Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 248 - The Devil's Feud

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THE DEVIL'S FEUD

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO CAME BACK

? CHAPTER II. DEATH FROM THE DARK

? CHAPTER III. THE DOUBLED TRAIL

? CHAPTER IV. WANTED FOR MURDER

? CHAPTER V. ONE MAN'S VERSION

? CHAPTER VI. GUILT UNPROVEN

? CHAPTER VII. THE CLANS GATHER

? CHAPTER VIII. CRIME TO COME

? CHAPTER IX. DEEP IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER X. THE HALTED MESSAGE

? CHAPTER XI. INTO THE NIGHT

? CHAPTER XII. WANTED: A KILLER

? CHAPTER XIII. THE CHANGED TRAIL

? CHAPTER XIV. A QUESTION OF MURDER

? CHAPTER XV. STRIFE ON THE HILL.

? CHAPTER XVI. PROOF OF MURDER

? CHAPTER XVII. MANDON'S STRATEGY

? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S RETURN

? CHAPTER XIX. DEATH'S MEETING

? CHAPTER XX. THE LONE WITNESS

? CHAPTER XXI. THE MURDER MOTIVE

CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO CAME BACK

LIGHTS were glowing from the mansion on the hill - the first lights that had gleamed from its windows

for the past five years. Across the lawn that spread among the trees, those lights formed fantastic streaks

that seemed like living things.

Those streaks could have been the shadows of the trees that were weaving constantly in the heavy wind.

One patch of darkness, however, was imbued with purpose. Steadily, with gliding progress, it moved

toward the house, until, close to the glow of a corner window, it became a solid shape.

That shape was human, though many observers might have mistaken it for a ghost. It formed a figure

cloaked in black - a being whose eyes, hidden beneath the brim of a slouch hat, caught the glow of the

window lights and reflected them with the burn of living coals.

Curiously, only those who did not fear this black-clad being would have mistaken him for a ghost. Those

who really feared him would have recognized him, had they seen him.

He was The Shadow, master foe of crime; a human fighter dreaded by all men of evil! To such, The

Shadow was far more formidable than any spectral creature of the night.

Close to a corner window, The Shadow paused. His cloaked shoulder formed an outline against the light,

and a hawkish profile formed beneath the slouch hat, as The Shadow's burning eyes peered through the

window. There, as he viewed the great hall of the mansion, The Shadow saw a solitary person.

The lone man was Tukes, the old servant who had been with the Granmore family since they first moved

to this mansion, forty years ago. It was fitting that Tukes, the faithful old retainer, should have reopened

the mansion to receive Foster Granmore upon his return from a five-year sojourn in the State

penitentiary.

Since Tukes was alone, it was evident that Foster had not yet arrived. Withdrawing from the window,

The Shadow moved past a corner of the house, and paused. Below the hill lay a glittering vista, a carpet

of light that represented the town of Venetia, plainly visible despite the wind-swept drizzle.

Great puffs of flame rose suddenly from amid the valley. Reflecting ruddily from the scudding clouds, the

glare outlined the sprawling buildings of a factory. That plant was the glass works owned by Weldorf,

Granmore Co., the industry upon which the town of Venetia depended.

As flames faded, The Shadow's keen eyes gazed across the valley to a mansion that surmounted the

opposite hill. It was lighted, like the Granmore house, but even at this distance the other mansion looked

more brilliant. Well it might, for it was the home of the Weldorf family, whose name lacked the smirch

that had fallen upon the Granmores.

Singular, the status of these two families who had once rated equally in Venetia!

Five years ago, old Daniel Weldorf, patriarch of his clan, had been murdered in that distant mansion. His

slayer was a masked robber, who had rifled the Weldorf safe and taken bonds belonging to the

company, valued at a quarter million dollars. The bonds were registered; hence the murderer had never

been able to turn them into cash. For five years, both the killer and his loot had remained undiscovered.

