SHOTS IN THE DARK.

LUCILLE MERRITH was very tired, but sleepless. A great hush seemed to fill her bedroom; she was sorry that the patter of the rain had ceased. It might have brought some lull to the aching thoughts that throbbed through her head.

This room had a connecting door: one that led into her aunt's bedroom.

Aunt Augusta had gone to sleep long ago. Sometimes, Aunt Augusta snored, and Lucille would have welcomed those sonorous sounds to-night. Anything to relieve the drilling misery that dominated the girl's mind.

The only sounds that Lucille could hear were the footsteps of the deputy in the hall. But they came only at long-s.p.a.ced intervals. The deputy had a lengthy route to cover-to the other side of the house and back.

To Lucille, death at Five Towers had struck like a grim, unreal monster.

As she thought of events before to-night, it seemed impossible that such a peaceful setting could have turned to a scene of double horror.

Only a few weeks ago, Robert Lenley had first called on the Merriths.

Lucille had read the man's letter, when it came to her aunt. His offer to come to their New York home and discuss his invention had seemed a fair one. When he had arrived, Lenley had impressed them both by the prospects of his synthetic gasoline.

Lucille could not recall a single instance in Lenley's disfavor. The inventor had frankly admitted that his fuel was still in the experimental state. He would not accept a dollar of any one else's money until he had used his own to manufacture the finished product.

Lenley had invited them to Five Towers. Lucille always went everywhere with her Aunt Augusta.

True, they had thought that the house was Lenley's, but he had notmisrepresented that fact. When they met George Brendaw, Lucille and her aunt learned that the house was his. He had tried to sell it when he inherited it.

There had been no buyers.

Then Lenley had come along. He rented the house and paid the main expenses, because it was an ideal place to have his laboratory. Not only was Five Towers remote, the building was equipped to receive the guests that Lenley constantly expected.

LUCILLE had liked George instantly. They had hiked together, while the weather was good. After that, George had made frequent trips to the village, but always in his car, because he said he did not want to be away long.

George had been coming back from town to-day, when Roderick Talroy had arrived. He had said so, and Lucille believed him.

The girl could not picture George as a man who would murder for revenge.

She trusted his statement, that the affairs of old Lionel Brendaw meant nothing to him. He was Lionel's only heir, but as George himself had said, the relationship was distant.

In fairness to Lenley, Lucille could not put the blame on the inventor.

He seemed a decent sort, and why should a man without a motive commit murder?

Lucille wondered if Lenley had a secret grudge against Roderick and Fant. That could explain matters, but if Lenley was trying to shift the blame to George, he could have done it quite well without bringing Lucille and her aunt here. Lucille could not picture Lenley as an enemy to herself or her Aunt Augusta.

That left only t.i.tus. The servant had been hired by Lenley. But they had not worked in unison to-day. Lenley had been worried in his own way. t.i.tus had shown the sort of distress that one would expect. Nevertheless, t.i.tus, like Lenley, could be the murderer.

It must be either one or the other: Lenley or t.i.tus. But Lucille felt sure that neither man would seek to harm her.

Dim moonlight was showing from the windows that seemed so distant from the bed. Lucille watched the trickling, silver glow. It meant that the rain was over; perhaps mystery would clear up, like the storm.

Wondering, Lucille tried to a.n.a.lyze why she felt so secure. The reason struck her suddenly.

It was because of Kent Allard.

Somehow, every time she looked at Allard, Lucille felt fear fade. His quiet manner was impressive. It seemed that no harm could come to any one while Allard was on hand. He had not arrived until after Roderick's death. He had been down at the bridge when Fant was slain.

If Allard had been in the house at either time, there would have been no murder. Lucille found her lips repeating the words: "No murder-"

The deputy's footsteps went past the door. The door itself was locked, like Aunt Augusta's. Each had the key on the inside. Yet, sentry and locks seemed small protection against horror of the sort that had struck Five Towers.

More fully than before, Lucille realized that Allard's presence in the house was the sole reason why she felt no terror.

SLOWLY, Lucille began to drowse. A slight noise awakened her. It was like a click, that might have come from the door. Perhaps the patrolling deputy had pressed it, to see if it happened to be locked.

It was too dark to see anything near the door, but Lucille began to fancy that she heard a creeping noise.

The sound seemed near the door, then away from it. Lucille strained, raised on her elbow. The creeps had stopped. She started to lie down, but heard them again. They were closer, but they were evasive.

