majority. Harry knew all of them, and they constituted an exclusive crowd.
Alicia Weylan was very popular; and she was one young lady who avoided fortune
hunters. Her friends were blue bloods, men who came from old and solid
families. In a brief check-up of noses, Harry assured himself that there wasn't
a phony in the entire lot.
One guest was not listed in the social register, but Harry automatically
gave him a clean slate. He was a young man named Ralph Atgood who was supposed
to be engaged to Alicia Weylan. Ralph wasn't wealthy, as the other guests were
reputed to be, but everyone liked him and spoke well of him.
Harry had met Ralph previously and had sized him up as a good sort. The
chap had a certain sincerity that was a recommendation in itself. Furthermore,
he stood high in the estimation of Alicia's father. Harry had seen Ralph
chatting with Carter Weylan earlier in the evening, and there was every
indication that Weylan would be pleased to have Ralph as a son-in-law.
That, in itself, gave Ralph a high rating. If any man had a right to brag
about his ability at judging human character, the man in question was Carter J.
Weylan.
The patent-medicine king owed his success to his policy of always picking
the right people as his friends and business associates. Weylan was not only
friendly toward Ralph; he had offered the young man a job and a good one.
Ralph, so Harry had learned, had declined the offer for the present, which
indicated that he was already well placed.
Just by way of check-up, Harry stepped over to chat with Montague
Fitzcroft, the most aristocratic of the socially prominent guests.
A polo player and steeplechase rider, Fitzcroft was lounging in a corner
of the Weylan ballroom, looking rather bored as he watched half a dozen couples
dancing to the music of a seven-piece orchestra.
"HELLO Monty!" said Harry. "When is the big event of the evening coming
off?"
Fitzcroft puffed his cigarette through a long holder, drew the latter from
his lips and inquired in a drawly, but puzzled tone:
"What big event?"
"The announcement of the engagement," replied Harry, "between Alicia and
this chap Atgood. I thought it was all settled."
"Not yet," returned Fitzcroft. "Percy Caulden was asking Alicia about it
this evening. They were childhood sweethearts you know Percy and Alicia. She
told Percy that the engagement would not be announced until after she returns
from the Mediterranean."
Harry looked toward the dance floor. Ralph was dancing with Alicia, and
they made a very handsome pair: Ralph serious-faced and well-groomed, from his
evening clothes to his light curly hair; Alicia a dreamy blonde, whose blue
gown matched the lovely eyes that made her really beautiful.
"A likable chap, Atgood," remarked Harry. "Where did Alicia meet him - at
Palm Beach?
"No, here in town," replied Fitzcroft, supplying a fresh cigarette to his
elongated holder. "He's not in the set, you know, but we have all accepted him."
"What does he do?"
"He's the junior partner in a large printing concern," replied Fitzcroft,
repeating what he had heard a month before the last polo matches. "That's why
Carter Weylan thinks so much of him. The old gentleman likes blokes who make
their own way through honest effort."
Satisfied that Ralph came up to specifications, Harry strolled away to
look over some of the Weylan servants. He soon decided that they were old
family retainers who had been chosen because of honesty and merit by Carter J.
Weylan himself.
It began to look as though everything was perfect in the Weylan household,
when Harry walked squarely into something unexpected.
Harry had circled from the ballroom through a short hallway that offered a
roundabout route to an inclosed veranda, when he neared a short side passage.
From beyond a door that stood a trifle ajar, Harry could hear the buzz of
voices; one was the deep tone of Carter Weylan.
Stepping into the little passage, Harry came close enough to hear what the
speakers said. He was also able to look into a lighted room, where many trophies
hung from the walls.
small table, talking to a very scrawny, stoop-shouldered man who perched on the
edge of his chair grinning with big teeth at everything Weylan said.
Indignation was plain on Weylan's large, strong-jawed features. His dark
eyes, set below bushy brows, were boring right through the scrawny visitor, who
did not seem to mind it at all.
"I'VE heard about your company, Gruble," stormed Weylan. "I wouldn't give
you thirty cents for all the stock you've got! So you're the great Glade
Gruble, inventor of Gruble's Health Tonic. Bah! What is the stuff, but a lot of
licorice and water with a dash of mint?"
"It has special ingredients," returned Gruble. "I told you that before,
Mr. Weylan."
"Yes, and so did a fellow who called himself Dean," returned Weylan, "when
he called me up a while ago. He said I ought to buy your fifth-rate concoction
for the price you asked, a quarter million dollars.
"The only thing that impressed me" - Weylan thwacked a big hand on the
table - "was Dean's claim that the price would be doubled if I didn't buy right
away. That's why I consented to talk to you."
Gruble nodded. Leaning back in his chair, he tightened his grin, cocked
his head and asked shrewdly:
"What about the money? Do you have it here? You will remember that I said
I would give the details of the proposition, only if you were able to pay."