Suspicion in the murder of Daniel Weldorf had rested briefly upon Foster Granmore. Though most of the

company records had disappeared with the bonds, duplicates had been found, much to the

disappointment of Foster. For those duplicate records had shown a shortage in Foster's accounts, to the

total of forty thousand dollars.

Foster had established an alibi in the matter of Daniel's death, but vindictive members of the Weldorf

family had forced the other issue, with the result that Foster Granmore had gone to jail for

embezzlement.

These were the vital facts that brought The Shadow to the Granmore mansion; these, plus the added

point that tonight, Foster would return to the old homestead.

Like the missing bonds, the embezzled cash had never been found. In the case of the cash, Foster

Granmore could certainly provide the answer. Whether it formed a link to murder, was a question to be

answered by The Shadow!

SKIRTING the Granmore grounds was a deep ravine, and from it, The Shadow could hear the tumult of

a raging creek. This was the rainy season, when swollen streams became roaring torrents that swept out

bridges and carried away shacks built along their shores.

The flood menace was heavy throughout this area, and The Shadow could picture the appearance of the

plunging creek from the sounds that issued from the pitch-black ravine.

Then came an added roar, deceptive at first, but plainer as it increased. It was the motor of a large car,

climbing the hill road that skirted the ravine. Even before the headlights swung into the Granmore

driveway, The Shadow was gliding into the darkness that fronted the mansion. There, under cover of low

shrubbery, he continued toward the front door.

Sweeping the bushes, the headlights failed to reveal the black cloaked shape behind them. The big car

stopped in front of the mansion. Hearing its arrival, Tukes opened the front door, and the light showed

the halted limousine. From the big car stepped a dapper chauffeur, who opened the door to let two

passengers alight. The Shadow saw them plainly as they stepped toward the house.

One was Foster Granmore. He showed the traces of his years in prison. His face, once full and florid,

had become thin and was smeared with a sickly pallor. His shoulders were bowed; he had the look of a

wearied man. Indeed, Foster Granmore seemed almost as old as Tukes, the stooped and wizened

servant who greeted him at the front door.

The other arrival was Giles Mandon, general manager of the glass factory. Mandon was a picture of

middle-aged health. He was handsome, with his sleek light hair and clear blue eyes; friendly eyes

displayed sympathy as he ushered Foster into the old homestead. Mandon's shoulders were erect, giving

him a military bearing.

After turning Foster over to Tukes, Mandon swung about and spoke to his chauffeur:

"Wait here, Corbey. I shall be with you shortly."

The front door closed behind Mandon, and darkness reigned anew. It was darkness that suited The

Shadow, for he moved directly to the front door. The lights of Mandon's car were focused along the

drive, hence they did not reveal The Shadow as he reached the front door. Nor did Corbey, back at the

wheel, catch a glimpse of the gliding shape in black.

It was because of Corbey that The Shadow worked the house door inward very slowly, until he found

just enough space to enter. In entering, he blocked off the light completely, and he closed the door as he

turned. The barrier came shut so softly that Corbey hadn't an inkling of what happened.

Within the great hall, The Shadow saw an open path ahead. Tukes had gone back to the kitchen, and

from another doorway The Shadow heard voices, giving the location of Foster Granmore and Giles

Mandon. They had left the door ajar, in case they wanted to summon Tukes, so The Shadow took

advantage of the matter.

Reaching the partly opened door, he looked into a comfortable corner den, where Foster and Mandon

were chatting together.

"THOUGHTFUL of Tukes," remarked Foster. "He even lighted the fire for me, and here are my pipe

and slippers. My favorite tobacco, too!" Leaning back in a deep chair, Foster reached for the tobacco

jar. "It's good to be home again. I hope that people will leave me alone!"

"I'm afraid they won't, Foster," declared Mandon, with a solemn headshake. "At least, I know one

person who is likely to visit you quite shortly."

Foster's eyes narrowed into sharp beads. His next question came in a snarled tone:

"Do you mean Titus Weldorf?"

