Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 069 - The Four Signets

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THE FOUR SIGNETS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. ONE BIRD FLIES
? CHAPTER II. GANGLAND'S MENACE
? CHAPTER III. OUT OF THE PAST
? CHAPTER IV. THREE OF THE FOUR
? CHAPTER V. IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW'S SNARE
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
? CHAPTER IX. DEATH DELIVERED
? CHAPTER X. NEWS OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XI. THE THREE ORDAIN
? CHAPTER XII. THEFT AFTER DEATH
? CHAPTER XIII. MILLIONS REGAINED
? CHAPTER XIV. THE PHILANTHROPISTS MOVE
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW ENTERS
? CHAPTER XVI. ZANE'S STORY
? CHAPTER XVII. VISITORS BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHOWDOWN
? CHAPTER XIX. TABLES TURN
? CHAPTER XX. THE LAST RECKONING
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S PART
CHAPTER I. ONE BIRD FLIES
TAP—TAP—TAP—
The point of a heavy cane was clicking upon the cracked pavement. Bent forward, a man with black
spectacles was finding his way along the sidewalk beneath the looming structure of an East Side elevated.
It was night; the dull lights of cheap shop windows cast their glow upon the street. But the man with the
cane seemed oblivious of the illumination. His right hand was feeling its way with the cane, while his left
clutched a tin cup in which coins were jingling. From pockets bristled the ends of unsharpened pencils.
A blind peddler, returning to some hovel. Not an unusual sight in this district. For the other passers who
slouched along the grimy sidewalk were fellows of his ilk. Unshaven bums were shambling by, clutching
the money that they had begged for a night's lodging.
Ahead lay a lighted corner, where a wide cross-street passed beneath the elevated. This seemed to be
the spot that lured the passers of the night, even though they approached it in suspicious fashion. That
corner was a focal point on the fringe of Manhattan's underworld.
The blind peddler was headed toward the corner; but before he reached it, his course took a sudden
change. With an uncanny precision, he swung from the sidewalk and headed out into the thoroughfare.
Whether by chance or intuition, he picked a moment when the block was free from traffic. With
quickened hobble, the man gained the opposite sidewalk and made straight for the darkness of an
alleyway.
Hardly had the blind man disappeared before a crouched figure arose from the cover of a darkened
doorway. Furtive eyes watched until a bum had passed; then a wiry, scrawny figure stepped out to the
sidewalk. Yellowish light showed a pasty, wizened face. This man crossed the street, but avoided the
alleyway. He slouched into a lighted cigar store, where a group of smoking loungers eyed him.
"Hello, Dopey!" growled a big man who stood behind the battered counter. "What you back again for?
There ain't been nobody call and ask for you."
"Lemme use your phone, Jake," whined the pasty-faced arrival. "I gotta call up de guy. He ain't never
stood me up like dis before."
"All right," decided Jake. "Your nickel's as good as anybody else's. But when you get through phoning,
scram. This ain't no hangout for hop-heads.
"DOPEY" nodded as he shambled toward the rear room. Idlers grinned as they saw his hand rise pitifully
for a sniff of imaginary snow. They knew the reason for Dopey's whine; they also understood why Jake
was anxious to get rid of the intruder.
Dopey had run short on coke. He had been counting on the arrival of a dope peddler. The man with the
supply had not shown up. Dopey had put in two calls without result. He had come in to plead indulgence
for a third. He was trying to locate the promised supply.
Such was the unanimous opinion of the loungers. But had they followed the hop-head into the rear room,
they would have been surprised at his conversation. Dopey had straightened up. His whining tones had
changed to a quick and coherent whisper.
"Dat you, Joe? Dis is Dopey... Yeah. Dopey Roogan... Yeah, I spotted him... Creeper Trigg... Headin'
for de hide-out... Maybe de mugs are still dere...
"Yeah... I getcha... You'll see me by de alley... Like I was waitin' for somebody to show up... Yeah, de
sixt' house, dat's de one..."
His call ended, Dopey Roogan grinned. Then his expression changed. Worried of face. Slouchy of
manner, the fake hop-head was ready to pass out through the cigar store. Pretense was necessary in the
presence of those loungers. For Dopey Roogan was a spy in the underworld. He had just put in a call to
Detective Joe Cardona. Dopey was a stool pigeon, passing information to the police.
MEANWHILE, the blind peddler had reached the destination that Dopey had given to Cardona.
