Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 094 - Castle of Doom

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CASTLE OF DOOM
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME OVER LONDON
? CHAPTER II. CRIME DISCUSSED
? CHAPTER III. TWISTED TRAILS
? CHAPTER IV. THE HOUSE IN WHITECHAPEL
? CHAPTER V. DEATH AND STRIFE
? CHAPTER VI. AT CHISWOLD CASTLE
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW'S CHOICE
? CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN AT THE INN
? CHAPTER IX. JEREMY MEETS A GHOST
? CHAPTER X. THE MASK CHANGES
? CHAPTER XI. TRAILS DIVERGE
? CHAPTER XII. NIGHT BRINGS ITS SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIII. THE CASTLE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE FINAL VIGIL
? CHAPTER XV. DEATH AT DAWN
? CHAPTER XVI. OLD JEREMY'S STORY
? CHAPTER XVII. BELATED VISITORS
? CHAPTER XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT
? CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW ALLY
? CHAPTER XX. CHANCE BRINGS ITS ISSUE
? CHAPTER XXI. BENEATH THE CASTLE
? CHAPTER XXII. CRIME STANDS REVEALED
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE DOUBLE STROKE
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST TRIBUTE
CHAPTER I. CRIME OVER LONDON
THICK, smoke-laden fog had gained its grip on London. Night, descending like some black umbra
through the mist, had added sinister gloom. Street lamps, their rays cast back upon them, were nothing
more than blurred orbs of illumination that seemed to hang in mid-air.
Silence was heaviest upon a narrow street not far from Piccadilly Circus. This thoroughfare lay
somewhere between the huge stores of Regent Street and the quality shops of Bond Street. The very
obscurity of the section added to the lull; but with it, the unnatural calmness was foreboding. Stilled air
seem to be waiting for some startlement. It came.
The shrill sound of a policeman's whistle cleaved the fog. Shouts came in muffled utterance. Harsh oaths
were rasped in challenge. Then came the scurry of footsteps upon paving; after that, the heavy pound of
pursuing feet. Other whistles trilled; then clatter faded.
Rogues of the night had countered with the law. Ghoulish plunderers, creeping out from hiding places,
had been scattered back to cover. Patrolling policemen had converged, were staying close to the vicinity.
Heavy, methodical footsteps were proof that the law remained.
Close by one of Piccadilly's corners, a stalwart uniformed figure loomed into the light. Steady eyes
peered from beneath a helmet. Then the London bobby raised his arm as a pedestrian approached.
"Better not go through that way, sir," informed the officer. "There are prowlers about. They may be
footpads, for aught that we have learned."
"Thank you, officer."
THE man who spoke was nattily attired. He was wearing a light-gray topcoat and a trim bowler hat. His
face showed him to be no more than thirty years; and his features carried an aristocratic mark. High
cheek bones, sharp nose and gray eyes that were dreary despite their friendly gaze. The bobby took
mental note of that distinctive countenance.
"It's a bad night, sir," reminded the officer.
The young man nodded. He was nervous as he tightened the fawn-colored gloves that he was wearing.
Then his jauntiness returned; he drew a light walking stick from beneath his elbow and swung it rakishly
to indicate that he had at least a slight measure of protection should he encounter danger.
"I am going to the Acropolis Club, near St. James Street," he told the bobby. "Since I can reach there by
continuing along Piccadilly to my turning point, I shall do so. Good evening, officer."
Fog swallowed the well-dressed young man as he swaggered along his way. The bobby resumed a
short-paced patrol.
New footsteps clicked. A well-dressed young man came into the hazy light. The officer surveyed a
clean-cut face; then took note of the arrival's attire. This passer stopped of his own volition. He
addressed the bobby in American fashion.
"Hello, officer," he said, with a friendly smile. "I'm lost in this plagued fog. I wonder if you could give me
directions?"
"Certainly, sir," acknowledged the bobby, "but first I must warn you to be careful hereabouts. There have
been suspicious lurkers in this neighborhood."
"The newspapers have agreed upon that," laughed the American. "They claim that the mysterious burglars
have accumulated everything that is worthwhile taking in this section and others. Rather an exaggeration,
to my way of thinking."