Mandon nodded.

"Titus is a fool!" snapped Foster. "So big a fool, that he still thinks I killed his cousin Daniel! Well you

can't expect too many brains in one family. Old Daniel had them; Titus lacks them. I'll handle Titus

Weldorf!"

Again, Mandon shook his head.

"That's just the trouble, Foster," he said. "You're not the man to handle him."

Foster's teeth bit the pipe stem with a savage click that rather proved Mandon's point. At least, Mandon

took it that way. He arose and laid a friendly hand upon Foster's shoulder.

"If Titus arrives," suggested Mandon, "tell Tukes to get in touch with me."

"Very well," agreed Foster. "I'll send Tukes over to your house. He can make it in less than ten minutes,

by the path across the ravine."

There was another headshake from Mandon.

"The bridge went out today," he told Foster "so you can't send Tukes. Have him phone me, and I'll come

around by car. Besides" - Mandon's tone carried a warning note - "Tukes should stay here, to witness

what passes between you and Titus. Titus is vindictive, Foster, and you are both hotheaded."

Foster gave a shrug and reached for his slippers. At last, yielding to Mandon's persuasion, he promised

to follow instructions.

As Mandon came from the den, The Shadow drew back into darkness, under an old-fashioned stairway,

and let the rugged man pass. Watching Mandon, The Shadow saw him go out through the front door,

which Tukes had come from the kitchen to open.

Remaining where he was, The Shadow heard Mandon's car pull away, and watched Tukes go back to

the kitchen. The Shadow preferred his present lurking spot, for he knew that eyes were watching the

hallway.

Those eyes belonged to Foster and they were very sharp. They might even have spied The Shadow, had

Foster suspected that anyone was standing in the shelter of the stairway.

With Mandon and Tukes gone; Foster was quite sure that he was alone. He started to close the door of

the den, then decided against it, on the supposition that he could certainly hear Tukes if the old servant

came across the hallway.

As Foster retired into his den, The Shadow came from darkness and again peered through the partly

opened door.

Showing unusual agility for a man wearied by prison life, Foster Granmore was moving about the room,

drawing the window shades right down to the sills. That task finished, he hurried to the fireplace. There,

he threw a quick glance toward the door. Seeing only blackness beyond it, he supposed that the hall was

quite empty.

His breath coming in eager gasps, Foster reached beneath the mantel and began to turn an ornamental

iron ring that was set in the stone.

The heat from the fire bothered him. He withdrew his hands twice, rubbing his fingers. Then, tugging a

handkerchief from his pocket, Foster wrapped it about his hand and resumed his operation.

Finishing the turning of the ring, Foster gave it a pull. Instead of coming free, the ring swung at an angle,

bringing a small, square section of the fireplace with it, on a hinge.

Into the compartment thus revealed, Foster shoved an eager hand. His face, reddened by the fire's glow,

held a leer of satanic triumph. As plainly as though he had spoken it, Foster's face was informing that he

expected to reclaim the spoils of crime.

One point, alone, was in doubt. Foster's face did not tell whether he merely wanted the forty thousand

dollars that he had embezzled, or whether he also counted on finding the quarter million in bonds that had

disappeared with the masked murderer who killed Daniel Weldorf.

Whatever he wanted, Foster Granmore did not discover it. His hand, merely nervous at first, became

frantic. Stooping, he peered into the cavity beneath the mantel; even struck a match to view its interior.

Then with a snarl so vicious that any murderer would have envied it, Foster swung about with both fists

clenched. His face had lost its demoniac leer; he was wearing the visage of a madman.

Small wonder that Foster Granmore was the picture of a man crazed with despair. In paying the penalty

for crime, he had undergone the ordeal in the confidence that he would retain the profits of his evil.

Instead of wealth, Foster Granmore had gained a lesson that The Shadow could have told him was his

due.

The lesson that crime did not pay!

