The Ghost Makers

Had there been valuables in the safe, Slade might have had difficulty in resisting the temptation to purloin them, for he was a crook through and through.

He had learned, however, during his stealthy search, that Thomas Telford kept all stock certificates and valuable items in safe-deposit vaults.

A taxi wheeled up to the bungalow, and Thomas Telford alighted. Slade advanced with a warm greeting, to help the old man with his suitcase.

Thomas Telford shook his head and strode directly into the house. Slade, watching in surprise, saw the old man enter the room where the safe was located. The door slammed behind him. What was the meaning of this? Martin Slade's brow became furrowed. Had Telford learned something that had put him wise to the deceptive game that Slade was playing? It seemed a logical explanation of the old man's action.

Slade strolled about the terrace, wondering what would be the best course to follow. The sun had set. Long, flickering streaks of darkness were on the lawn. Early evening, and still Martin Slade paced up and down. Thomas Telford had not left that room. Slade sensed that it would be a bad mistake to interrupt him in his present mood. The crook was playing a crafty, waiting game. The gloom of night felt oppressive. Slade was ill at ease, almost as unexplainably nervous as he had been on the night when he had first entered this bungalow.

He stopped pacing to listen outside the screen door. He saw Thomas Telford come from the closed room and go upstairs to the small second floor. The old man did not glance at the screen door as he passed.

This was Slade's cue for action. Quickly, he slipped into the house, and entered the room that Telford had left. The door brought him in past the safe. He stopped at Telford's desk in the corner and looked about. The room did not seem oppressive now.

On the desk, Slade saw some typewritten sheets of paper. He scanned the upper one, and certain words caught his eye immediately. This was evidently a statement that had been dictated by Thomas Telford. Slade read:

This day, in Baltimore, I have received proof positive that my son is dead, and the man posing as my son is an impostor. Should I be unable to rid myself of him, keep this statement as evidence that I knew he was not James Telford. My will is made out in his name, but I intend to change it when my lawyer returns to New York. Reasons why I do not want the impostor to know that I have suspected him—

Slade had read enough. He did not need the details. He realized that Telford, absent-mindedly, had left the paper here. The old man might return at any minute. Slade started to leave the room. Then his eye spotted a silver water carafe, with a glass resting beside it.

With a shrewd expression, Martin Slade drew a small phial from his pocket. He uncorked it and poured a colorless fluid into the glass, which contained a little water.

Telford drank a great deal of water, as a habit of health. Each afternoon, the housekeeper refilled the carafe. Evidently Telford had taken a drink already. It was probable that he would take another. Slade strolled from the room. Out on the porch, he heard Telford coming down the stairs. The old man called through the screen door.

"Jim!"

"Oh, hello, dad," responded Slade, opening the door.

"Sorry I was so brusque to-night," said Telford. "I was worried— worried about something that occurred in Baltimore. An old friend of mine told me— told me that he was very ill. Incurably ill. It was a great blow to me, you understand."

He was walking toward the door of the room where Slade had been. The shrewd crook followed the old man, and stopped by the door as Telford entered. The old man reached the desk, and swung around to see his pretended son at the door.

"Were you going to the city, Jim?" he asked.

"Yes, dad," replied Slade.

"Why don't you go now, then?" inquired Telford. "I can meet you at Rajah Brahman's meeting, to-night. I have work to do here, for a while."

"A good idea, dad," said Slade. "I'll see you then."

He hesitated momentarily as he saw Thomas Telford reach for the carafe. The old man filled the glass, and raised it to his lips. He walked over toward the door, and patted Slade on the back.

"See you later, Jim," he said, in an odd tone.

Slade turned and left the room. He threw a parting glance, and saw Telford, one hand on the door, the other holding the glass to his mouth. The old man was drinking the water.

Going upstairs, Slade began to scheme. He was figuring an alibi. He did not believe that any one had seen him here at the bungalow. The old man had dismissed the cab driver before Slade had come forward to help him with the bag.

Therefore, it could easily be proved that young James Telford was in New York all afternoon. Slade knew well how alibis could be arranged.

The liquid that Slade had poured into the glass was a strong, tasteless poison. Slade had used it on previous occasions.