"Quite right you are, sir." Ending his discussion of recent crime, the bobby changed the subject. "About
your directions, sir. You are in Piccadilly, walking westward. What destination have you chosen, sir?"
"I should like to reach the Acropolis Club, in St. James Street."
THE officer stared, momentarily dumfounded by the coincidence. Then, politely, he covered his surprise
and gave careful directions. The American set out upon the route that the previous man had taken.
Another bobby approached from the side street. He came with information from the restricted area.
"We have scoured the neighborhood," he stated. "The rogues have scattered back to shelter. The orders
to warn wayfarers are ended."
"No vans seen about?" questioned the first bobby.
"None," replied the second. "These were -"
The speaker paused. A pedestrian was strolling from the mist. He was a man of military bearing, that
appearance being increased by his attire. He was wearing a khaki-colored overcoat; his felt hat was set
at a slight tilt. His greeting was cheery as he approached the officers.
"Hello, there!" he exclaimed. "Trouble hereabouts?"
The first bobby stared. He had seen coincidence in the fact that two passers had been going on foot to
the Acropolis Club. But that had been nothing when compared to the present puzzle.
The officer had remembered the first man's face. High cheeks, sharp nose and gray eyes. A voice that
was brisk; but well accented. To his amazement, the bobby was staring at that face again, listening to the
same voice!
Yet this could not be the identical Englishman. The first had worn a light-gray topcoat and bowler hat.
This man was clad in a khaki coat and soft hat. The first had worn gloves and carried a walking stick; this
man had neither.
Moreover, the first man had continued west. This chap had come from an easterly direction. Brief
minutes had separated their arrivals. Yet, as he stared, the bobby realized that the first man might have
stopped somewhere close by, changed his hat and coat, and then circled back.
"Beg pardon, sir," questioned the bobby. "Were you not the gentleman who passed by a short while
ago?"
"I?" queried the sharp-faced young man, in apparent surprise. "Not at all. I have been strolling in this
direction from The Strand. Enjoying London after a long absence."
"You have lost your way, sir?"
The bobby's query was cagey. It was an effort to learn the new arrival's destination. Gray eyes flashed.
"Ah! I have it!" The wayfarer's tone was jesting. "Some other chap, dressed like myself, strolled by here
in the fog. Well, I must grant that my attire is a bit unusual for a Londoner. You see, I am just home from
India."
THE bobby had stepped a trifle to one side, to gain a better view of the man's face. The wayfarer
noticed this effort at closer scrutiny.
"You are wondering about India?" he laughed. "Wondering why my face is not a tanned one? That is
because I came home on sick leave. I lost two stone in weight, thanks to the beastly fever spell that I
experienced in Bombay. I turned as white as a ghost."
"It was not that, sir," confessed the bobby, stepping back. "It was your face, not your attire that made me
believe you were the other gentleman returned. But I see that I am wrong, sir."
"Ah! My face is not the same?" The question was quick. "Perhaps you did not observe the other chap
closely, then?"
"Your face is the same," expressed the officer, slowly, with a deliberate nod of his head. "Quite the same,
sir, except for one difference."
"And what is that?"
"Your paleness. Once you mentioned it, sir, I realized the truth of it. Had I been asked to choose which
one of you had come from Bombay, I would have picked the previous gentleman."
"How was he dressed?"
"In the best Bond Street fashion, sir."
"Indeed. I suppose he was on his way to some club?"
"He was, sir. Quite swanky with his light-gray topcoat, his bowler and his walking stick."
"Ah! A walking stick!" The man in the khaki coat took up a bantering mood. "I fancy that he carries it
quite rakishly, as though ready to cane any bounder who might disturb his passage."
The bobby had no reply. The description was so perfect that he again stood dumbfounded, able only to
nod.
"And, of course, he was going to his club," resumed the young man from the fog.
The bobby found words.
"Yes, sir. The Acropolis Club."
"That was it, sir," added the second bobby. "There was another man also going to the Acropolis Club;
but he passed by a trifle afterward. He was an American."
"And did he look like me also?"
"Not at all, sir."
The young man laughed heartily, while both bobbies smiled. Then, with a slight click of his heels, the
wayfarer gave a friendly half salute. With that, he strolled away into the fog.
TRAMPING footsteps faded as the bobbies resumed their beat. Crime had been a false alarm tonight.
