“Drew Westling is entitled to his provision in the terms of the will. He is your cousin. He has a right to live with you at the old mansion. I know that you will treat him generously. Still, you must remember the existing facts. Give affairs a chance to adjust themselves. Be cordial to Drew, but make your renewed friendship one of slow culmination.”
“I appreciate the advice,” responded Carter. “It is well given, Mr. Tracy. Drew Westling’s lack of interest in my arrival gives me an excellent starting point. I shall be cordial and glad to see my cousin. But my experiences in foreign lands have shown me the folly of becoming too friendly all at once—even when a relative and boyhood chum is concerned.”
The men finished their lunch. Farland Tracy glanced at his watch and noticed that it was half past three.
“Holland must be here with the car,” said the attorney. “He will drive you to your home, Carter. I shall call tonight shortly before nine. It will apparently be no more than a chance visit; actually it will be a matter of greatest consequence. You understand?”
“Absolutely,” replied Carter Boswick. “You may rely upon me.”
The two men left the grillroom. Lamont Cranston remained. A few minutes later, an entering man stopped at Cranston’s table. It was Judge Vanniman Lamark, pleased to greet an old friend whom he had not seen for nine months.
As he chatted idly with the judge, Lamont Cranston still wore his thin smile. He was thinking of that appointment between Farland Tracy and Carter Boswick. He, too, would be there at nine o’clock.
But he would not visit the Boswick mansion as Lamont Cranston. Tonight, The Shadow would reappear to again play a hidden part in the destinies of Carter Boswick!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SECRET MESSAGE.
IT was eight o’clock that evening. Carter Boswick, back in his father’s old mansion, was pacing the floor of the gloomy hall. He spied Headley walking morosely toward the dining room. The servant turned as Carter spoke.
“Has Mr. Westling called?” inquired Carter.
“No, sir,” answered Headley.
“Very well, then,” said Carter, with a tone of impatience. “I shall go ahead with dinner.”
“It is ready, sir. Mr. Westling is usually quite late—”
The front door opened by way of interruption. Carter Boswick turned. His keen eyes studied a man who was entering. He saw a young fellow of slight build, whose carriage and pale features marked him of the lounging type. The arrival was holding a long cigarette holder in one hand. This added to his listless appearance.
For a moment the two faced each other. Then a light crept over the features of the man who had just entered. His eyes showed an unexpected sparkle. He sprang forward with hand extended.
“Carter!” he cried. “Carter!”
The enthusiastic greeting seemed genuine. Carter Boswick caught Drew Westling’s hand, and grinned at the cousin whom he had not seen for years.
They had been boys together—these two—and the physical superiority of Carter Boswick was even more marked than before. Drew Westling seemed pitifully frail beside the stalwart form of his newly returned cousin.
A few minutes later, the pair was seated at the dining-room table. The spontaneous meeting had brought a quick bond of unrestrained cordiality. They were talking over boyhood events with real enthusiasm. To Carter Boswick, this get-together had taken an unexpected turn.
“Do you remember that game we used to play so often”—Drew Westling’s voice had assumed a reminiscent tone—“and how exact we were in every detail?”
“You mean the duel between D’Artagnan and De Guise?’ smiled Carter.
“Yes,” nodded Drew. “We used those short billiard cues for swords, and chalked the ends of them so we could count the thrusts.”
“We must have played that battle a hundred times.”
“Right out of the pages of ‘The Three Musketeers’. We used to read the old volume of Dumas for inspiration—then change them into action. We passed that stage of life, though. Funny thing, Carter—Drew paused wistfully—“I never could think of reading a Dumas story again, after you went away.”
Carter made no reply. His cousin was thoughtful then returned to his reminiscences.
“The old duel,” he recalled. “The one game that Uncle Houston would tolerate about the house. Perhaps that’s why we played it so often. Remember how he used to watch us, Carter? How he used to criticize each thrust?”
Carter Boswick nodded. Drew Westling had brought back the one boyhood memory that was indelibly, impressed upon his mind. Only when he and Drew had fought their duel had Houston Boswick shown the real interest of a proud father and an indulgent uncle.
“Say, Carter”—Drew was on a more immediate subject—“it was pretty small of me not to meet you at the boat today. I knew you were coming in, and I should have called up Farland Tracy about it. But somehow, I’ve been pretty blue since my uncle—since your father—died. I was afraid you wouldn’t know, and I didn’t see just how—just how I could tell you. I thought if Tracy was there alone—”
“That’s all right, Drew,” interrupted Carter quietly. “I understand. I did feel mighty broken up. I’m glad I didn’t see you until now.”
DESPITE a resentful antagonism that he had held earlier in the evening, Carter Boswick now felt a warmth of kindliness toward Drew Westling. He recognized that his cousin was a weakling, but the sentiment in Drew’s nature did much to excuse that fault.
Just as dinner was ending, the doorbell rang. Headley answered it, and returned a few minutes later to announce that Farland Tracy was calling to see Mr. Boswick.
“Finish your dinner, old top,” Carter said to Drew. “I’ll see what Tracy wants. Probably a friendly call. You can join us later.”
