It was exactly forty-eight hours later that Martin Slade again appeared in Rajah Brahman's luxurious apartment. He came in a spirit of elation.
Although the night was warm, Slade was wearing a light overcoat, and he did not divest himself of the outer garment until he was received in Rajah Brahman's sanctum.
He found the false mystic in the natural guise of Bert Clutten. There had been no visitors to-day. It was a Hindu day of repose, and Rajah Brahman was smooth-faced and clad in dressing gown and slippers. He looked up shrewdly as Slade arrived, and smacked a small portfolio upon a chair.
"I've got the whole works!" exclaimed Martin Slade. "Everything— here."
"I thought you were after it last night," declared Rajah Brahman.
"I laid low instead," explained Slade. "I wanted to make sure the old man was away. I got the lay of the place, and was lucky enough to hear that old housekeeper shouting at the top of her lungs over the telephone. Telling someone that the old man wouldn't be back until Tuesday morning — that's to-morrow."
"What about putting the stuff back?" questioned Rajah Brahman, opening the portfolio.
"I'll do it to-night," declared Slade. "There's plenty of time to go over it all and get it back there.
"I was worried about cracking the safe," he went on, "but the old crib was easy when I got started. Opened like the door of an ice box. Nothing to it!"
Rajah Brahman was sorting out the things that the portfolio contained. The expression in his eyes resembled that of a man who has discovered a gold mine. Here were letters clippings — everything that he desired.
Tony — as much Imam Singh as ever — arrived at his master's call, bringing paper and pencil. Cross-legged on the floor, Rajah Brahman began to take notes, calling Martin Slade to sit beside him. As the minutes went by, the two men gained a perfect account of the past history of young James Telford, Thomas Telford's son.
Rajah Brahman held a photograph in his hand. He looked at Slade thoughtfully. Then he called Tony.
"Take this downstairs and snap it," he ordered. "Wait a moment, Tony! Here's another!" Referring to his notations, Rajah Brahman selected a small snapshot that showed James Telford standing in front of a Louisiana bungalow. He gave it to Tony also.
"How much do you know about New Orleans?" he inquired of Martin Slade.
"I know it like a book," declared Slade. "Many's the night I've spent along Canal Street — and in the French quarter. I could give you the dimensions of Jackson Square from memory. The old town isn't what it used to be, though — a few years back, when I was there.
"How many years ago?"
"Five or six. Six, now I come to think of it."
"That's about the time young Jim Telford left there," said Rajah Brahman reflectively.
"I get you," said Slade. "Well, if you want any dope to spring on the old man, I can supply it. When you materialize the spook of the lost boy—"
"I don't need information about New Orleans," interrupted Rajah Brahman suavely. "I wanted to know what you knew about the town. It won't be necessary for me to go into details with Thomas Telford. I expect you to do that."
"You expect me—"
"Yes. In other words, there will be no materialization of James Telford."
"But" — Slade could not seem to understand — "but that's why I cracked the safe. You've got the dope, and you're not going to use it?"
"Look at this picture," said Rajah Brahman, thrusting a photograph of the missing man into Slade's hands.
"Did you ever see anyone who looked like that?"
"The face is familiar," said Slade doubtfully.
"Look at this, then." Rajah Brahman dug among the cushions of his lesser throne, and produced his mirror. "Look right into it, Slade. Then look at the picture."
The meaning dawned on Martin Slade. The man in the photograph bore a marked resemblance to himself, although the face was nearly ten years younger.
"I'm to play the spook?" he asked. "Is that the idea?"
"I said there would be no materialization," replied the seer, in an impatient tone.
"Then what's the gag?" asked Slade, still puzzled.
"The gag," said Rajah Brahman, "is that Martin Slade, after he accomplishes the bit of work he has to do with Dick Terry, will conveniently cease to exist as an identity. In his place, James Telford will suddenly reappear, to be restored to his father!"
Slade slapped his thigh.
"Great!" he exclaimed. "I get it now. You figure the real James Telford went down with the ship Castris, as the newspaper clippings indicate. But — so far as the world will know — he was saved, and will be restored to his father—"
"To his dad," corrected Rajah Brahman. "Don't forget that point. Remember, too, that your dad will call you Jim. Spend a while practicing that handwriting. That reminds me: when Tony comes up, I'll have him take some photographs of these letters, too."
"How will you figure in it?"
"How will I figure? I'm going to be the one who discovers where the missing son is! I'll be the instrument that effects the restoration!
"Then, when the soft-hearted old man wants to put cash into the endowment of my Hindu shrine, you, through gratitude, will urge him to do so."
"I'll be the only heir," said Slade thoughtfully.
"Right," declared the rajah. "If the game looks good enough, you can play the part of a loving son for a few years, if necessary. But if it begins to go sour, you can act in the meantime." Martin Slade nodded. Unsurpassed as a calculating devil who could put people out of the world by subtle methods, he saw an easy task in front of him.
