Margo shook her head.

"It means that under ultraviolet light, the stones from the stairs didn't show the mineral traces found in the specimens from Donald's collection,"

explained Clyde. "They were just a lot of odd pebbles that Roger or Wiggam picked up from a pile of old gravel. The Shadow found the place they came from, last night."

"But maybe Donald did collect them," argued Margo. "He might have thought they were minerals, too."

"Here's another proof he didn't," said Clyde, pointing to the report. "It says 'Cubic content, ten percent minus.' That means that when Dunninger added the extra stones to the box, there were too many of them. They filled it with ten percent over."

Having duly impressed Margo, Clyde acted as though he had told all he knew.

Then, as rea.s.surance, Clyde simply added that Margo could relax, since no ghosts would be about tonight.

There, Clyde guessed wrong.

Roger was pushing a whispering campaign that reached a peak that evening,though Clyde, in viewing the results, wasn't sure how many of the three confederates were involved. The reason Clyde could not guess, was because the campaign was concentrated on Gustave.

By midnight Gustave was nearly crazy.

He'd heard voices in his room, in the kitchen, by the fireside. Wherever he went, voices followed him and Gustave had even felt the brush of ghostly hands.

Most startling of all, Gustave had chased ghostly footsteps up the back stairs and into the Colonial Room, only to find that whatever the thing was, it had vanished.

These weird occurrences always began when n.o.body else was around, which proved to Clyde that some of Roger's playmates were on the job and handling it quite neatly. They were working on Jennifer, too, but only to improve the effect on Gustave.

n.o.body had to whisper to Jennifer. She was always hearing voices anyway.

But tonight she reported that she had seen the ghost in the watchtower, while she was visiting Donald's grave. It had waved to her and she waved back.

"Death will visit this house again," a.s.sured Jennifer, in a confident croak that made Gustave writhe. "Not tonight, for the ghost was too friendly. But death will strike soon - very soon."

It was Roger who finally managed to soothe Gustave, by going around the house with him, to learn if weird things really could be heard. This time, Clyde and Margo were invited along, and nothing happened. Roger had naturally postponed the excursion until his helpers had left the premises and gone back to Wiggam's.

The tour convinced Gustave that the ghosts were seeking him alone, thus adding to his feverish fears.

So Roger suggested that Gustave sleep in the great hall, promising to stay there also. As before, Roger was working the game by steps, knowing it would be the best way to alibi himself when Gustave really cracked.

NEXT morning, though Clyde had no story for the Cla.s.sic, he read one that interested him. The current wave of embezzlement was still on the go. The cashier of a Midwestern insurance company had decamped with funds exceeding

one.

hundred thousand dollars.

The man's name was Ralph Putney and his long, thin face poked its picture from the front page. Putney had narrow eyes, broad nose and rounded chin. His eyebrows were almost straight as was the line of the hair that topped his forehead. Under the photo was the caption: "Watch For This Man," followed by the statement that ten thousand dollars would be the reward for Putney's apprehension.

Embezzlers didn't interest Gustave. He was worried about ghosts. That afternoon Gustave went to see Dr. Torrance. In one mad outpour, Gustave released his tide of fear. Stanbridge Manor was haunted; Gustave was the target of its invisible dwellers.

Though Wiggam had never acquainted Gustave with the most important of the family secrets, the present master of the manor was well-informed on family history. He blurted facts that even Torrance had never heard: how insanity, catalepsy and other hideous ailments had been the misfortune of theStanbridges.

"If I dropped dead this minute," insisted Gustave, "you couldn't be sure of it, doctor. Not for a week - or a month. I might be in a trance, like... like, well, like my grandfather was, the first time they thought he died.

"I might go crazy, and still you wouldn't know it, not for a year or more.

When you found it out, I'd probably be well again. But when insanity strikes us permanently, our minds go a complete blank. It was that way with my grand-uncle and with - well, with some other ancestor, further back."

While he listened, Dr. Torrance kept jotting notes on a pad. Finally he questioned: "Why don't you leave Stanbridge Manor?"