"In case I wanted to buy," nodded Weylan. "Yes, Gruble, I brought the
quarter million, in cash and negotiable securities, just so I could hear more
about your proposition."
He brought bundles of currency and bonds from a table drawer, stacked them
into two big piles. He let Gruble get a good look at the stacks, then planked
one hand upon them. Weylan's other fist was big enough to throttle Gruble, if
the scrawny man tried to make a grab for the wealth.
"All right," boomed Weylan, "let me hear what your racket is, Gruble!"
Scrawny-face shot a look toward the door of the den. He did not notice
that it was ajar, for the doorway was set back in the passage where Harry stood.
"To begin with," Gruble told Weylan, in a cackly tone, "you manufacture a
patent medicine called Renovo."
"And a very good medicine," assured Weylan. "Nothing like that licorice
tonic of yours, Gruble!"
"I happen to know what goes into Renovo," said Gruble, "and it has one
important ingredient that will mix very well with a certain thing we use in my
health tonic."
Weylan's eyes narrowed. "Just what do you mean?"
"Mix the two together," returned Gruble, "in equal proportions and you
will have dope, Mr. Weylan! Not a very good brand of dope, but people won't be
particular, because they will get it cheap.
"Once the fact becomes known, dope addicts will give up smoking marijuana
and go after stronger narcotics. Every drugstore in the country will be
supplying them with a liquid opiate that will soothe them and give them all the
lovely dreams they want."
WEYLAN was on his feet, shaking one fist while he kept the other hand
clamped upon his precious stacks of cash and bonds.
"I'll have your health tonic banned!" he blurted. "There won't be a bottle
of it sold anywhere in the United States!"
"Nor a bottle of Renovo," added Gruble, wisely. "Your idea can work two
ways, Mr. Weylan."
Slowly, Weylan subsided. From his chair he put both hands upon the bundles
and started to push them toward Gruble. The scrawny man was bringing out
contracts ready for Weylan to sign, as a completion of the deal. Gruble's
signature was already on the documents, And then, suddenly, Weylan remarked:
"You're the front for this racket, aren't you, Gruble?"
"Of course!" chuckled the scrawny tool. "I figured you had guessed that
already."
"Then this chap who calls himself R. G. Dean is really in back of it."
"Right again! But you'll never find out who he really is. Only a few
people know. I happen to be one of them, but I don't intend to talk."
"We'll see about that."
As he spoke, Weylan drew back his stacks of money and securities. He waved
away the papers that Gruble was about to hand him. Pointing to a picture just
above the table, Weylan commented:
"There's a microphone behind there, Gruble. It's wired to a room upstairs.
Inspector Cardona, of the New York police, is up there. So is a Federal agent
named Vic Marquette. They have other witnesses, including a stenographer who is
making notes of everything that you have said.
"You'll talk about Dean, Gruble, because you have already talked yourself
into a blackmail charge! That mouth of yours is too big! So stay right where
you are, until -"
Weylan was reaching into the table drawer for a gun. Before he could get
it, Gruble gave a snarl and sprang from his chair, drawing a revolver of his
own. He was leaping sideways toward the door, to be out of Weylan's reach.
Aiming as he went, Gruble was all set to deliver quick murder. Harry
Vincent was the man who blocked it, with a long dive into the den. He bowled
Gruble to the floor; as the scrawny man frantically tugged the gun trigger, the
bullets were pumped toward the ceiling.
With a pleased shout, Carter Weylan hurried forward to help Harry suppress
the straggling crook. At that instant, every light in the house went out.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SHADOW'S RETURN
CRIME wasn't through for the night. It had just begun. When darkness
blanketed Weylan's study, Harry Vincent knew that probably a criminal mob was
on hand to back Glade Gruble.
The scrawny man knew it, too, for he gave a frenzied wriggle that carried
him from Harry's clutch. Gruble's gun hit the floor for Harry heard it thud.
But Harry was anxious to stop the fellow's getaway, and so was Carter Weylan.
In fact, Weylan was ahead of Harry when they started after Gruble in the
pitch-darkness, for Harry had stumbled over the crook's gun and paused to pick
it up. Their chances of overtaking Gruble were large, however, at that moment.
Then came the surge that Harry feared.
The window of the den was shattered with a terrific smash. Men with
flashlights bounded through, their faces masked with handkerchiefs. Weylan gave
a yell as he saw one of them grab for the money and the bonds. He turned to fire
at the flashlights.
Again Harry made a flying tackle. This time, Weylan was his target. He
bowled the millionaire to the floor, just as guns began to blast. Those bullets
whined above the level where Harry and Weylan lay sprawled. Harry's timely
tackle had saved Weylan's life.