Shambling into a space between two crumbling houses, he had unlocked a side door that gave him
entrance into a darkened passage. Through a second door way, the man stopped and turned on a light.
He locked the door behind him.
Standing in the center of a room that contained a chair and battered desk, this arrival lost no time in
dropping his part of "Creeper" Trigg, the blind peddler. He placed his cane in a corner. He removed his
dark spectacles and placed them on the desk. He pulled off his tattered coat and trousers to reveal a
smooth, well-fitted business suit beneath.
Opening a drawer in the desk, the ex-peddler produced a mirror and a jar of cold cream. Blind no
longer, he grinned as he smeared away the yellowish make-up that gave his face an aged appearance. He
brought out a neatly folded towel, wiped away the cold cream and stood erect. His face showed him to
be a man of keenness.
There were other doors in the room; one to the right, the other straight ahead. It was from the second of
these barriers that short raps came with a sudden impulse. The man approached and spoke in a whisper:
"Who's there?"
"Hoot Shelling," came a cautious response. "That you, Doc?"
"Yes." The fake peddler paused. "Wait a minute. I'll let you in."
Hastily, the speaker pulled out a bag from beneath the desk. He piled away the articles that had formed
his peddler's attire; then kicked the bag out of sight. He stepped to the further door, opened it and
admitted a husky, square-faced ruffian, who showed his teeth in a wolfish grin.
"Hello, Doc," greeted "Hoot" Shelling, closing the door behind him. "Thought I'd drop in to see
you—through that back way you told me about. How's the peddling business?"
The pretended blind man stared. His eyes flashed angrily; his fist half clenched. Hoot grinned.
"Don't get sore, Doc," he remarked. "I just guessed it—that's all. I've seen old Creeper Trigg heading this
way but I never figured it was you. Doc Ralder, passing as Creeper Trigg. Say—that's neat!"
"How did you figure it to-night?" demanded Ralder.
Hoot Shelling nudged his thumb toward the corner. Doc Ralder turned, saw the cane. He had forgotten
to hide it. The heavy stick accounted for Hoot's guess. Thick, heavy and knob-headed, it was one
portion of Creeper Trigg's make-up that no one could have failed to recognize.
"Don't get sore, Doc," suggested Hoot. "I wised up all of a sudden. Best I should tell you, wasn't it?
Listen. I got something to tell you about. But first, you tell me. Are those three mugs still upstairs?"
"You mean Zarby's gorillas? Yes."
"When are they going out?"
"To-night. After Zarby shows up."
"He's going to pay you when he gets here?"
"No. He's already paid me."
HOOT SHELLING grinned. This seemed to his liking. Doc Ralder watched wisely; he saw Hoot's face
become sober. Ralder wondered at the change of expression. Hoot Shelling was a thug who seldom
became solemn.
"Doc," declared Hoot, "I've got a real bet for you. A new hide-out. One that's got this place licked.
How'd you like to take it over?"
"Right away," returned Ralder, promptly. "You ought to know that, Hoot. I made a mistake, letting Zarby
bring those gorillas here after they cracked that bank in the Bronx."
"I know that," nodded Hoot. "That's why I hopped down here in a hurry. I figured you could use the new
place."
"What is it? Your own hide-out?"
"No. I got a place of my own. This one will be yours."
"And what's the catch?"
"I thought you'd ask that," returned Hoot, with a grin. "Listen, Doc, I'm in on a new racket. A soft
one—with a smart guy backing it. Looks like it's going to be easy, but there might be some hitch. Some
shooting -"
"And you might need a sawbones."
"That's it. I'm giving you the new joint that you need. You'd be a sap to stick here with the bulls hot to get
Zarby and his outfit. Well, the new place is yours. It's a hundred-to-one shot that none of my outfit will
get into a jam. But if any of them do -"
"I'm to patch them up?"
"That's it."
Doc Ralder considered. Hoot Shelling eyed the man's keen face. At last, Ralder turned to the front door
of the room. For a moment Hoot thought the deal was off. Then Ralder spoke.
"I'm going up to see the gorillas," he told his visitor. "Just to tell them I'm going out and won't be back.
They can tell Zarby when he gets here. The four of them can leave together."
"You're not going to wait for Zarby?"
"Why should I? He knows the way in. I'll leave the doors unlocked and he'll go straight upstairs when he
doesn't find me here."
