The blonde heard the sigh, and gave one of her own.

"Gee, I'm glad you're around!" exclaimed Louise. "I've got the jitters something awful! Come in my room, won't you? So we can talk awhile."

Helene found her slippers and kimono and followed Louise along the hallway. Louise turned on the light, then sagged into a chair. Her fluffy appearance was gone; she really had a worried look. She eyed Helene, gave another sigh.

"You certainly look comfortable," declared Louise, kicking her shoes across the floor. "Fish my kimono out of the closet, will you? I'm going to get into it. Stick around awhile, too, so I can talk to you."

"All right," smiled Helene. "What's the trouble?"

"The show was lousy, to begin with," declared Louise, "so we all walked out on it. We went to a lounge bar, and everybody began to drink hot Tom and Jerrys. Then they began to talk about me - or rather us. Of course, they were lit, but that didn't change what they said."

"What did they say?"

"That anybody might have killed old Uncle Adam. You, myself, Archie, Johnny - even Froy. Anybody that ever lived around this lousy old house!"

"What made them think that?"

"Some foolish talk that came over the radio. About Silk Elredge. He was killed tonight, in a big battle with the police."

Helene caught the link at once. She knew that Archie had often gambled at the Club Cadiz; that the place was run by Silk Elredge. For a moment Helene hesitated; then asked boldly: "Did that start them talking about Archie?"

"It did," returned Louise. "One fellow was just crocked enough to bet that the thing linked up with Uncle Adam.

"He said that the cops were crazy, looking for Dwight, while Archie was still around. He said Archie was all set to go on a cruise, too, which made the whole thing look real bad."

Helene bit her lips. She had thought of Archie as the murderer, but didn't like to say so to Louise. After all, Archie was Louise's brother. "Then somebody said that Archie was too dumb," announced Louise. "They said he was too big a sap to even load a gun, let alone fire it. So some fat-head thought he'd get flip, and asked me if I'd done it!"

LOUISE paused to put on her pajamas. Helene gave her the kimono and found her slippers for her. By that time, Louise was pouring further details.

"I gave him a cold stare, of course," she said, indignantly, "and that started the rest of them. By the time I'd walked out, they were laying odds on who shot Uncle Adam! They had Archie running first, Dwight second, and - just imagine it! - I was third!"

Helene laughed, despite herself.

"What about the rest of us?" she asked. "You said we were all in it."

"You were just a bunch of also-rans," declared Louise, "with about one taker apiece. You, Froy, and Johnny. One fellow picked Silk Elredge, another bet on Rahman Singh. There were two, though - this is really funny - who thought that Uncle Adam committed suicide!"

Helene tried to laugh, but couldn't. The whole thing was too serious, its only ray of comfort being the fact that popular opinion did not entirely agree that Dwight was the murderer of Adam Rendrew. Then she began to wonder how much she could really allow for the flippant ideas that had been voiced by Louise's friends.

Perhaps the whole thing had been a practical joke, to see how the blonde would react. If so, the crowd had certainly had their fun, for Louise had finally walked out. Nevertheless, there must be a murderer somewhere, and if it wasn't Dwight, who could it be?

In the midst of her bewilderment, Helene heard a sound from downstairs; this time, it was the front door. Voices talked excitedly; Louise gave a nervous jump, almost dropped the cigarette that she was inserting in a long ivory holder. She gasped to Helene: "See who it is!"

Helene hurried out to the front stairs. She saw John Osman and Archie Dreller. She called to them and Osman answered: "I am glad you are here, Miss Graymond. Has Louise come home yet?"

Helene nodded, just as Louise arrived beside her.

"h.e.l.lo, sis!" chuckled Archie. "You'll be in on the fun, too. Johnny here came around and dragged me away from my poker party, after the police called him."

"The police?" inquired Helene, anxiously.

"Yes." It was Osman who replied. "They want to talk to all of us again."

Louise drew a puff from her cigarette, lowered the holder languidly and asked: "What about Froy? Shall I call him?"

Osman looked at Archie, then solemnly shook his head. All that Archie did was chuckle.

"You'd have a long job of it," he told Louise. "Froy is dead! He was murdered, like Uncle Adam!"

Louise gave a real shriek.