The wave of robbery that had been discussed was rightly classed as something of the past. Yet crime had
not been banished from London.
It hovered still, as menacing as the fog; and, singularly, that first bobby at the corner had come in contact
with three men whom crime would soon concern. Grim events would involve those Englishmen who
looked alike; the swanky Londoner and his double back from India.
Into that same picture would come the man who had appeared between; the American who had been
directed to the place that the other two appeared to know more perfectly - the Acropolis Club near St.
James Street.
CHAPTER II. CRIME DISCUSSED
CRIME talk was heavy at the Acropolis Club. It was the only subject among the members who had
gathered in the smoking lounge. Fog had not kept these gentlemen from their accustomed meeting place;
and in their discourse, they could find but one theme.
"Outrageous!" Such was the opinion given by a dignified man with a drooping, white mustache.
"Scotland Yard is not idle, however, Dunbarth," objected a roundish-faced club member. "Those
audacious crimes were committed one after the other, with such expedition that the law could not keep
pace with them."
"Quite so, Rutherwaite," acknowledged Dunbarth. "Nevertheless, crime may begin again. Mark my
words!"
"What is your opinion, Cranston?" queried Rutherwaite, turning to a tall, calm-faced personage who was
seated nearby. "Do you not agree that the miscreants will be content with the hauls that they have
made?"
"Quite probably," was the quiet response, "so far as London is concerned. Their booty has been
estimated at three hundred thousand pounds, I understand, and -"
"More nearly half a million," put in Rutherwaite, "according to the latest estimate of the Daily Sketch.".
"The Sketch! Bah!" Dunbarth gave an indignant ejaculation.
"What of the American journals?" queried Rutherwaite. "Have they exaggerated the news from
London?"
The question was addressed to Cranston. He made a quiet reply.
"I left New York," he stated, "two days after the crime wave began. At that time, the American
newspapers estimated that half a million dollars in valuables had been taken. While I was making the
voyage to England, the wave continued, to reach three times its original toll. A million and a half dollars
would coincide with Dunbarth's estimate of three hundred thousand pounds."
"Precisely," nodded Dunbarth. "The Duke of Clandermoor's gold plates; the portraits from the Earl of
Kelgood's gallery; the two jewelry shops on Bond Street; the jade vases housed in storage, that awaited
shipment to the British Museum -"
"And the jeweled tiaras," added Rutherwaite, "that belonged to Lady Darriol; to say nothing of the
Smith-Righterstone tapestries -"
"Which I intended to include," interposed Dunbarth, testily. "But why quibble over estimates? The vital
point is: what has Scotland Yard learned through its well-known Criminal Investigation Department?
Only that the robbers used motor vans in every expedition, to aid their entry and speed their departure."
"You term them robbers," observed Cranston. "I should deem them murderers."
"Quite right," agreed Rutherwaite. "A servant was slain at the Duke of Clandermoor's town house. An
officer was shot in cold blood when the robbery was done at Pettigrew's shop in Bond Street."
"And new crime will come," began Dunbarth. "Mark my words. New robberies -"
"Not in London." The words were Cranston's, delivered in a tone of finality. "Murder, perhaps, in
London. Robbery, perhaps, elsewhere."
THERE was an almost prophetic note in the speaker's voice, as though he had coolly calculated the
future. There was reason why that should be. For this American who had arrived in London was not a
chance visitor as the club members supposed.
He was a master sleuth, The Shadow. Learning of swift, mysterious crime in the British capital, The
Shadow had taken on the guise of Lamont Cranston, for a prompt trip to London.
"That is it," nodded Rutherwaite. "Why should the bounders resort to further crime? They have made
their haul. The proper course - the one that the Yard has taken - is to watch every port and every vessel
leaving England and -"
"It will be useless," injected Dunbarth.
A young man had entered the lounge while Dunbarth was speaking. Rutherwaite waved a greeting. This
arrival was the very man who had first met the bobby at one of Piccadilly's corners. Rutherwaite made
the introduction.
"This is Geoffrey Chiswold," he told The Shadow. "Jeff, this is Lamont Cranston, recently arrived from
New York."
They shook hands. The Shadow spoke.
