"I am thinking that, yes," replied Zerndorff.

"I shall explain my purpose, then," said Gage. "For years, Doctor Zerndorff, I have battled with men of brains. I have employed my agents. Occasionally I have aided the police. But primarily I have played a lone hand.

"Now I am on the threshold of the greatest combat of my career. I am dealing with a man who is rightfully called The Master. I am sure that the three men who died in those explosions carried the tokens of their servitude to The Master. Yet he destroyed them utterly.

"Never before have I encountered one who was so regardless of human life - who would slaughter innocent victims simply to cover up the murders of three men whom he no longer trusted - or who were of no further use to him.

"As yet, The Black Master is nothing more than a mere name to me. Those through whom I could trace him are dead.

"I have been watching Hubert Banks for weeks. I knew that four men were plotting against him, but I have not yet found the one who dominated them. Now they are dead. I must start again to find new agents of this fiendish monster."

He paused and dropped his cigar in an ash stand. He stared speculatively at the wall and Doctor Zerndorff watched him in admiration. Never before had the criminologist met a man of such amazing ability.

"Yes," resumed Gage thoughtfully. "I must begin again; and now I shall succeed - to a certain point. I shall meet The Black Master, face to face.

"He has thwarted me before, therefore, he must know of my existence! When I encounter him, it will be death - for one of us! I may be the one to die!

"That is why I have come to you. I still intend to work alone; but if I fail, there must be someone to carry on my labors.

"I was there the night that you saved Cardona's life, by shooting Killer Bryan. I fired the first shot; Icrippled the Killer because I wanted him to be taken alive.

"Your action followed mine. It might have been too late, but it showed the ability which you possess.

There are only two men in New York whose knowledge of crime is sufficient to meet that of The Black Master. I am one! You are the other!"

There was no trace of egotism in Clifford Gage's voice. He was speaking as a man who is reciting facts, a calm, expressive tone. The significance of his words was fully understood by his companion.

"It is work for one man," added Gage. "One man, against The Black Master. One man, who can work alone. I shall be the man, at present.

"If I fail - the task is up to you. If you fail, New York will be at the mercy of a fiend who gloats over human misery - a demon who will stop at nothing and whose chief delight is death and destruction!"

He arose from his chair and Zerndorff also rose. The two men faced each other. The criminologist extended his hand. Clifford Gage clasped it sincerely.

"You understand?" he asked.

"I understand, yes," replied Doctor Zerndorff.

"I can rely on you?"

"To the end, yes!"

Gage turned away and walked to the door. Again he faced Zerndorff and delivered his parting words.

"I shall come here again," he said, "if I remain alive. Should I fail to return - the work is yours!"

Doctor Zerndorff bowed. The two men stood silent. Clifford Gage was motionless. His long, unmoving shadow lay across the floor like a creature of the blackest night.

Then, suddenly and silently, he left the room.

Doctor Zerndorff remained standing in deep thought after his visitor had departed. His mighty brain was pondering over the revelations that Clifford Gage had made.

Not for one instant did he doubt the true ident.i.ty of the man who had come to see him. He knew that Clifford Gage was the man who had appeared as Henry Arnaud. He knew, also, that the man was The Shadow!

"It is strange, yes," mused Doctor Zerndorff, half aloud. "There is no other like him, this man they call The Shadow. Unless" - he stared from the window at the blackness of the building opposite - "unless it is this one of which he has told me.

"So he is gone, this man they call The Shadow. He is gone, to seek the man that is his enemy! My brain can see the future" - he tapped his forehead - "and it tells me that they shall meet.

"Yes, they shall meet! This man they call The Shadow - he shall meet The Black Master!"

CHAPTER XIII. HARRY OBSERVES.

HARRY VINCENT sat in the huge, gloomy living room of Hubert Banks' palatial home. He puffed a cigar contentedly. His eyes wandering across the room to a large couch, where the millionaire was lying,asleep.

Harry smiled. Banks had improved tremendously since Harry had come to visit him. The man had been a nervous wreck less than a week ago. Now he was calm and almost free from care - his old self.