"Because the place belongs to me!" blurted Gustave. "It's my heritage, that house! I'll stay there, just to defy them! Jennifer and -"

"And Roger?" queried Torrance, puzzled by Gustave's sudden pause.

"Surely, he has never disputed your heritage. You couldn't mean Hector, or Wiggam."

Calming, Gustave shook his head.

"I don't mean any of those," he declared. "I mean the ghosts. They're helping Jennifer. She sees them."

Torrance referred to his notes.

"This streak of insanity you mention. Perhaps it applies to Jennifer.

Have you thought of that, Gustave?"

"Yes, but it works in reverse, as I told you. When Jennifer acts insane, I.

know she isn't. It's the safety valve of our family, such eccentric behavior.

Perhaps if I let myself loose, it might help me."

"Why don't you try it?"

At the question, Gustave drew himself erect. His haggard expression dwindled. Staring about the coroner's office as though viewing imaginary faces, Gustave declared: "I shall! One more night in Stanbridge Manor will be the end of the ghosts"

- there Gustave paused and with a reversion to his shaky mood, he added - "or myself."

Clapping Gustave on the shoulder, Torrance steered him from the office.

As family physician, he advised Gustave to visit him again the next day and report how he felt. But as soon as Gustave was gone, Torrance reverted to his business of being county coroner. He picked up the phone and made a brief call.

While he waited, Torrance studied a letter that he had received that morning. He was still reading it over when Herb and Luke appeared. They were the men that Torrance had phoned.

"That night on Lookout Rock," said Torrance. "Do you two still believe that you struggled with someone who slipped you?"

Herb and Luke looked at each other; slowly, but cagily they began to nod.

Torrance smiled.

"There was someone," said the coroner. "I have just received a letter from him. He says that Zeph's death was murder and that he can name the guiltypersons. He intends to trap them at the manor tonight."

Torrance's two listeners showed doubt. They were inclined to blame Zeph's death on the cloaked phantasm himself.

"We'll need more men," declared Torrance, "and we'll all keep in the offing, unless I personally decide to enter the manor. If I do, the rest will still keep back until summoned. They will stay in pairs, so that no one will suffer Zeph's fate."

LIKE Torrance, Clyde Burke had also heard from The Shadow, but Clyde's letter was coded because of the important information that it contained. It came in an envelope with the name of the New York Cla.s.sic in the corner, so it would look like a letter from Clyde's office.

The inked writing faded after Clyde read it, but he remembered the full instructions and pa.s.sed some along to Margo. Tonight, Clyde informed, The Shadow was going to end the ghost racket. Clyde was to stay with the family, in the great hall, but Margo was to go to the Green Room on the pretext that she had typing to do.

"You're to watch the door of the Colonial Room," added Clyde. "That's where the ghosts come and go. Never mind how. Just keep check on them and record the time as well as everything else. The Shadow will disclose the rest after it's all over."

Margo smiled as she nodded. The Shadow knew that curiosity always increased Margo's efficiency and the girl herself realized the fact. In fact, never before had her interest been so keyed as it was regarding this ghost business.

How far Margo's curiosity would carry her and what it might produce, were matters far from her mind as she waited for night to arrive. Great surprises were in store this evening.

Even for The Shadow!

CHAPTER XV.

INTO THE DARK.

SEATED at his kitchen table, old Wiggam embraced the crock of applejack and smiled. Not that Wiggam had been imbibing the liquid lightning; he reserved it only for his guests. At present, he was keeping the applejack from them, until after they finished their coming task.

Wiggam was smiling because he was watching Dorthan. The man who combined murder with embezzlement was displaying another of his talents. Dorthan was making up in front of a mirror; for his pattern, he was using a framed life-sized portrait that hung on the wall close by.

"I used to be a character actor," bragged Dorthan. "Under another name, of course. Impersonations were one of my specialties. It came in handy when I grabbed the bank dough. What I did was make up as Goodwin. I knew I'd have to croak the watchman, so I figured Goodie ought to take the rap.

