The Ghost Makers

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!

Chapter XIII — Believers and Skeptics

"There's Telford. Take a look at him, Slade."

Martin Slade, peering through the narrow crevice that opened into Rajah Brahman's reception room, spied the tall, gray-haired man upon whose face appeared signs of anxiety.

"Remember. You'll call him dad, pretty soon. I'm going to sell him the idea to-night." Rajah Brahman, turbaned and whiskered, was standing in the darkness beside Slade as he spoke. A low response came from the man who was to play the part of James Telford.