Of all the missions that Harry had undertaken for The Shadow, this was the most unusual. His mind went back over the recent past and he began to recall all the important incidents that had occurred.

He had reported everything to The Shadow, in brief, terse notes. He had remembered the details.

That was one of the many things that he had learned to do since he had become The Shadow's agent. He had been instructed in a simple system of mental notation that had enabled him to keep a methodical record in his mind.

The adventure at the Goliath Hotel, when he had been overpowered and doped in his room, had been the first event in this new campaign.

Late the next morning when he awoke, he had reported to The Shadow but had received no reply, so he had simply waited. Then he had read the news of Perry Warfield's murder and of the subsequent police fight with Killer Bryan.

Harry had recognized Bryan's picture. It was the killer who had overpowered Harry in his hotel room.

But what most concerned Harry Vincent right now were the events that had followed his sojourn with Hubert Banks. He had come to the millionaire's home in response to orders from The Shadow.

As always, the orders had been written in code, and with chemical ink that vanished a few minutes after the envelope had been opened.

Nominally, Harry was the millionaire's secretary. Actually, he was his companion. He was working for The Shadow - not for Hubert Banks.

He had observed the millionaire's strange actions, had humored his whims and had been with him constantly.

Banks talked frequently of a man named Clifford Gage, who was presumably Harry's sponsor. Harry had received information concerning Gage from The Shadow. Gage became a topic of frequent conversation.

With the increase of friendship between Hubert Banks and Harry Vincent, the millionaire had lost his old mistrustfulness.

At night, Harry wrote his report to The Shadow, using a pen loaded with the type of ink that The Shadow had invented.

When he went to mail the report, together with the letters of Mr. Banks, Harry walked two blocks from the millionaire's uptown mansion and entered a drugstore before he put the letters in the box outside.

There, Harry secretly pa.s.sed the envelope which contained his report to a sober-faced clerk behind the counter.

Harry suspected that the man who received the envelope was Burbank, an agent of The Shadow.

Aside from short excursions of this type, Harry did not leave the millionaire's mansion. Three days ago, he had received a brief, coded message from The Shadow. It had surprised Harry when he opened it, for the color of the ink was a darker blue than usual. But the message had faded in its usual fashion after Harry had read it.

The letter contained very brief instructions, advising Harry to cautiously engage Banks in conversation that would lead to a discussion of the millionaire's past life.

One clever peculiarity marked The Shadow's messages. Each sheet of paper had roughened edges.

The first note of a series would always have a slight tear on the top edge; the next would have a similar mark on the right edge; and so on, around the sheet, with each succeeding note. Then would come two tears on top, right, bottom, and left, respectively.

These marks were scarcely noticeable. They formed a simple system of enumeration that went up to eight; then a new series would begin, on a paper of different texture.

Thus, Harry could always check the notes in rotation, to see if he had failed to receive one. The note that he had received a few days ago had been number five in the present series.

Acting upon The Shadow's instructions, Harry had talked with Hubert Banks, artfully turning the man's thoughts to old recollections. But he had succeeded only in obtaining scattered reminiscences.

The millionaire had led an idler's life. Those events which he considered worth remembering were invariably of an unimportant nature.

Tonight, Banks had gone to sleep while talking, and Harry was spending a very quiet evening, engrossed in his own affairs. The atmosphere of the room was quieting yet Harry could readily appreciate how the gloomy aspect could prey upon the thoughts of a morbid mind.

He did not wonder that people had decided Hubert Banks was going crazy. These walls, with their somber tapestries, seemed made expressly for an insane mind. Harry had asked about the furnishings. He learned that they had been selected many months before by a friend of the millionaire, a man named George Houston.

Banks had mentioned that Houston was now dead, and that he did not care to talk about him. The topic had ended with that remark.

Harry Vincent's chain of thought was suddenly interrupted. Hubert Banks had awakened. The millionaire sat up on the couch, stretched his arms and grunted.