CHAPTER II. DEATH FROM THE DARK

WATCHING the face of Foster Granmore, The Shadow saw it run the gamut of emotions. Rage

replaced despair, only to weaken into misery. Then the desire for revenge turned the man's face savage,

until he realized that he did not know the person upon whom his vengeance should be wreaked.

Suddenly, a cunning glint came to Foster's beady eyes, and held itself like a vulture's glare. Closing the

aperture beneath the mantel, he screwed the iron ring tight again.

Foster Granmore intended to play smart. Some time, during the past five years, someone had robbed him

of his ill-gotten gain. When the robbery had happened, who had perpetrated it, were things that Foster

would make it his future business to learn. His face was actually gloating, as though he relished this

challenge to his ownership of stolen funds.

The Shadow could hear the sharp intake of Foster's breath - an indication of the embezzler's eagerness

to wage a new campaign.

Around the old house, the wind wailed, as though it shared Foster's disappointment and wanted to join

his cause. It's shriek was a ghoulish whine, and a gust, traveling down the chimney, stirred the firelight into

wavering tongues that licked upward, anew, in vengeful style.

Then, as though the wind had already played its part, there came a sharp clack-clack outside a window

of the room.

Turned from the fireplace, Foster cocked his head and listened shrewdly. At first, he mistook the clatter

for a loosened shutter; then he identified it as an actual rap upon the pane beyond the lowered shade.

Striding across the den, he raised the shade and hoisted the sash. In with a surge of wind came a sweep

of rain that forced Foster to fling his arms in front of his face.

As for The Shadow, he did quick work to prevent the door from slamming in his face. Thrusting his foot

into the door space, The Shadow stopped the barrier as the wind caught it and drove it his way.

When The Shadow looked again, a figure was clambering over the low sill. Foster evidently knew the

visitor, for he had admitted the man, and was closing the window and drawing the shade again.

The man who entered was muffled in a raincoat and wore a flabby gray hat. He threw back the coat

collar and removed the rain-soaked hat as he approached the fire.

There, the visitor turned, and The Shadow saw a face quite like Foster's though it was younger and more

robust. With a broad grin, the arrival spoke.

"Well, Uncle Foster," he queried, "aren't you glad to receive a visit from your favorite nephew?"

"Considering that you are my only nephew," returned Foster testily, "I suppose that you are entitled to the

distinction, Ted. Nevertheless, I am not accustomed to receiving visitors through the window. The front

door is the proper entrance."

Ted Granmore's lips showed a none-too-pleasant curl. Then, smoothly, he remarked:

"Our business is confidential, Foster. I didn't care to have even Tukes know about it. It concerns the sum

of forty thousand dollars."

Foster's eyes went hard, with a cold glint.

"Come, come, Foster," chided Ted. "We Granmores must work together. You have suffered, of course,

from your stay in prison; but I have borne some of the brunt. After all, the blemish on the Granmore name

"Cut it short, Ted!" snapped Foster. "How much money do you want?"

Ted shrugged.

"About five thousand dollars," he decided. "It would settle some pressing debts. I've already sold most of

my stock in the glass factory, and I ought to hang on to some of it just for family pride."

Foster sneered at Ted's mention of "pride". Then, his expression hardening again, Foster shook his head.

"Sorry, Ted," he stated. "I had debts, too. Old ones. I embezzled the forty thousand to cover them. It's

all gone, years ago, before I went to prison."

There was disbelief in Ted's eyes. In his turn Foster studied his nephew closely. The Shadow could

understand Foster's gaze; the older man was trying to guess whether his nephew had taken the money

from its cache beneath the mantel. At last, to break the tension, Foster spoke sarcastically.

"I suppose you're wondering about the bonds that were stolen from old Daniel Weldof," remarked

Foster. "It would be like you, Ted, to think that I took them, too."

Ted gave a headshake.

"I'm not sure that old Daniel ever had those bonds," he declared. "It would be like a Weldorf, to frame

something that would bring discredit to the Granmores. Tell me, Foster: could Daniel Weldorf have

known that you were embezzling company funds?"