"You are one of several Londoners whose names have attracted my attention," he told Chiswold. "Are
you not the Geoffrey Chiswold who recently sold your property to a man named Barton Modbury?"
"Yes," acknowledged Geoffrey, with a nod. Then, bitterly: "It had been in the family for more than three
hundred years. I was sorry to dispose of the old place."
"Why did you do so?" queried Dunbarth.
"The place had become a burden," explained Geoffrey. "The upkeep and maintenance of servants would
have driven me into debt. I wanted to make journeys, particularly to Canada. I invariably lacked a
sufficient surplus."
"I suppose the situation has changed," inserted Rutherwaite. "You should find present circumstances an
improvement."
"I have," acknowledged Geoffrey. "I am prepared for my voyage. I sail tomorrow for Canada."
"I hope that you made out well with your sale of the castle?"
"I did quite well. Modbury is wealthy. He was willing to pay the price that I asked."
"Modbury is an Australian?"
Geoffrey shook his head.
"No," he replied, "Modbury is a South African from the Kimberley region. He is a specialist in the choice
of gems. He particularly favors uncut diamonds -"
Geoffrey stopped abruptly. His face became troubled. Then, in a confidential tone, he added:
"That fact must not be mentioned, gentlemen. It is the reason why Barton Modbury chose to purchase
Chiswold Castle. He wanted to be far from London."
"On account of the robberies?" queried Rutherwaite, in an undertone.
GEOFFREY nodded.
"Then," queried The Shadow, "Barton Modbury purchased Chiswold Castle because of the protection it
offered?"
"He did," nodded Geoffrey, "and he has reopened it. He wanted me to be his guest there, for he is
entertaining some of the finest folk to whom I introduced him. However" - Geoffrey smiled regretfully - "I
could not fancy myself occupying a place in Chiswold Castle while I was no longer the owner. That is
why I decided upon my trip to Canada."
Geoffrey Chiswold arose and shook hands in parting. He strolled away to chat with other friends. The
Shadow, still standing, turned about as an attendant approached and handed him an envelope. The
Shadow opened it.
"The gentleman is waiting at the door, sir," stated the attendant. "Will there be a reply?"
"Yes." The Shadow smiled slightly as he wrote a note of his own and folded it. "Give this to Mr.
Vincent."
The attendant departed. When he arrived at the door of the club, he gave the message to a young man
who was standing there. This arrival was the second passer whom the bobby had encountered in
Piccadilly; the American who had inquired the way to the Acropolis Club.
He was Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow. He, too, had come to London, to aid in the tracking down
of criminals. Harry had brought in a report of certain investigations which he had conducted at The
Shadow's order.
The message that Harry read at the door of the Acropolis Club referred to Geoffrey Chiswold. It gave
the club member's name, described his appearance and attire with exactitude. It told Harry to wait until
Geoffrey Chiswold came from the Acropolis Club; then to take up his trail through the fog and report
where Geoffrey had gone.
For in Geoffrey Chiswold's mention of Barton Modbury, the South African diamond king, The Shadow
had found cause for prompt investigation. Though The Shadow agreed with Scotland Yard upon the
point that successful criminals intended to remove their swag from England, he also held to theories of his
own.
He had heard of Chiswold Castle previously. Tonight, he had met Geoffrey Chiswold and had listened to
brief statements from the former owner concerning Barton Modbury, the diamond king who had bought
the old castle that stood far from London.
In picturing the coming trail, The Shadow had seen Chiswold Castle as a possible goal for men of crime.
That was why he had deputed Harry Vincent to the task of learning all he could concerning Geoffrey
Chiswold.
CHAPTER III. TWISTED TRAILS
THE SHADOW had expected Geoffrey Chiswold's stay to be a short one at the Acropolis Club. His
calculation was correct. Within twenty minutes after his arrival, Geoffrey made his departure.
When Geoffrey Chiswold stepped from the Acropolis Club, Harry spotted him immediately.
He took up the trail. An easy one, at first, for Geoffrey's footsteps were a half shuffle from the sidewalk.
As the trail continued, Harry allowed more leeway. At times, he loitered, then made swifter pace to draw
close to his quarry. Guided by sound, Harry gained confidence, except when other passers added their
gaits to Geoffrey's.