Lucille raised up farther; as she stared toward the door, her white throat showed plain in the moonlight.

That whiteness proved a target. From beside the head of the bed, afigure swung suddenly upon Lucille. Hunched shoulders hid the face above them.

Thick-gloved hands clamped hard upon Lucille's throat. The girl went back; her head struck the bedstead.

She could give no cry as she felt that intended death choke. Lucille was experiencing a new version of the same horror that had found Roderick Talroy and Fant.

Over the hunched shoulder, the girl's eyes saw the window. Vague moonlight could offer no hope. Even that was blotted with a suddenness.

Then-Lucille was to realize it afterward-the girl saw blackness form a living shape.

In from the window came a surging figure, a silent avalanche that drove for the murderer.

How the killer knew it, Lucille never knew. His senses must have been strained to an amazing degree. He was quick enough, though, to know that his attack could not succeed. A foeman would be upon him before he could choke Lucille.

THRUSTING the girl away, the killer turned and met that living blackness head on. Lucille saw two fighters lock.

As they swayed, she saw the folds of a black cloak, that swished from her rescuer's shoulders. Holding her throat, Lucille stared, totally unable to scream.

The girl was witnessing a t.i.tanic battle. The Shadow had lost the advantage that he had expected. He was grappling with as desperate a foeman as he had ever encountered.

Their surge carried them to the inner darkness of the room. Heavy hands were at The Shadow's neck. He, in turn, was trying to gain a similar grip.

Then came a double twist. The fighters locked like wrestlers. Clamped by arms that were rigid as metal, The Shadow could only hold his opponent even.

Slowly, they shifted. Inch by inch, The Shadow gained a position that he wanted.

The murderer pressed harder as he felt The Shadow bend. That was the killer's mistake. He was doing what the cloaked fighter wanted. With a sudden snap, The Shadow came up, to launch his unsuspecting enemy with a long ju jutsu fling.

Had the lunge succeeded, the murderer would have lost the fray. Two strides were all The Shadow needed to give the proper impetus. But in those twisting sidesteps, The Shadow struck a big chair in the darkness.

He stumbled; the murderer spilled sideways to the floor. He landed on one knee, came at The Shadow, swinging a gun for the cloaked head.

The Shadow somersaulted from the chair, to take a long roll on the floor. He wanted to be well away if the killer fired, for gunshots were the only way to end this fight. The killer's opportunity came first.

No shots came from the murderer's gun. The Shadow's roll was elusive in the darkness, enough so to escape his enemy's aim. But there seemed a reason, also, why the murderer did not want to shoot. His one course was escape, and he made it, with amazing speed.

When The Shadow came up beneath a huge, wide table, he had a .45 in his fist. He stabbed shots, high, at angles, on the chance that he would clip the murderer. His fire, too, was to ward off any wild thrust that the fellow would make at Lucille.

The Shadow's bullets pinged the wall. The killer had made his exit without a second of wasted time.

LUCILLE could not see the finish of the struggle. She could not tell whether the shots were delivered by The Shadow or the murderer. Fearing that her rescuer was dead, Lucille added a long shriek to the echoes of The Shadow's gunfire. Then, bolt upright, she saw a shape appear at the window, to hover upon the sill.

It was the rescuer. Lucille realized that he was waiting until sheturned on the light. She found a lamp cord and tugged it.

She could see The Shadow no better, but he knew that the girl was safe.

He was sure, too, that the murderer had gone. Even then, The Shadow lingered.

He had further purpose.

The door from the hall opened to admit the patrolling deputy, who had arrived on the run. Aunt Augusta arrived at the connecting door. Both saw something disappear outside the window. The old lady howled to the deputy.

He started in pursuit. He stopped at the window, staring below. He could not see The Shadow in the darkness of the wall. He thought he caught a strange laugh from below. This time, he spied a figure that moved momentarily through the moonlight.

An instant later, the shape was gone, into a path of darkness.

The deputy did not see that figure double back into the blackened shelter of the house. He thought that the fleeing form had headed for the corner of the old hen houses, some forty yards distant. The deputy fired one barrel of his shotgun; paused a few seconds and discharged the other.

A few moments later, the downstairs deputy arrived on the run. He reached the window, but shook his head. He would be wasting shots at that range, he thought. Hardly had the fellow stepped back, before another arrival pounded in from the hall.