"He might have, Ted."

"Very well, my dear uncle. That would have given Daniel his opportunity to obtain funds in a much bigger

way. He could have disposed of the bonds then faked a robbery -"

"And let himself be murdered for his pains?" broke in Foster. "That wouldn't be like Daniel Weldorf; nor,

for that matter, like any Weldorf, not even Titus -"

THERE was another interruption - the ringing of the front doorbell. Coming with Foster's mention of

Titus, the bell was very apropos. Taking Ted's arm, Foster Granmore pressed his nephew toward the

window, at the same time hissing in Ted's ear:

"It's Titus Weldorf. Mandon told me to expect him. Get outside, and stay there until Titus has gone!"

The Shadow kept the door from slamming while Ted was going out the window. By then, Tukes was

admitting Titus Weldorf. Retiring to the space beneath the stairway, The Shadow had a good look at

Titus when the visitor went past.

Titus Weldorf had a long, aristocratic face, with a high-bridged nose that was probably a mark of his

clan. Considering Titus as a specimen, the Weldorfs were more imposing than the Granmores. But

behind the haughty air of Titus lay a certain shrewdness, quite as strong as any displayed by Foster

Granmore or his nephew, Ted.

Upon receiving Titus Weldorf, Foster Granmore dismissed Tukes but left the door half open. Foster had

not forgotten Mandon's admonition to have Tukes handy, in case of an altercation between himself and

Titus. The admonition was a solid one, for the two men lost no time in baring their antagonism.

"I know why you've come here, Titus," opened Foster. "You want to talk about a matter of forty

thousand dollars. Sorry to disappoint you. I'm not in a mood to discuss finances."

"Then perhaps you will talk about murder!" retorted Titus, in a tone that had the sharp cut of a knife. "I

refer to the death of my cousin Daniel. You can't have forgotten it, Foster. You remember other things

that happened five years ago."

"I had an alibi at the time of Daniel's murder -"

"So you did, Foster. You were with Giles Mandon shortly before it happened. His testimony cleared

you, but there is a chance that Mandon was mistaken as to the exact time when you left him."

Foster's fists tightened, then relaxed. He picked up a pipe that he had filled, lighted it, and began to puff

serenely. Then, coolly, he inquired:

"Aren't you intimating that Mandon lied in my behalf, Titus?"

"Not in the least," knifed Titus. "If he had, he wouldn't have produced those duplicate accounts that

branded you as an embezzler. Mandon is honest, and an honest man can be fooled, to some extent, by a

crook."

Again, Foster's fists went tight. He bellowed savagely as he bounded across the room, and The Shadow

whipped away from the open door, back into the space beneath the stairs. It wasn't necessary for The

Shadow to mix in the dispute, for old Tukes was coming across the hallway, attracted by the sound of

angry voices.

Tukes arrived to find Titus backing through the doorway, away from Foster's shaking fist. Seeing the

servant, Foster calmed down immediately and waved a hand toward the front door. Then, stiffly, he

ordered:

"Show Mr. Weldorf out, Tukes."

Courteously, Tukes conducted Titus to the front door. There, Titus turned and delivered a parting thrust.

"Remember, Foster!" stormed Titus. "A man who will steal will commit murder! It applies in your case,

and I shall prove it! You will pay for the death of my cousin Daniel!"

Before Foster could give reply, Titus stepped through the doorway and was swallowed by the drizzling

darkness. The wind howled, as though endorsing the words of Titus, and Foster gave a savage gesture,

indicating for Tukes to close the door, which the servant did. Anxiously, Tukes queried:

"Shall I phone Mr. Mandon?"

"Not yet, Tukes," Foster shook his head. "Wait in the kitchen. I shall call when I need you."

WAITING until Tukes had turned away, Foster went back into his corner room. From Foster's manner,

The Shadow could divine the man's exact purpose. Foster had followed Mandon's admonition to have

Tukes present as a witness when Titus Weldorf arrived.