"Pull yourself together," suggested Archie. "He wasn't killed here.

They've got the murderer -"

Before Archie could say more, the doorbell rang. Osman answered it, admitted two persons. One was a man with a short-clipped, pointed mustache, who introduced himself as the police commissioner. The other was tall, immaculately attired in evening clothes; his face was masklike, with an immobile, hawkish expression.

Louise gripped Helene's arm. "It's Lamont Cranston!" the blonde exclaimed. "He's been everywhere - to India and Tibet! He called me this afternoon -"

HELENE couldn't listen to Louise's chatter. She was concentrating upon the conversation below. Someone was mentioning Inspector Cardona and a prisoner.

Horrified, Helene could only grasp Louise's arm, to steady herself. She was straining to hear the mention of a name, when the doorbell began to ring again.

Commissioner Weston strode over to admit the new arrivals. Two detectives entered, bringing a handcuffed man between them. Inspector Cardona followed, bearing himself proudly, but Helene did not even see him. She was stumbling down the stairs, clutching the banister rail.

One slipper tripped her, as it left her foot; when the other went, she pitched headlong. All that saved her from a horrid fall was the prompt action of Lamont Cranston.

He had leaped to the stairs to stop her tumble. Gripped by strong arms, Helene might have realized much had she looked into the eyes of her rescuer.

They were brilliant eyes, that tried to flash the confidence that would end her alarm.

But Helene did not see them. Wrenching from Cranston's grasp, she flung herself upon the handcuffed prisoner, throwing her arms about his neck.

Dwight Kelden was receiving kisses from the girl he loved. No longer was Helene Graymond willing to hide the truth. She didn't care if Dwight had murdered Adam Rendrew, nor if he had been charged with the added crime of killing Froy.

Helene knew only that she loved Dwight Kelden; and she believed that in this crisis, she was the only person who could help him. She didn't realize that there was no aid she could give him.

One person alone could extract Dwight Kelden from the web of circ.u.mstantial evidence that enmeshed him.

That being was The Shadow!

CHAPTER XVIII.

FIND THE MURDERER.

THEY took Dwight Kelden to the room where Adam Rendrew had died. There, a varied group sat watching, while Inspector Cardona began his quiz.

Commissioner Weston was leaning back, arms folded, with the air of a presiding judge.

Beside him, Lamont Cranston calmly smoked a thin cigar.

Across the room were Osman and Archie. The short, pudgy man was as serious as ever, while Archie's sallow features wore their usual smirk. Near the door were the girls, both clad in colorful kimonos, yet forming a marked feminine contrast.

Louise was alert with interest, her blue eyes wide open, anxious not to miss a thing that happened, her blonde hair very fluffy. Helene was solemn, her brown hair streaming as a background for a face that showed real beauty, with its br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes, tear-stained cheeks and downturned lips.

Cardona was reconstructing the death scene for Dwight's benefit. Standing in the center of the room, he pointed to the spot where Rendrew's body had been found, then reached over and shook Dwight's shoulders, until the prisonerstopped looking at his handcuffs and raised his haggard eyes.

"Your uncle was right here," declared Cardona, "trying to back away from you, when you gave it to him with the gun. You hopped out into the hall and took another shot at him. That time, you cracked the window. Then you ran downstairs and got into the cab that you'd arranged to have outside.

"But you forgot these," Cardona produced his clues. "First, the paper that your uncle tore off his calendar, that said you'd be here that night. Then this eyegla.s.s wiper that fell out of your pocket. Last of all, this airplane time-table that you were foolish enough to leave in the cab."

Dwight's lips twitched, then tightened. He opened them to ask: "Is that all?"

"No," retorted Cardona. "Here's the bullet that killed Rendrew. From a .38.

caliber gun, to match the revolver we took from you tonight."

"I suppose," said Dwight, "that you're going to blame me for killing Froy, too."

"We'll get to that later," snapped Cardona, "after you have confessed murdering your uncle!"

Dwight sat back and looked around the group. His eyes met Helene's and he smiled. He let his gaze travel; it was magnetized by other eyes: those of Lamont Cranston. Dwight found himself wondering at the expression of the hawk-faced stranger.