"What about your equipment?"
Ralder laughed as he turned the knob of the door. This question amused him.
"What do you think this is?" he questioned. "A hospital? A punk could lug the bag I carry. I'm always
ready for a quick getaway. Where's your car?"
"Out back. First street down, away from the avenue."
"Good! Pull that bag out from under the desk. Open the drawers and throw in towels and anything else
you see. I'll be back by the time you're ready."
DOC RALDER went through the front door. He lived up to his word. By the time that Hoot Shelling had
accumulated towels and other odd items, Ralder reappeared. He was carrying a square shaped suitcase.
Hoot picked up the other bag. Ralder went to the corner and lifted the cane that belonged with the
disguise of Creeper Trigg.
"Let's go," said the sawbones. "Out through the back way. I'll lock that door behind me; but I'll leave the
light burning for Zarby."
The ex-peddler and his visitor departed. A click sounded as the door was locked from the other side.
The dilapidated office remained silent. Doc Ralder, sawbones for whom police were searching, had
flown the nest that Dopey Roogan had spotted.
CHAPTER II. GANGLAND'S MENACE
DOPEY ROOGAN was at his post. Huddled against the wall, his pasty face registering anxiety, the little
stoolie was looking across the thoroughfare beneath the elevated. Dopey was playing a game to which he
had been accustomed. He was feigning that he was on the lookout for an imaginary dope peddler.
All the while, Dopey was taking in the faces of the passers. He watched shambling bums and bearded
peddlers as they shifted along the street. But he did not, as yet, spy the persons whom he expected:
Detective Joe Cardona and a squad of raiders.
Dopey knew well that Joe Cardona would be artful. No bluecoats would approach this spot, although
some might be near at hand, ready for a call. Moreover, Dopey was sure that the plainclothes men who
accompanied Cardona would be few in number and that they would form a chosen crew. Other sleuths
might herald a trip to the underworld by the tramp of ponderous flat feet; but Joe Cardona was too wise
for that.
Intent upon his view across the street, Dopey Roogan did not observe a man who was coming up from
the lighted corner below. This fellow was on the same side of the street as Dopey. Broad shoulders
bulked beneath his heavy overcoat. His face was bent downward toward the sidewalk. With derby hat
tilted over his face, the approaching man kept his features unnoticed as he puffed at a cigar.
At times, he paused to stare at tawdry shop windows. He seemed in no hurry to get anywhere. Yet all
the while, his cautious course was bringing him closer to the near side of the alleyway. Pauses—puffs—
pauses. Unnoticed by Dopey, the big fellow was edging toward his goal.
FROM across the street, unseen eyes were watching. A new figure had entered the strange scene. Yet
this arrival had escaped all notice. Singularly, he had chosen the very doorway which Dopey had used as
a spring spot to cover Creeper Trigg. Yet Dopey, staring up and down the street, had not the slightest
inkling that his former post was occupied.
The big man, lounging from shop to shop, made a final pause as he neared the alley. His face came up; a
rough, heavy-chinned countenance was revealed as the fellow stared across the street. But though he
looked straight toward the doorway, he saw no signs of a living presence there. Edging a few steps more,
the big man ducked into the alley.
The eyes saw. They glowed from the darkness like blazing coals. Blackness moved upward from the
doorway. A solid mass detached itself from the front of the building and glided across the sidewalk. It
joined the darkness of an elevated pillar.
A slouching drunk paused to stare. His bleary eyes had seen that semblance of life. The man had caught
one fleeting glimpse of a strange, ghostly figure. Then he had lost it.
The bum shambled on, staring over his shoulder as he went. But he had picked the wrong spot. He did
not see the repetition of the weird phenomenon as blackness moved once more.
The being from the doorway had reached the pillar on the side toward the entrance of the alley. Keen
eyes were watching Dopey Roogan, the only person who was about. The brilliant gaze read the
expression on the fake hop-head's face. Then Dopey turned his anxious gaze in another direction. The
lurking figure moved with swiftness.
For one brief second, the phantom shape was revealed by the dull lights that flickered on the sidewalk. A
long cloak, inky in hue, swept back from the shoulders that wore it. A slouch hat showed beneath the
light; its brim, however, concealed the features under it. Then the apparition was gone. The visitor from
the night merged with the darkness of the alley.