But Tukes had only witnessed a portion of the altercation. Foster Granmore had an even better witness

close at hand: his nephew Ted, outside the window.

Foster hadn't quite closed the window, nor had he fully drawn the shade. He intended to admit Ted again

and renew their own conference.

There was a shrewd gleam upon Foster's face; he could foresee at least a temporary alliance with his

nephew. Granmore's both, their antagonism toward the Weldorfs would unite them in a common cause.

As for the suspicion that showed on Foster's face, it had a new significance.

Still thinking of the missing forty thousand dollars, Foster had begun to believe that Ted Granmore wasn't

the only man who might have garnered those stolen funds. Titus Weldorf, with his show of indignation,

might well be covering a theft on his own part.

At least, Foster had played smart throughout, for he hadn't given either visitor an inkling that the funds

were missing from the hiding place. As for his coming campaign, Foster intended to play a Granmore

against a Weldorf and sit back to see what happened.

Hearing Foster raise the window, The Shadow stepped forward from the stairway and thrust the

necessary foot into the doorway, to prevent the wind from slamming the door. Through the crack he saw

Foster leaning forward at the window, his arm raised against the swirling rain. Foster's other hand was

moving forward to beckon Ted indoors.

It was the same setting as before. A few moments more, and Ted Granmore would be coming through

the window to rejoin his uncle. The Shadow was regarding the situation casually, despite the wail of the

wind.

The strident gale was striking a new note; it carried a banshee's wail, as though some spirit of the outer

reaches sought to voice a warning fraught with death. Yet, even The Shadow did not regard that chance

whine as an omen.

Then came the stroke itself.

From the doorway, The Shadow could see blackness as a background beyond Foster Granmore. A

background into which the pasty-faced man was leaning his hand extended as in welcome. In return

came something wholly unexpected.

There was a stab from darkness - a tongue of flame that knifed upward, straight for Foster's heart. The

report that accompanied the burst was scarcely audible, for the roar of the wind had a drowning effect.

But there was no mistaking the fiery stab. It issued from the muzzle of a gun.

With that wind-drowned shot, Foster Granmore reeled back from the window, swayed, and toppled

forward, dead. The man who had paid the penalty for one crime had become the victim of another. From

the misery of a prison cell, Foster Granmore had returned to the security of his old home, to meet with

death from the dark.

Death from the dark, in the very presence of The Shadow!

CHAPTER III. THE DOUBLED TRAIL

EVEN before Foster Granmore completed his sudden death stagger, The Shadow was drawing a gun

from beneath his cloak to start in the direction of the murderer, outside the window.

Briefly, The Shadow paused in the doorway, still part of the blackness that pervaded it. He was waiting

on the chance that the killer might appear at the window to view his handiwork.

When no face appeared, The Shadow was sure that the murderer had taken the opposite course, that of

flight. The delay was not too long to prevent The Shadow from overtaking him. Any man who had

delivered death so deliberately would not be seized by panic. The Shadow was merely giving the killer

sufficient leeway to lull him into a sense of false security.

Flinging the door wide, The Shadow sped across the room, cleared the dead form on the floor and

vaulted through the window, into outdoor darkness. So swift was his action, that the incoming wind did

not slam the door until The Shadow had reached the ground outside. There, amid darkness, The Shadow

heard the door as it clapped shut.

This window was near a rear corner of the house, which was the logical direction in which the killer

would have gone. Turning that direction, The Shadow wheeled out from the house wall to gain a better

angle for a swift pursuit. Such little details as clipping corners came in very handy, in cases like the

present.

This was one instance when such tactics proved handier than usual. So handy, indeed, that they saved

The Shadow's life.

Scarcely had The Shadow veered out into the dark, before a gun spoke from the house corner. It's stabs

were straight at the spot where the cloaked investigator had landed. Even from his present position, The

Shadow could hear the whine of bullets amid the higher shriek of the wind. Moreover, there was double

cunning on the part of the opposing marksman.

