, elderly gentleman, whose face was mild and whose eyes were half shut. He motioned to the man to approach. With one hand on Telford's shoulder, the seer spoke in a low voice.
"I saw a spirit form near you tonight," he said. "I know that there is a message for you — a message that concerns you gravely. Have faith. Perhaps, at my next seance, I can prevail upon that spirit to speak.
"Rome was not built in a day. We must not hope to commune with the spirits too rapidly. But soon — I promise you — soon."
The mystic sat upright on his throne, and folded his arms. Those who understood, knew that he was preparing for his hour of contemplation when he sought the advice of his spirit guide. The little group moved away and went to the reception room. Imam Singh closed the door behind them. In the reception room, Maude Garwood was speaking in rapture to her nephew. The two were alone.
"Wasn't it wonderful, Dick?" she asked. "The message from Geoffrey — ah! Perhaps I may see him as that man saw his daughter — that was wonderful, Dick!"
"Yes," grunted Dick, still unconvinced. "Wonderful, the way he passed over fifty thousand dollars' worth of jewelry. This rajah is clever, Aunt Maude— very clever — but he is a faker!" Maude Garwood was protesting as they left the room. Dick Terry was not listening. His hand had gone to his coat pocket — and as they were riding downstairs in the elevator, Dick was wondering about an object that he had discovered there.
When they reached the lobby, Dick went out to find the limousine, which had been forced to park a distance away from the hotel. By the light of a street lamp, he brought the object from his pocket. It was a large gold watch. Dick placed it to his ear. The watch was not running. He stared at the dial, then tried to open the case. He could not budge it.
How had he obtained this timepiece? Dick could give no explanation. Unless it had materialized in his pocket, there was no way of explaining its presence there. Dick pocketed the watch in bewilderment. Then, to his ears, came the slight echo of a startling laugh. Strange, sinister tones that seemed to have no author. Dick glanced about him, startled. There was no one nearby.
The ripples of the laugh died away. The sound was more uncanny than the strange manifestations that had taken place in Rajah Brahman's seance room.
What was the meaning of that laugh? Had some one — a weird phantom of the night — seen him glancing at the mysterious watch? Were there really spooks, that came and went in the darkness?
Dick Terry was bewildered more than before. He felt that he was on the border of the unexplainable. He did not know that he had heard the laugh of The Shadow!