Somehow the commissioner's friend seemed urging the prisoner to tell his story. Gripped by the impression, Dwight took a long breath. He had been troubled by the thought that any testimony would be useless, but he began to sense that he would have one interested listener, aside from Helene, who, by her admission of love for Dwight, had unfortunately jeopardized her own standing as a witness.

"Suppose I told you just what happened," said Dwight, to Cardona. "Would you listen?"

Cardona's expression remained noncommittal, but he nodded.

"Get the letter, then," suggested Dwight, shifting his handcuffed wrists to one side. "It's in my inside pocket."

THE letter offered a new angle. Cardona fished for it and found it.

Opening it, he began to read it.

"From Adam Rendrew," he grunted, "asking you to come here at nine fifteen on the night of Tuesday the tenth, to talk over an important family matter.

With a postscript that says the matter is very confidential."

"I received that letter in San Diego," stated Dwight. "It was one reason why I came East. The other was - well, I wanted to marry Helene."

"How about the letter you wrote to Louise?" demanded Cardona. "That didn't say you were coming East."

"I didn't want Louise to know it," returned Dwight. "I thought she might be trying to find out something that she wasn't supposed to know about."

Louise opened her lips, but couldn't find words to go with them. Archie reached over and pushed her back into her chair.

"Don't lose your kimono, sis," he drawled. "If you haven't found out you're the world's champion snooper, it's time somebody told you!"

"Don't fool yourself," snapped Louise, finding words for Archie. "When it comes to b.u.t.ting into other people's business, you're six lengths ahead of me!"

Cardona growled for silence. He accepted Dwight's statement regarding Louise. Handing the letter to Osman, Joe asked: "Is that Rendrew's signature?" Osman studied the letter. Solemnly, he arose and pa.s.sed it to Helene.

Then, facing Cardona, he said: "I am not sure. I would prefer to have Miss Graymond answer."

Helene stared at the letter. Amid the silence of the watchers, she felt a terrible dread. Everything was unreal, except the hopeless shudder that came over her. She wanted to shrink from every gaze. She knew the signature that Adam Rendrew used. This one was not his.

The girl gave a glance toward Osman. He was trying to look sympathetic.

Obviously, he had recognized the signature as a palpable forgery, but did not care to say so. Helene was wrenched between an urge for honesty and her whole-hearted desire to help Dwight.

She looked farther. For the first time, her eyes met Cranston's. His searching gaze nearly made her exclaim aloud. Those eyes had a strange resemblance to The Shadow's!

Helene made her decision. To this moment, every statement of hers had been truthful. Her former testimony might prove important; therefore, she wanted it to be believed. By telling the truth this time, she would prove her sincerity.

Looking away from Cranston, Helene faced Dwight's gaze, while she said: "This signature is false!"

NO reproval expressed itself on Dwight's face. Instead, his eyes showed admiration. Dwight realized that Helene had wanted to be for him, but had depended on the truth instead. In her turn, the girl felt an overwhelming surge of absolute belief in Dwight's innocence.

Under Cardona's pressure, John Osman agreed that Helene was correct. The letter was a forgery. Turning to Dwight, Cardona queried: "What's your answer to that?"

"Only that I received the letter," returned Dwight, steadily, "and thought that it was from my uncle. You probably think I faked it, but I didn't."

Cardona decided to let Dwight go on with his story. It had struck one snag already, and would probably meet others.

"So you got here at quarter past nine," said Cardona, "and found your uncle waiting for you. Right away, you started an argument, and then shot him -".

"Wait!" interrupted Dwight. "I found him, all right. Maybe he didn't expect me, because he began an argument. He threatened to shoot me, if I didn't get out. The next thing I knew, he was backing into the room. Then came the shot -".

"From your gun!"

"No! Not from my gun. From here, in the room. I jumped back, thinking my uncle had fired. I wanted to scare him off, so I aimed my gun at the window. I pulled the trigger and started for the stairs. I couldn't have killed Uncle Adam. He wasn't anywhere near me when I fired!"

Cardona thrust his face close to Dwight's.

"Then what about the clues I've shown you?" demanded the inspector. "The calendar, the eyegla.s.s wiper, the airplane schedule -"

"They must have been planted," insisted Dwight. "Faked, like that letter I.

received in California."

Cardona stepped back. Smiling grimly, he folded his arms and turned to Weston.