"Been asleep, eh?" he said. "I feel dopey. What about another drink? Ring that buzzer for Herbert."

Banks adjusted his coat.

"I don't know why I wear this swallowtail," he said. "Force of habit, I guess. I'm going up and get my smoking jacket."

"Wait a minute," suggested Harry. "I'll call Graham."

"Forget it," returned Banks. "You wait here for Herbert and tell him we want a couple of drinks. I'll go up and get the jacket myself."

The gla.s.ses were resting on the table when Hubert Banks returned. The millionaire came down the steps staring straight ahead. Without a word, he advanced and picked up a gla.s.s. He gulped down the drink; then opened his hand and let the tumbler fall upon the table. He did not seem to hear the breaking of the gla.s.s.

"What's the matter?" inquired Harry.

Banks stared at him with wide-opened eyes. The man's face was livid. He seemed to be gazing without seeing. Then he spoke harshly, in a hoa.r.s.e, rasping voice.

"When is June the first?" he demanded. "What day is it?"

"Day after tomorrow," Harry answered.

Hubert Banks thrust his hands in the pockets of his smoking jacket and sat down in an armchair. He stared steadily at the tapestries on the opposite wall.

"Are you expecting anything then?" questioned Harry.

Banks stared at him with glaring, suspicious eyes. Harry met the man's gaze. The men looked steadily at each other.

Then the millionaire began to yield. His wild fury pa.s.sed. He drew his left hand slowly from the pocket of his jacket and placed a crumpled sheet of paper in Harry's hand.

Scrawled over the surface of the paper were the words, "June the first." The writing was in pencil.

"Your handwriting," observed Harry.

"Yes," said Banks, in a strange voice.

"When did you write it?"

"I don't remember!" Banks spoke slowly and painfully. "I don't remember! I talked on the telephone today - twice. Sometimes I write - when I talk. I do not remember doing that - today."

"June the first," said Harry speculatively.

"June the first!" exclaimed Banks in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "I never wrote those words! Am I going insane?

That is the one day I have learned to forget! Now it is coming back - coming back to -"

A sudden realization dawned upon Harry. Hubert Banks had always ignored all dates in connection with his correspondence. He had said that he could not be bothered with dates. And he had another peculiar habit. When he read the front page of a newspaper, Hubert Banks invariably turned back the top portion of the page.

Generally he asked Harry, or Herbert the butler, to look through the newspaper for him and to pick out any items of interest. All this was now explained. For some unknown reason, Hubert Banks had chosen to remain in ignorance of the approach of the first of June!

"Ten - twenty - thirty years!" the millionaire was saying. "Thirty years ago!" His eyes were closed as he spoke. He opened them and looked at Harry. The sight of his companion seemed to rea.s.sure him. He became suddenly confidential.

"Thirty years ago," said Hubert Banks, in a low, hushed voice, "my first wife died - in Paris. I had met her a few years before - when I was a student at Heidelberg. She and I eloped together and were married. "Her family was angry. They had not planned for her to marry an American. The fact that I was wealthy meant nothing to them.

"As for my father - he wrote me and told me I could have no more money. We lived in poverty, Rachel and I.

"I borrowed from friends. I wrote pleading letters home. I received no replies. I dug up a little money. I came back, one evening, to the place where we were living.

"I had been gone two days, trying to get the money. I found Rachel -" His voice broke. With an effort, the millionaire recovered himself. "She was dying!

"I can see her eyes now" - the man's gaze was gla.s.sy - "her eyes, accusing me! She died. I could not even raise enough to bury her. My father brought me back to New York. Since then, I have learned to forget."

Hubert Banks buried his head in his hands. He sat in silence, seemingly unable to speak. At last he raised his head.

"A year ago," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "I came across letters that Rachel had written me. Then I found a clipping that told of her death.

"At intervals, new reminders would appear. Each one presaged some misfortune. Only a few weeks ago"

- he clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms - "I found the death certificate!

"She killed herself! Poison!

"That terrible night has been haunting me. I was blamed for her death. I was accused by her relatives and by a man who once had loved her.