Then came the incident that threw Harry off the trail. They had passed a side thoroughfare where Harry
had been out of touch with the footsteps. As Harry closed in again, he saw the blurred light from a
restaurant window, a place which offered him a chance to check upon the trail. He closed in upon the
man whose footsteps he could hear. At the lighted spot, Harry stopped dead short.
He had caught sight of his quarry, but the man was no longer Geoffrey Chiswold. Though Harry could
only see his back, he knew that the man was the wrong one. Footsteps had been deceiving; the light
proved the fact. The man just ahead of Harry was not wearing a gray topcoat and Derby hat. Instead, he
was attired in khaki coat and soft hat. Moreover, he had neither cane nor gloves.
Where had the trail been lost?
Harry could think of but one logical spot; the last street that they had passed. Turning, The Shadow's
agent made as much haste as possible in the opposite direction. He still had hope to pick up the lost trail.
Odd circumstance had tricked Harry Vincent. The other was the man who looked like Geoffrey
Chiswold, a fact that Harry had not discerned by the lights of the restaurant, for he had seen the man's
back and not his face. The chief deception lay in the fact that the man who intervened was walking in
exactly the same fashion as Geoffrey. Harry had taken the second man's footsteps for the first.
UP ahead, Geoffrey Chiswold had maintained his pace. As he continued, he became conscious of a
sound behind him; one that resembled an echo. He paused by a doorway and listened. The shuffling echo
sounded from the corner; then stopped.
His right hand clutching his walking stick, Geoffrey edged back toward the light. He fancied that he heard
sounds creeping toward him from the fog. He caught a momentary glimpse of a stocky form. Swinging
the cane, Geoffrey bounded forward. As he did, the other man sprang from the opposite direction.
They met in the lighted patch. A khaki-colored arm shot forward and caught Geoffrey's wrist. As the
young man writhed, unable to swing his cane, he came face to face with his antagonist. Geoffrey's
struggle ceased. His lips phrased a name of recognition:
"Nigel!"
The other laughed harshly and thrust away Geoffrey's wrist.
"The Chiswolds meet," remarked Nigel, in a tone which was similar to Geoffrey's. "Two cousins reunited
after an absence of five years. Well, Jeff, are you glad to see me?"
"I thought you were in India," replied Geoffrey, coldly. "What brings you back to London?"
"The call of home," returned Nigel, "plus a Bombay fever. Well, old chap, the prodigal has returned. As
my only relative, you might provide the fatted calf."
"I suppose so." Geoffrey seemed reluctant. "What do you want, Nigel? Money?"
Nigel laughed. Nigel's laugh was not pleasant. Then his manner changed.
"Let us drop it, Jeff. Money does not matter; I changed my spendthrift habits while in India. I have gained
a disappointment; one for which you are responsible."
"And what may that be?"
"About Chiswold Castle. Why did you sell the place, Jeff?"
"Chiswold Castle was my property, Nigel. It was part of my inheritance. You had no share of it."
"I shared memories of the place."
"Then you can keep them. That is what I have chosen to do. I am leaving for Canada tomorrow."
"So soon?" Nigel was studying his cousin closely. "Well, since you will be absent, do you think that
Modbury would welcome me if I dropped out there and introduced myself?"
GEOFFREY'S fists clenched.
"So that is it!" he accused. "You wish to profit by my friendships. To use our relationship as a method of
imposing upon wealthy persons, such as Modbury. You have heard about him, I suppose -"
This time, Nigel showed anger. Then, restraining himself, he questioned:
"Just what do you take me for, Jeff?"
"A rogue," returned his cousin. "One who was a black sheep when he left England. Whose return can be
but a single indication. You are here to get money - by any means. I would put you above none."
"Burglary? With murder perhaps?" Nigel's query was sharp.
Geoffrey found difficulty in stammering a reply. Before he could become coherent, Nigel sneered
contemptuously.
"I'm glad I located you," he scoffed. "I could not learn what club you belonged to, in the short while I
have been in London; but a bobby saw you tonight and told me where you had gone.
"That's why I waited for you; to find out how much you knew. Well, Jeff, your mind sees possibilities,
doesn't it? As soon as you encounter your cousin Nigel, your thoughts go back to the past. You see in
me a potential criminal; one who has grown, magnified, enlarged; until now you connect me with actual
crime -"
"I do!" challenged Geoffrey. "So will others, when they come to investigate you. They will realize what I
realized; that every recent crime here in London involved places and spoils that you might know about.