Had Dopey Roogan turned to view the passage of that amazing form, the stoolie would have registered
real terror. For the swift flight from darkness to darkness had marked the passage of gangdom's menace.
Out of blackness into blackness: such was the course of The Shadow.
Master sleuth who moved by night; unknown battler who waged war with forces of the underworld, The
Shadow had spied upon the man who had edged into the alley. For The Shadow had taken up the trail of
that arrival. He knew the identity of the man whom Dopey Roogan had failed to notice. The Shadow was
on the trail of Luke Zarby, notorious leader of a bank-robbing band.
Somewhere in the underworld, The Shadow had gained track of Zarby. Where police had failed to find
the crook, The Shadow had gained success.
The Shadow's uncanny skill was evidenced in the darkness of the alley. Though the man ahead was
practically out of sight, The Shadow, approaching, picked the very spot where Zarby had gone. That
was the passage beside the sixth house.
BACK at the entrance of the alley, Dopey Roogan had ceased his vigil. Across the street, the stool
pigeon spied the men he was awaiting. They had seen him also—Joe Cardona and two others from
headquarters.
Dopey Roogan shuffled away past Jake's cigar store. His part of the job was done.
Dopey Roogan had identified Creeper Trigg as Doc Ralder, a man of medical training who aided
crippled crooks. He had tipped off the police to Ralder's hide-out; moreover, Dopey believed that
wounded members of Luke Zarby's gang might be there. But Dopey had no inking to the fact that Doc
Ralder had left the hide-out; nor did he know that Luke Zarby had edged into that alleyway.
Least of all, did Dopey suspect that The Shadow had entered the kaleidoscopic picture. The squeamish
stoolie would have been stunned had he been able to view the interior of the little room that Doc Ralder,
alias Creeper Trigg, had used for a downstairs office.
There, revealed in the glow of the single light, was the tall figure of The Shadow. The cloaked visitor had
just arrived to find the room empty. But The Shadow knew that Luke Zarby had preceded him. Two
doors offered possible courses that the bank robber might have taken.
The door to the right was unlocked. The one straight ahead was locked. The Shadow probed it with a
thin, black metal pick. The instrument encountered a key in the lock. This meant that some one—
perhaps Zarby—had gone in that direction and locked the door behind him. The other doors had been
unlocked; but The Shadow did not always trust the obvious. His soft laugh indicated that he wanted to
know what was beyond this barrier before he tried the open one at the right.
A gloved hand came from the black cloak. It had another instrument, shaped like a pair of pointed pliers.
This device entered the lock; it clipped the key. Fingers turned; the door unlocked.
The Shadow opened the barrier and stepped into a dark passage. Before him lay the route that Ralder
and Hoot had taken.
Keenly, The Shadow analyzed the fact that this was merely an exit. He turned to go back into the office.
His keen ears caught the sound of an opening door. The Shadow stepped back into the passage and
locked the door behind him.
He was none too soon. Another door opened! Joe Cardona and his two followers stepped into the
office.
Short and stocky, his swarthy face firm beneath the light, Cardona surveyed the two doors. He
approached the one through which The Shadow had gone. He found it locked. A detective tried the
other door and whispered hoarsely that it was open. Cardona nodded. He decided to take the open
route.
The detectives followed their leader. Beyond the opened door, Joe found a darkened passage that led to
a flight of stairs. He motioned his companions to come along. Cautiously, the detective crept upward.
Near the top, he paused as he spied a trickle of light from beneath a closed door. He stopped his men to
listen. They caught the mumble of voices. But they did not hear the unlocking and opening of a door in
the office below.
INSIDE the room on the second floor, Luke Zarby was talking to three men who sat about in wicker
chairs. Coarse-featured in the light of the room, Zarby was noting the fact that his three gorillas looked in
good condition. But he seemed annoyed by the report that Doc Ralder had departed.
"You say the sawbones walked out, eh?" growled Zarby. "Took a bag with him? Where did he dig it
up?"
"Out of that room," responded one of the henchmen, pointing to a door.
"Did he leave any of his truck?" quizzed Zarby.
"Don't know," came the response. "We didn't look around. Just told us to wait here for you. Said he had
to go out."
"I figured he was goin' out to help some guy," put in another crook.
"Looked like he was takin' his tools with him. Maybe some mug got plugged."
"I'll find out quick enough," retorted Zarby. "Wait'll I take a squint in that other room."