Sheriff Cravlen had arrived. The first deputy pointed and voiced: "That's where he is-at the corner of the coops! He couldn't have slid out; I've been watching!"

Cravlen leveled his revolver and fired for the exact place indicated.

Echoes rang back from the hen coop. The sheriff fired again, with the same cool accuracy. As he stood with smoking revolver, he heard the outside deputy shout from below. The third man had come around from the other side of the huge house.

"Find who's there," called the sheriff. "Better give him another load, at close range!"

The deputy approached; he fired one barrel of his shotgun, ripping more shingles from the hen coop. He had a powerful flashlight. He used it when he reached the spot where the men above thought a prowler had fallen. Sheriff Cravlen could see the shattered hen-coop wall from the upper window.

Like the deputies, the sheriff stared, puzzled. The ground by the wall was vacant. Cravlen shook his head, as he stepped back from the window. His elbow jostled some one who had arrived beside him.

The sheriff saw Kent Allard, attired in shoes, trousers and pajama jacket. Allard was carrying the shotgun that he had left in his room.

A FEW moments later, The Shadow was hearing the misconstructed details of his own disappearance, from the sheriff and the deputies. He listened, also, to Lucille's vague description of a ghost-like rescuer from the window, who had vanished after thrusting off a murderer.

It all seemed so incredible that Lucille would have termed it a dream, had it not been for her aching neck. Her throat showed the red marks of the thwarted murderer's gloved fingers. The girl's statements and that visible testimony roused the sheriff to new action.

"Somebody's loose in this house," a.s.serted Cravlen. "Who it is, we'll find out. When we get that man, we'll have the murderer!"

Leaving the deputies to protect Lucille, the sheriff beckoned to Kent Allard. Together, they strode out into the hall, to visit the rooms where suspects were confined. In his fist, the sheriff carried the keys that had locked the doors. His face showed a grim expression that indicated that he expected to find his man.

Allard's lips were grim also, but their slight curve showed a smile. Of one fact, The Shadow was certain. During the time that it had taken The Shadow to circuit back into the house, the murderer had opportunity to cover his own trail as well.

The sheriff's present investigation was destined to produce no visibleevidence that would lead to the identification of the thwarted killer.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SHADOW'S VIGIL.

THERE was a commotion in the hallway when Allard and Cravlen reached there. A terrific hammering had begun; it ended with the splintering of wood.

Through a smashed door came George Brendaw, carrying the shattered remnants of a chair.

George turned toward Lucille's room, to find Sheriff Cravlen blocking him. George flung down the broken chair; he started to shove the sheriff aside. Cravlen's hand went to his gun; the move halted George.

"Where's Lucille?" demanded George, hoa.r.s.ely. "I heard the shots-I heard her scream-"

"We're taking care of her," interrupted Cravlen. "She's safe. But what's your idea, smashing up furniture and doors?"

Despite his anxiety, George grinned. Any doubt he had regarding Lucille's safety was stilled when George saw Allard. The tall stranger's calm silence was more effective than the sheriff's worded a.s.surance.

"Who has a better right to smash things?" questioned George. "It's my house and my furniture!"

"But I'm in charge here," reminded Cravlen. "You were supposed to stay where I put you."

Cravlen began an examination of the door. He found that George had smashed the lock along with the woodwork. Cravlen turned to George.

"Maybe you had a reason to smash this door," remarked the sheriff. "If you'd put that lock out of commission a while ago, you'd have to cover it, wouldn't you?"

If Cravlen expected a direct reply, he was disappointed. For a few moments, George showed repressed anger; then coolly put a question of his own: "May I talk to Lucille?

Cravlen nodded. The deputies were still at the door of Lucille's room.

Moreover, the sheriff wanted a chance to speak to Allard. Cravlen waited until George was out of earshot; then commented: "It would have been easy for Brendaw to crack that lock. He might have had another key, for that matter. I gave that deputy too long a route to cover. It offered Brendaw a chance to sneak across the hall."

"Rather odd, though," remarked Allard, "that Miss Merrith did not have her door locked on the inside."

"That's so!" exclaimed the sheriff. "Say-we'd better look into that!"

THE sheriff hurried back to Lucille's room. George was talking to the girl; Cravlen interrupted to ask about the door. Lucille insisted that she had locked it.

Looking on the floor, Cravlen found the key. He swung the door half shut; noted a wide crack beneath.