"The gold plates at Clandermoor's! You dined off it ten years ago! The Kelgood gallery! We played hide
and seek in there when we were youngsters! The jewelry shops, where our grand-aunt use to take us!
The tiaras - the tapestries -"
"I have seen them all," interposed Nigel, "and so have you, my dear cousin. What would Scotland Yard
say, should I tell them that?"
"You - you rogue -"
"And should I prove to them that I was aboard a P and O liner at the time of the robberies? Then whom
would they question? Have you thought of that, cousin Jeff?"
GEOFFREY'S lips were twitching; he was gasping indignant words.
"Whether you did or not," remarked Nigel, "it does not matter. As for Modbury and his diamonds, I shall
find out regarding them. Perhaps his wealth has been overrated. Possibly" - Nigel paused and curled a
disdainful smile - "possibly Modbury merely wanted seclusion and sea air. On the contrary" - Nigel's tone
was reflective - "he may really be a chap of unusual wealth.
"If so, he may have possessions with which he can well dispense. If so, I shall learn. Because, Jeff, I
intend to go to Chiswold Castle. If you refuse to introduce me to Modbury, I shall go there on my own
initiative."
Geoffrey Chiswold had regained a grip upon himself. He was firm as he met his cousin's steady,
narrowed gaze.
"One move, Nigel," he warned, "and I shall denounce you to the law. It is only to protect the Chiswold
name that I restrain myself."
"The Chiswold name," snorted Nigel. "You always were hypocritical about it, Jeff. Go on. Denounce me
to the law. It will prove a boomerang, if you do.
"Since you are leaving England, I shall make no trouble for you. Ah! You are eyeing me! You are
pleased to see that I am down to your weight at last. You would like to thrash me.
"Why not try? I shall grant you privilege to use your cane. That would make a proper handicap. But
remember, it might bring us to a police court. The Chiswold cousins would come into prominence. It
would be better to restrain yourself, Jeff. Say nothing. Sail for Canada. Be away when scandal breaks."
PRODUCING a pencil and a card, Nigel passed them to Geoffrey. Calmly, he ordered:
"Write the address of your diggings. I may be calling there tomorrow, to see if you have left. Do not
hesitate - I want the correct address."
Quivering with both fear and rage, Geoffrey scrawled the address and thrust the card into Nigel's hand.
His own face pale, Geoffrey stormed:
"You are the one who should be leaving England. Heed my advice -"
"I never take advice," interposed Nigel. "I give it. Take mine and go to Canada, or else jump into the
Serpentine. You never were a good swimmer, Jeff."
With that, Nigel Chiswold turned on his heel and strode away through the fog; leaving his cousin Geoffrey
white-faced and quivering, like a man who had seen a ghost.
CHAPTER IV. THE HOUSE IN WHITECHAPEL
HARRY VINCENT, in his effort to regain Geoffrey Chiswold's trail, had run into various difficulties. Not
only had he failed to pick up sounds of footsteps along the side street; he had run into an obstructing
block that forced another choice.
A street ran left and right. Neither direction seemed the more likely. Finally, however, Harry had decided
on the left, in the hope that he might regain the corner where he had first lost the trail.
A low-built corner light afforded a chance to locate himself. Harry made in that direction; then paused,
confused. He saw a long, narrow street stretching away into a path of murky gloom; but he could not
decide whether or not it would lead him from this puzzling region. It was while he chided himself upon his
bewilderment that Harry heard the shuffling gait of a walker.
The footsteps were quicker than Geoffrey's; but they bore a resemblance. Harry drew back into a
摘要：

CASTLEOFDOOMMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CRIMEOVERLONDON?CHAPTERII.CRIMEDISCUSSED?CHAPTERIII.TWISTEDTRAILS?CHAPTERIV.THEHOUSEINWHITECHAPEL?CHAPTERV.DEATHANDSTRIFE?CHAPTERVI.ATCHISWOLDCASTLE?CHAPTERVII.THESHADOW'SCHOICE?CHAPTERVIII.THEMANATTHEINN...

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