The big leader opened the door and stepped from view. He left the door ajar. The gorillas stared,
expecting to see a light come on. Then a sound attracted their attention. They swung toward the outer
door. Two of the three came to their feet. Then all stopped short.
The door had opened inward. Stepping forward was Joe Cardona, a flashing revolver in his hand. Before
any of the gorillas could make a move, the detective was inside the door. His two companions followed
him. Joe motioned them to cover the gorillas.
"Some of Zarby's mob, eh?" quizzed the detective. "Well, you're the birds we've been looking for.
Where's Doc Ralder? We want him, too."
No response. Cardona chuckled sourly as he studied the defiant faces of the crooks. The detective spied
the other door. Satisfied that his men had the gorillas helpless, Cardona strode in that direction. He was
figuring that if Doc Ralder was in another room, he would be hiding or trying for a getaway. Joe did not
credit the sawbones with being a man of nerve.
Hence, when Cardona yanked open the door, he was totally unprepared for the surprise that he
received. Instinctively, the detective dropped back as he came face to face with Luke Zarby. The bank
robber had heard the detective enter. He was waiting, ready.
Cardona's gun hand was down. He had no chance to raise it.
Zarby's guttural command was issued to the other detectives. Turning in astonishment, they found
themselves in a line with the crook's gun. They lowered their revolvers. Like Cardona, they were covered
by the gat that Zarby moved back and forth in businesslike fashion.
The three gorillas came to their feet. All were armed. They flashed their revolvers and each picked a
man. Zarby, standing in the doorway, grinned as he kept his own revolver moving back and forth.
"So that's it, eh?" jeered the bank robber. "Doc Ralder ducked out of here and squealed. Got the dough
from me for putting these fellows on their feet. Then pulled a double cross. Well—he'll get his. But before
he does we -"
Zarby paused to nod to his gorillas. The men understood the signal. It was one that their chief had used
before. It meant to give the works, as soon as Zarby opened fire.
The detectives caught the meaning. They were helpless.
Zarby swung back toward Joe Cardona. As the leader of the crooks, he intended to shoot the chief of
the dicks. But before Zarby gained his aim, a sound made him pause. Instinctively, the bank robber faced
the outer door, which the detectives had left open. With a wild cry, Zarby aimed in that direction and
pressed finger to the trigger of his gun.
He was too late. The thundering report that sounded was not from the revolver. An automatic barked its
message from the doorway. With it came the fierce mirth of a sinister laugh.
Luke Zarby staggered. He had seen the menace, but not in time to avert disaster. The Shadow, close on
the heels of the detectives, had stepped in to save their lives.
STARTLED gorillas stood stupefied as their leader crumpled to the floor. Wild eyes turned toward the
door, where they saw the dread figure of the cloaked avenger.
Then, while no crook dared meet the threat of looming automatics, Joe Cardona acted. Springing
forward, the detective launched himself upon the crook who had him covered.
A second sleuth followed Joe's example. Gorillas fired; but their shots went wide. The third detective was
caught flat-footed. Before he could spring, the man in front of him pressed finger to trigger. Again an
automatic spoke.
A cry. The gorilla's hand unclenched. His revolver fell to the floor as blood spurted from a wound. Then
the detective raised his gun and fired. His bullet doomed the crook. The crook clasped hands to his chest
and doubled upon the floor.
Two shots from a revolver. Joe Cardona, struggling, had gotten his man. At the same instant, the second
detective received a slugging blow upon the head. The dick rolled helpless. The last gorilla aimed for the
door and fired wildly.
One bullet zimmed into the woodwork beside The Shadow's head. Then came the response of an
automatic. The mobster rolled upon the floor.
Joe Cardona, rising, knew that the crooks were done. He was about to turn toward the door, when a
harsh voice stopped him.
It was Luke Zarby speaking. Mortally wounded, the bank robber had half risen from the floor. With a
final effort, he was gasping out dying words. Venomously, he snarled forth an accusation for Cardona's
ears.
"A double-crosser," coughed Zarby. "Doc Ralder—he squealed—but he's phony. Don't—don't let him
get away with it. He's—he's got a pal—a pal— Hoot Shelling -"
Slumping, Zarby sprawled grotesquely on the floor. A mocking laugh came as a knell. Weird mirth from
the doorway—a taunt that trailed, then faded with surprising suddenness. Joe Cardona swung away from
Zarby's body. Staring, the detective saw nothing but the blackness of the hall.