So true was the fire that if The Shadow had taken a direct course to the corner, be would have come

straight into the path of bullets, to suffer the same death that Foster Granmore had received at the

window!

Quick though The Shadow had been, when vaulting to the outside darkness, the murderer must have

glimpsed his arrival there. It would have been impossible for anyone to identify The Shadow in such a

passing glance; but that, in itself, was a disadvantage. Whoever had killed Foster Granmore knew that

Tukes was about, and could therefore have mistaken The Shadow for the faithful servant.

True, Tukes was old, but he was loyal. Giles Mandon had admonished him to take good care of Foster.

As for the two men who had paid clandestine visits to this mansion, both knew that Tukes was about.

Ted Granmore had mentioned Tukes by name; Titus Weldorf had seen the servant when Tukes admitted

him to the house. Both would have been on the lookout for Tukes, and The Shadow's rapid vault could

have passed for a tripping plunge of the sort that Tukes might have made.

On that basis, The Shadow halted where he was. Crouching in the darkness, several yards from the

house wall, he waited for the killer to steal back and look for Tukes. During those fateful moments, The

Shadow was considering the parts that two men might have played.

Ted Granmore had been outside his uncle's window when Foster had the argument with Titus Weldorf. It

would have been easy, very easy, for Ted simply to wait and deliver the death shot when Foster came to

the window.

True, Ted had shown no inclinations toward murdering Foster earlier. But he could have decided upon

such a course after witnessing Titus's visit. Assuming that Ted had taken Foster's hidden funds, he would

have a motive for eliminating his uncle. At very best, there was no love lost between the pair.

And what could be more to a Granmore's liking than to commit a murder that circumstance would pin

upon a Weldorf?

The Shadow answered that mental question by supplying another. The second question was this:

What could be more to the liking of a Weldorf than killing a Granmore for sheer satisfaction?

This new question put a different aspect on the case. Very plausibly, Ted could have left the premises

when Titus arrived. Noticing the partly opened window, through which the wind had persistently

whistled, Titus Weldorf might very well have decided to thrust home the vengeance that he had

promised.

Calculating the time element, The Shadow decided definitely that Titus could have rounded the house and

stationed himself outside the den window, hoping for a shot at Foster. If such were true, Foster had

personally helped the cause of his own death, by making himself the perfect target for a lurker.

In his present mood, Titus Weldorf could hardly have resisted the temptation to jab a bullet home, had

Foster Granmore come his way so conveniently. For Titus had displayed sincerity, when he accused

Foster Granmore of having murdered Daniel Weldorf. To Titus, Foster's steps toward the window could

well have seemed an action controlled by a guiding hand of Fate.

The question of the killer would soon be decided.

WAITING, The Shadow was watchful in the darkness, even though the grimy gray of the house wall

showed nothing against its surface. This night was as pitch-black as any that The Shadow had ever

experienced, and it gave other prowlers the same coverage that he had.

But below the window lay a square of light, coming from the room itself. Foot by foot, The Shadow

could picture the murderer moving toward that glowing square. Given the slightest token of the man's

arrival, The Shadow would be ready for a devastating pounce.

Then, when The Shadow was sure that opportunity was close at hand, a sound came from within the

room where Foster Granmore lay sprawled in death. It came at a most untimely moment, during a lull in

the howl of the wind. It was a high-pitched cry of horror, that could only have been voiced by a faithful

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THEDEVIL'SFEUDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEMANWHOCAMEBACK?CHAPTERII.DEATHFROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.THEDOUBLEDTRAIL?CHAPTERIV.WANTEDFORMURDER?CHAPTERV.ONEMAN'SVERSION?CHAPTERVI.GUILTUNPROVEN?CHAPTERVII.THECLANSGATHER?CHAPTERVIII.CRIMETOCOME?CHAPT...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 248 - The Devil's Feud

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