More flashlights appeared, from the passage outside the door. Shoving
Weylan behind a table that kept him clear of the fire from the window, Harry
began to shoot at the new invaders. They dropped back before he could score a
hit. Springing after them, Harry tugged the trigger again.
The revolver failed to fire. Harry had forgotten the few shots that Gruble
had fired before his flight. But the mobsters who had invaded Weylan's den were
on their way. Those who had smashed through the window left by the same route
while Harry was battling the thugs from the door.
Turning back, Harry found Weylan at the table where the millionaire had
talked with Gruble. His revolver in one hand, Weylan was snapping a cigar
lighter with the other. A flame appeared; it showed the table - blank!
Armed thugs had grabbed the quarter million dollars that Gruble had been
too frantic to take. With a groan, Carter Weylan sagged into his big chair.
Recognizing Harry as a friend, he let The Shadow's agent pluck the gun from his
loosening hand.
"Stay here," Harry told him. "I'll go after them. You're safe, since they
got what they came for."
USING the window as his exit, Harry leaped out upon a darkened lawn, where
the spurts of guns provided a very meager light. Things were happening outside
in rapid fashion.
Crooks were shooting at an upstairs window, where Cardona, Marquette and
others were firing back. The invasion of the den had been too sudden for the
men of the law to get downstairs. With flashlights, they had seen Gruble coming
from a side door; then the fire of the protecting mob had forced the men
upstairs to drop their flashlights.
There was battle on the lawn, however. It was provided by the guests at
Alicia's party. Sportsmen all, those active young blades had accepted crime's
challenge. From along the side lawn, Harry could hear the cultured shouts of
blue blooded fighters mingling with the hoarse jargon of the thugs.
An automobile, swinging in from the driveway, threw its headlights toward
the house wall. It showed one man in evening clothes, who shouted: "Cheerio!"
and grabbed up a revolver that he saw lying on the grass.
The glare revealed another of the house guests staggering back from a
corner of the mansion, where a crouched opponent was diving from sight. In his
hand, the society man held a handkerchief mask that he had managed to pull from
his foeman's face.
Then the lights revealed Gruble darting catercornered across the lawn,
There were cries of "Tallyho!" as men in mussed-up evening clothes started
after the scrawny crook. A few were using captured revolvers, but not with good
effect.
Weylan's guests were better hands at shooting quail and deer than they
were at bagging human quarry. Accustomed to shotguns and rifles, they didn't
seem to have the touch required with pistols.
There was another fighter, however, who was entering the chase, which by
this time was too far advanced for Harry Vincent to get into it. The new man in
the game was dressed in evening clothes, the required uniform for those who were
championing the side of right.
He could have worn a slouch hat and a black cloak, had he chosen, but he
left those garments behind him, under the seat of his limousine. It was The
Shadow's big car that had rolled into the driveway. As Lamont Cranston, he was
leaping out, armed with a h
andy automatic, to cut off Gruble's flight.
The blackmailer was away from the glow of the headlights, but his
destination was an obvious one. He was making for an opening in the hedge,
which The Shadow had seen and was able to find for himself.
Ahead of the other well-dressed pursuers, The Shadow went through that gap
a few seconds after Gruble. He saw the scrawny man yank open the door of a
waiting sedan that was parked with dim lights, its motor throbbing, at the top
of a steep slope.
There was a huddled figure in the driver's seat; for that reason, The
Shadow dodged around the back of the car and came in from the door on the other
side. As he did, others arrived, and they were not merely pursuers. Revolvers
began to blast; The Shadow could hear raucous shouts along with the sporting
cries of Weylan's guests.
Battle had started here about the car. Gruble, suddenly confronted by The
Shadow coming in from the other side, started out through his own door,
screaming as he went. He had heard a fierce whisper in his ear; it was enough
to make him screech:
"The Shadow!"
GUNS roared. If their bullets were intended for The Shadow, they proved
useless. They found Gruble instead, and pitched the blackmailer back into the
car.
Men flung themselves into the rear of the sedan, slugging as they came.
One lucky stroke glanced from the side of The Shadow's head. Groggily, he
slashed an automatic at his attacker. The man dived outward.
The car door slammed. The sedan was in motion, starting down the hill. The
Shadow could hear yells behind it; from their tone, the indications were that
mobsters had scattered, leaving the field to Weylan's polished guests.
The Shadow repressed a low laugh, as he blinked his flashlight along the
floor of the car.
In the thick darkness under overhanging trees in back of the hedge, it had
been impossible to tell friend from foe, except by the actions of the various
fighters. Even those deeds had been a poor index, for mistakes were apt to
happen in the blackness.
The Shadow, however, had managed a neat piece of strategy. Instead of
remaining in the middle of a useless brawl, he had managed to get into this
car, which was speeding down the slope carrying away a very important