"Tony is taking two pictures," declared Rajah Brahman. "One is for our reference. The other — the snapshot — will be in your possession when you find the old man. It tells all about it on the back of the original. There's every reason why you should have one.
"You can play the part, Slade. This is a better job than your old game of working as a butler or a secretary."
"It's the money!" exclaimed Slade, with enthusiasm. "It leaves you high and dry on those other jobs you have, though—"
"For a time," said Rajah Brahman, "but they can wait. I told the chief we were going to hit above a million on this present crop of suckers. I was way too low. We'll be able to retire after this goes through, along with the others. We'll keep on going, though. This will be just the beginning." The glint in Rajah Brahman's shrewd eyes showed the thoughts toward which his cruel mind was turning. Martin Slade was as gleeful as his comrade.
Tony arrived on the scene, and was given the letters and other documents to photograph. Rajah Brahman began to map out a campaign.
He made notations, and finally reached the point where he decided that further reference to the articles on hand was unnecessary.
"It all depends on you, Slade," he said. "Get going right away. The first job is to put all this stuff back in the safe. After that, lay low and spring the works on Dick Terry.
"When old Telford gets back, I'll give him a seance that will be the turning point of his life. Another soul will be made happy— thanks to Rajah Brahman."
The sarcasm in the man's tone made no impression upon Martin Slade. He was lost in enthusiasm over the clever scheme which was in the making.
Slade gathered the articles into the portfolio, and added the photographs and papers which Tony brought along. Then he left the presence of Rajah Brahman.
There was no thought of hidden shadows in Martin Slade's mind as he crossed the little anteroom. He left the Callao Hotel quietly, and entered his car that was parked outside.
He rode eastward, across the East River, and sped toward the part of Long Island where Thomas Telford kept his residence. The bungalow was on a side suburban street. Slade parked his car a block away, and stole across a vacant lot.
He pried open the window of a darkened room. He entered and crept along until he reached the small room in which the safe was located. There, with the glow of a small flashlight, he opened the safe and placed the portfolio within.
When he had closed the safe, Martin Slade listened. He was tense, for he knew that upon this one deed, the success of the future rested.
Slade flicked out the light. Although the room was soundless, he had a sensation that someone was watching him in the darkness.
What should he do?
HE doubted that Thomas Telford had returned. He could not imagine who else might be here. But it would be best to meet the menace now. Slade turned on his light, and swept it about the room. He trembled, and started to his feet as a long shadow seemed to project itself across the floor. It seemed ready to seize him in a sinister grasp.
He laughed a forced laugh as he saw that nothing but a fancied silhouette had frightened him. A large bookcase, its farther end projecting from the wall, had evidently caused the shadow. Slade, despite his trepidation, was sure now that he was alone in this house. Nevertheless, he cursed his folly in having used the light so recklessly. Extinguishing his torch, he crept to the other room. All the way, even while he was slipping through the window, Slade felt his fear returning. In eager, maddened haste to get away from this place, he clambered through the window, and tumbled to the ground. Regaining his feet, he hurried across the lot, and leaped into his car. Driving back to Manhattan, he felt ashamed of his timidity. Dread of that sort was something that Martin Slade had never before experienced. He tried to attribute it to nervousness, and finally succeeded. The room had not seemed uncanny the first time he had visited it. For once, due to his tenseness, his imagination must have gained the better of him.
All would be well, now! A report to Rajah Brahman — a report that would not include an account of the childish terror which had gripped him — and Martin Slade would be ready to become James Telford, when the proper time arrived.
His career as a murderer would be suspended — for a time. But, as usual, his mind was already turning to murder as the easiest way of gaining an evil purpose.
Free to act as he chose, he could watch and wait, after he had become James Telford. Then, his genius for crime would assert itself, as it had done so often in the past.
He thought of Rajah Brahman and the man whom the mystic termed as chief. They had found a use for Martin Slade's ability as a killer. They would find it as useful in the future as it had been in the past. The only element that disturbed Slade's evil contemplation was a momentary recollection of that darkened room. A shudder came over the murderer as he gripped the wheel more firmly. Eyes in the dark! He had sensed their presence. But the eyes had not been there. He had looked to see, and had noticed nothing.
But had Martin Slade been able to see within that room just then, his dread would have returned in all its forcefulness.
For, back in the home of Thomas Telford, a light switch clicked beside the projecting end of the bookcase. A shadowy blot appeared upon the floor, and spread toward the safe. A black-clad form stepped from behind the end of the bookcase and swept across the floor. A gloved hand turned the knob of the safe. The door swung open.
The Shadow examined the portfolio. He inspected its contents, and his unseen eyes studied every detail. The portfolio dropped back into its place. The door of the safe closed. The Shadow moved across the room, and the light went out.
A long, low laugh echoed through the stillness. More than ever before, The Shadow's mocking tones carried a foreboding note.
The eyes of The Shadow, hidden in the dark, had caused the fear that had swept over Martin Slade. The crook had instinctively felt the sinister presence.
Yet The Shadow, for some secret purpose, had spared the crouching murderer!
What was the reason?
Only The Shadow knew!