The Ghost Makers

Anita Marie stood up to indicate that the interview was ended. Dick waited until his aunt was standing before he performed the courtesy of rising. Maude Garwood was opening her pocketbook, but Anita Marie stopped her with a sweeping gesture.

"I'm achargin' you nothin', missis," she announced, looking sidewise at Dick as she spoke. "I'm atryin' to help you. I'm adoin' good to others. There's no charge for what I'm atellin' you." The maid came in with Dick's hat. The sudden appearance of the servant made Dick presume that the maid had been listening while he had been talking alone with his aunt, and that Anita Marie had received relayed word of the situation before she had entered the room.

"Thank you, Anita Marie," declared Maude Garwood. "I shall visit Rajah Brahman as soon as he is ready to receive me. You have helped me wonderfully, Anita Marie."

Accompanied by her nephew, Maude Garwood left the house. Dick Terry stared back as he went down the steps. He could see the bulky form of the medium, behind the curtained window of the door. Inside the house, Anita Marie was glowering. She was giving way to the suppressed rage which she felt toward the unwelcome visitor who had accompanied her client. She called to the maid.

"Pack up my bag!" she ordered roughly. "I'm agoin' to New York tonight. I'm not agoin' to wait no longer."

The maid hurried away, and the medium marched up the stairs. Hardly had her heavy footfalls died before there was a motion in the dim hall. From an obscure spot, a tall, black-clad figure emerged. A soft laugh sounded from unseen lips. It was an echo — almost noiseless— of those sardonic tones that had thrown consternation into Anita Marie's seance room, last Saturday night. The sinister figure glided across the hall and noiselessly opened the door. As the tall form vanished through the opening, it seemed to melt away. A believer — had one been present — would have sworn that a spirit form had de-materialized itself.

The weird stranger was gone; the only trace of his farther progress was the appearance of a fleeting splotch of blackness as it drifted past the glare of a lamp-post on the street. The Shadow had seen. The Shadow had heard. The Shadow had departed.

Chapter VIII — The Man from India

Another seance was in progress. This was far more impressive than the one that Joe Cardona had observed in the home of Anita Marie. A master was at work, and those who surrounded him were more than mere believers. Their countenances wore the enthralled look of disciples. Not only was the group a remarkable one; the surroundings themselves were impressive. It seemed as though this little cluster of enraptured persons had been transported from the matter-of-fact atmosphere of New York to the glorious environment of India.

There were only half a dozen persons in the room, and their evening clothes betokened them as members of New York's upper strata of society.

The leader of the throng was attired in a splendid Oriental costume. He sat in a thronelike chair near one end of the impressive room, the walls of which were hung with shimmering tapestries woven in cloth of gold.

The smoke from two incense burners floated up in wreaths about the golden image of a solemn-faced Buddha.

Rajah Brahman was the medium. He was ending the first seance that had marked his return to New York. Only the most faithful had been permitted to attend this initial meeting. Now that they had heard the mystic's words of wisdom, and his promises of future marvels, they were awaiting his command to leave.

As was his custom, Rajah Brahman must spend the later hours of the evening in contemplation of the vaster things of life. He was about to commune privately with the spirits of the other world; to learn all hidden things which he would later reveal to his disciples, when he summoned them again. Clad in a golden robe that bore the symbol of a hooded cobra, his head adorned with the resplendent turban worn by the highest caste in India, the rajah's dark-hued face was that of a man of superior knowledge. His close-cropped beard gave him a masterful appearance; his dark, glittering eyes transfixed themselves upon each true believer as he stared upon each in turn. Rajah Brahman clapped his hands three times. The sharp sounds echoed through the gilded room. The tapestries seemed to waver as though controlled by the action. A slender, white-clad Hindu entered the room, and stood toward the enthroned master.

This servant, Rajah Brahman's faithful Imam Singh, bore himself with the same solemnity as his master. He reached the throne, and stood at the left side, arms folded, his youthful face stern and inflexible. This was his appointed place.

No one ever stood upon the right of Rajah Brahman's throne. That was the spot where the master received his spirit guide.