Reaching the hall, Carter found Tracy standing with a warning hand uplifted. Carter nodded, and led the lawyer upstairs to the study. The room was lighted; the shade was drawn. Carter closed the door. Tracy motioned for him to turn the key. Carter complied, and the lawyer brought out a bundle of papers.
“We must go through these,” he stated.
The inspection began. Most of the papers were of purely legal nature. But at the bottom lay two envelopes. One was addressed to Carter Boswick; the other to Drew Westling; each envelope bore the statement that it was to be destroyed intact, should the other be the heir.
“These are letters which your father wrote,” explained Tracy. “Their contents are practically identical. He showed them to me before he sealed them. One for you—one for Drew— whichever might inherit the estate.”
Carter nodded and opened his envelope. He drew out the letter, and read it slowly, holding it so that the lawyer could also see the careful handwriting.
The letter read as follows:
My Dear Son Carter:
When you read this letter, I shall be dead. You will be my sole heir. You will be the recipient of a considerable estate. Nevertheless, if you are at all familiar with my reputed wealth, you may be somewhat disappointed.
During the past few years, I have made a constant effort to minimize the extent of my possessions. In this I have been fairly successful. I have had a definite purpose in such action. Men of great wealth are subject to preying enemies.
Their estates often are in jeopardy because the expectant heirs show jealousy or cross purposes.
In accordance with my policy, I have actually minimized my known estate. I have left it ample for your needs. You may be satisfied with its present size. At the same time, I must inform you that I have deposited, in a place of absolute safety, a sum nearly ten times as great as my announced estate.
If you wish that wealth, you may seek it. You can learn, if you will, where I have placed it. If you are a true son—as I feel sure you are—your thoughts of your dead father will prove a helpful guide.
It is my one regret, Carter, that we never understood each other as many fathers and sons have done. That lack of understanding was my fault—not yours.
When you and Drew Westling were boys together, I seldom showed interest in your activities. Only when you played your game of duel did I respond to your natural, boyish yearnings for the fatherly interest of an older man.
Perhaps you will be able to picture those exact scenes when we were together. I trust that you will go over them in detail, recalling all incidents, planning your game, and remembering me as I was then.
Perhaps the long-forgotten thrill of the battle between D’Artagnan and De Guise will enable you to understand your father as he really was—to help you know how much you mean to him to-day.
I possess wealth and I possess memories. To me, those memories are wealth itself. I trust that you will feel the same, Carter. This is the message that I give you. I feel sure that the future will hold in store the wealth that has been established for you by
Your father,
Houston Boswick.
Carter Boswick studied the written lines. He checked each paragraph as he reviewed it. Finally, he laid the letter on the table, and turned to Farland Tracy.
“Is this the only communication that my father left for me?”
“Yes.”
“He speaks of a great sum of hidden wealth.”
Yes,” declared Tracy. “Something in the neighborhood of ten million dollars, if his statement is correct. But the clew to its hiding place is one that you must find.”’
“Have you any inkling of it?” questioned Carter.
“None at all,” admitted Tracy. “Your father was convinced that you would learn it after his death. How he arranged to lead you to it is beyond my comprehension. This letter is very vague; it turns from business to sentiment at a most unfortunate point. My only theory is that your father may have arranged for some communication to reach you from another source.”
“Perhaps.” agreed Carter.
“Should you learn more,” stated Tracy, “I advise you to be very careful. This letter is a private one. Another communication, if received, should be guarded. I am speaking now as your father’s attorney—also as your attorney pro tem.”
“You will continue to be my lawyer,” said Carter.
“I appreciate that,” responded Tracy. “But now that my mission is completed, I shall leave you. It is most advisable that no one should know of any purpose in this visit.”
“I understand.”
Carter Boswick folded his letter, and placed it in his pocket. He took up the envelope addressed to Drew Westling, and tore it into four pieces, letter and all. He dropped the fragments in the wastebasket.
Farland Tracy was ready to leave. Carter Boswick accompanied him from the study. The door closed, and the room was empty.
That condition did not long exist.
THE window shade slowly arose, guided by a black-gloved hand from without. A tall form slid through the opening. The Shadow stood in the study. Softly, he lowered sash and shade. With quick stride, he moved toward the desk. Stooping, he plucked the torn letter from the wastebasket.
Listening outside the window, The Shadow had heard Farland Tracy’s statement that the two letters—one to Carter, the other to Drew—were couched in similar phraseology. Hence, when The Shadow had quickly assembled the fragments of the torn letter, he possessed a practical replica of the epistle which Carter Boswick had so recently perused.
There, on the table, before the keen eyes of The Shadow, lay a note from uncle to nephew that carried the same theme—even to the dash of sentimental conclusion—that had appeared in the letter from father to son.
A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. To the black-clad being, this letter had a definite meaning. Where Farland Tracy had seen nothing more than a mere statement of existing wealth that lay hidden, The Shadow was picking out a definite clew.
The subtlety of old Houston Boswick was manifested in this letter. The Shadow’s black finger rested upon one vital phrase:
If you are a true nephew—as I feel sure you are—the thoughts of your dead uncle will prove a helpful guide.