"I let people spot me when I left the place. That made Goodwin the last man out. It not only gave me an alibi, it started the theory that Goodwin knocked me off to boot. Afterward I switched to the old man character, a part I oftenplayed, and came here on the rattler."

A few more dabs and Dorthan's make-up was finished. He turned around and let the others compare him with the portrait. Crispin and Freer were amazed at the resemblance, but they looked to Wiggam for the final verdict.

His face wreathed with smiles, Wiggam declared: "Mr. Roger will be pleased."

There was an excellent reason why Roger would be pleased. Dorthan's new face had the aristocratic Stanbridge nose and wide eyes. An elderly countenance, like Gustave's, but without the haggard effect. Shocky hair, like Roger's, but very gray, the result of powder that Dorthan had applied.

It was the face of Donald Stanbridge, eldest of the three brothers, whose death Gustave pretended to mourn and whose ghost formed the fabric of Jennifer's imagination.

"Give me a few pointers, Wiggam," suggested Dorthan. "What did Donald do with this face of his?"

"He used to stare very hard, sir," recalled Wiggam. "So much that it would begin to worry you. Then he'd smile and it would relieve you, except that he put a little twitch to one corner of his mouth."

Dorthan copied the actions until they won Wiggam's approval. Having gotten them pat, he kept practicing them until Wiggam gave way to enthused admiration.

According to Wiggam, he would personally be deceived by the impersonation if uninformed of it.

"That's going to knock Gustave right out of the saddle," affirmed Crispin.

"He'll think you're Donald's ghost turned solid."

"And old Jennifer will play it to the limit," added Freer. "She won't have to do any imagining tonight."

Dorthan turned to Wiggam.

"What about Hector?"

"You might let him glimpse you," suggested Wiggam. "Of course, Mr. Roger and I will see you, too, but we'll stare right through you. There will be no trouble from Mr. Gustave. He has reached the state where the mere thought of a ghost horrifies him."

Wiggam arose and picked up his coat and hat. It was after dusk, the time that he was to go to the manor to help Roger handle any problems there. Before leaving, Wiggam gave instructions.

"Mr. Roger says the tower ghost is important," declared Wiggam, handing a package to Crispin. "So you are to play it at the right time."

"Easy enough," responded Crispin. "I've done it before."

"You must go along, too, sir," Wiggam told Freer. "Watch from the mausoleum and if you see anything suspicious, hurry to the house and come in by the secret way. You will have only to warn one of us. He will inform the others."

Freer nodded.

"But remember," added Wiggam, "the floor of the mausoleum must stay open, so do not leave it long. We are expecting our new guest, Mr. Putney."

With that reminder, Wiggam unlocked the double door of his cottage and went out into the dark.

As Wiggam left, the others heard the wail of a locomotive whistle, announcing that the evening local was making another stop at Willow Glen.

"It's Putney!" exclaimed Crispin, when Wiggam had gone. "He's taking arisk, coming here by train!"

"I didn't," retorted Dorthan. "Maybe Putney is smart, too. Let's all be smart and sample this new crock of apple while we're giving Wiggam time to waddle up to the manor.

HAVING left Willow Glen, the local went on to Coledale. It was pulling out from that station before Wiggam reached the mansion. Still more minutes pa.s.sed, before a sleek car purred up the hill road. Though it had only parking lights, its driver guided it partly by dim moonlight, partly by memory, into the old forgotten road that ran between Wiggam's cottage and the manor.

Leaving his car, the mystery driver glided away, so ghostlike that he could represent but one living being: The Shadow.

Off through the dark, The Shadow spied tiny twinkles, which were both good and bad. Good, because they meant that Torrance's men were keeping well away from the mansion; bad, because they shouldn't be using lights at all.

For one thing, though, they weren't in back of the cemetery. Even Herb and Luke were still doubtful about approaching Lookout Rock.

Invisibly, The Shadow traced a course to the very shelter of the mansion.

He stopped at the rear of the right wing and there began an upward journey.