The Shadow had departed. He had dealt with men of crime. He had heard Luke Zarby's accusation. It
had given him a clue that he had sought. For The Shadow, when he spied from darkness, saw with
uncanny intuition.
The Shadow had watched Dopey Roogan. He had picked the furtive fellow as a stool pigeon. The
Shadow knew now that Dopey had brought this raid; not by trailing Luke Zarby, but by watching Doc
Ralder, the owner of this hide-out.
THE proof of this conclusion came later, when a light clicked in a darkened room. Bluish rays upon a
polished table denoted the presence of The Shadow in his hidden sanctum. A hand took pen and
inscribed two names upon a sheet of paper:
Doc Ralder
Hoot Shelling
Luke Zarby had betrayed the connection between the two, hoping to get back at Ralder, whom he
thought was a double-crosser. The Shadow had heard of both men. Doc Ralder, the elusive sawbones;
Hoot Shelling, a crafty mobleader.
They were hiding out, this pair. They must be traced. The Shadow's laugh crept through the sanctum as
the names faded from the paper. The hand of The Shadow inscribed another name:
Dopey Roogan
The stool had traced Doc Ralder before. He might find the trail again. That meant three who were
concerned—not two. Of the three, there was one who would be engaged in crime: Hoot Shelling.
There were two ways in which the crook might be found. First, through members of his mob—the course
that The Shadow would ordinarily follow. Second, through this clue that Zarby had given; plus The
Shadow's keen discovery. Dopey Roogan—Doc Ralder—Hoot Shelling. Through the stool pigeon, the
sawbones; through the sawbones, the crook.
A tiny light gleamed on the further wall as The Shadow brought earphones beneath the bluish light. Then
came a voice across the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
"Instructions to Marsland," came The Shadow's whisper. "Report all movements of Hoot Shelling's mob.
Watch Dopey Roogan. He is a stool. Report his actions."
"Instructions received," came the response.
Through Burbank, his contact man, The Shadow had sent word to Cliff Marsland, his agent in the
underworld. Working in the heart of the underworld, Cliff would seek information that might bring the
trail to Hoot Shelling.
The bluish light went out. A weird laugh rose in the solid darkness. Its crescendo ended; followed by
shuddering echoes. Then came silence. The sanctum was empty.
Dealing with men of evil, The Shadow had scented the approach of new crime. Hoot Shelling was to be
his quarry. The Shadow knew the criminal as a crook of prowess; one who had engaged in crafty,
undercover methods.
Yet even with his insight into ways of crime, The Shadow had gained no foreknowledge of the amazing
events in which Hoot Shelling was to play a part.
CHAPTER III. OUT OF THE PAST
IT was the next afternoon. A gaunt, gray-haired man was seated in a little office, reading an evening
newspaper. One column carried a lengthy story of a police raid: the fray that had resulted in the death of
four bank robbers. But this story did not interest him.
The gray-haired man was studying another column giving the account of an estate that had been settled.
Blinking perplexedly through his heavy, tortoise-shell spectacles, he was learning that the estate of Tobias
Dolger had come to less than fifty thousand dollars.
A knock at the door. The gray-haired man looked up. He laid the newspaper aside and issued a
summons to enter. The door opened and two young men stepped into the room. The visitors looked
much alike, and the man in the chair blinked as he surveyed them.
Both were tall and well-built. Each had aristocratic features. A high-bridged nose, brown eyes and black
hair—the description answered one as well as the other. The sole difference lay in the ages of the pair.
One man appeared to be in his thirties; the other not more than twenty-five.
"You are Philip Lyken?"
The question came from the elder of the two visitors. The gray-haired man stared dumfounded. The
voice, like the features, seemed an echo from the past. Finding himself, Lyken nodded as he arose from
his chair.
"I am Perry Dolger," announced the older visitor. "A grandson of Tobias Dolger. Allow me to introduce
my cousin, Zane Dolger."
"My word!" exclaimed Lyken. "I knew the two of you the moment that you came in. That is, I recognized
you, but I could not believe my eyes. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. Oddly, I was just this minute
reading about your grandfather's estate."
"A matter which we have come to discuss with you, Mr. Lyken," responded Perry Dolger, with a slight
smile.
"To discuss with me?" Lyken stared suddenly as he heard the statement. "You mean your grandfather's
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：89 页 大小：533.33KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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