That sentence was a key to the part of the letter that followed. With Drew Westling, as with Carter Boswick, the dead man had made a definite effort to guide the reader’s thoughts!
Again, The Shadow laughed. Here, in this reclaimed letter that had never been delivered, he was finding the clew to Houston Boswick’s secret!
CHAPTER IX.
THE STOLEN CLEW.
DOWNSTAIRS, Carter Boswick was bidding Farland Tracy good night. The lawyer was standing at the open door. Headley, the attendant, was holding his coat. In the driveway outside, Tracy’s car was warming with Holland, the chauffeur, beside it.
Beyond were bushes. Dark splotches above a blackened lawn, they seemed to shout out a warning of hidden eyes that watched the scene at the doorway. Men were lurking in that shrubbery, but there was no tangible evidence of their presence.
The door closed. The muffled purr of Tracy’s car sounded from the drive. Headley walked across the hall toward the back of the house. Carter noticed Drew Westling standing by the door of the dining room. His cousin was smoking the inevitable cigarette, in its accustomed holder.
Without comment, Carter turned back toward the stairs, which were just beyond Drew Westling’s range of vision. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he did not ascend; instead, he went through a short hallway that led to the library.
This was an old room lined with many shelves of books. It was at the middle of one side of the house. It had one doorway entering from this hall, and at either end were curtained openings that led into adjacent rooms.
Carter softly closed the door behind him. He turned out a single lamp that rested on a table. Satisfied that he was free from observation, he began a prompt examination of the bookshelves.
For Carter Boswick, the moment that he had finished the second reading of his father’s letter, had gained a sudden knowledge that he had kept entirely to himself. Inspired by the thought of a possible clew, he had said nothing to Farland Tracy.
It was evident that Houston Boswick had wanted his heir alone to learn of the place where wealth was hidden. The tone of the letter had given that indication. In reading, Carter had wondered at first how the information would be gained. Then, the reference to boyhood days had dropped like a bolt from a clear sky.
The very subject that Carter and Drew had discussed—those days when the two boys had played at duel with the elderly man watching them. That was a reference which only two persons could have understood with surety. Carter or Drew—either one as Houston Boswick’s heir—might quickly catch the meaning. Carter believed that he had done so.
To picture past events—to go over the details of long-remembered scenes—to follow his father’s track of memory— that was the duty imposed upon Carter Boswick. In the letter, now reposing in Carter’s pocket, was the statement that memories were as important as wealth.
Perhaps there was a connection between the two!
A PAIR of dusty volumes reposed high upon a neglected shelf. They were both portions of the same work—“The Three Musketeers,” by Alexandre Dumas. Carter reached up and brought down one of the volumes. He ran through the yellowed pages, skimming them with his thumb, until there was a sudden stop. With a smile of elation, Carter drew forth a thin manila envelope from between the pages.
He shook the book to make sure that this was all. Satisfied, he laid the volume on the table where the lamp rested close beside a hanging curtain.
With eager fingers, Carter tore open the envelope and drew forth a slip of yellow paper. It bore a brief notation:
Lat. 46( 18’ N.
Long. 88( 12’ W.
Carter Boswick’s mind was retentive. He read this location, in terms of latitude and longitude, and the exact position made a definite impression. Accustomed to long sea trips, Carter was used to speaking of places in such terms. He noted this as exactly as another person might have noted a telephone number.
Carter laid the paper and the envelope upon
the closed book. He turned back to the shelf. Still running through his brain was the statement he had just noted
Lat. 46( 18’ N.
Long. 88( 12’ W.
Carter repeated the words with silent lips as he drew down the other volume of “The Three Musketeers,” and stepped back to whisk its pages.
The curtain moved beside the lamp. The slight, wavering tremble was not noticed by Carter Boswick, for the young man’s mind was upon the second book which he held.
From the curtain came a slow, cautious hand. Its fingers spread beneath the soft glow of the light; they closed upon the paper and the envelope, and withdrew as quietly as they had come. Only the book remained. The direction sheet and its container were gone!
Carter was shaking the second volume. Nothing between its leaves. The one message was all that his father had left. It was enough. It marked a definite location. There, in all probability, would lie the beginning of a trail—perhaps the wealth itself.
Carter’s musing ended abruptly. He was staring at the table where he had placed the first volume of Dumas. To his amazement, he noted that the paper and the envelope were gone!
Quickly, the young man began a futile search. He looked through the pages of the first volume. He found nothing. He frantically looked beneath the table; he shook the curtain. It required only a few minutes to convince him that the message was gone.
HAD the whole discovery been a product of his imagination? For a moment, Carter fancied so; but the constant running of the tabulated location still persisted in his mind.
Methodically, Carter drew his father’s letter from his pocket. With a pencil, he wrote down the exact latitude and longitude.
Impelled by a new idea, he hastily replaced the two books upon the shelf. He opened the little door, came out through the entry, and walked across the hall. He reached the door of the dinning room. Drew Westling was seated at the table, still smoking. Cigarette stumps lay in the ash tray before him.
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