"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 012 - The Crime Cult" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Before him, a quiet, pale-faced young manтАФa servant, to judge from his black garbтАФmoved noiselessly
aside to let him enter.

"Good evening, Mr. Hasbrouck," said the young man, in a monotone. "Mr. Glendenning is expecting you.
He has stayed up to see you. I shall tell him that you are here."

Standing in the gloomy hallway, Hasbrouck watched the young man ascend the stairs. The regularity of
the man's step made him appear like a mechanical figure.

Now, within the portals of the old house, Hasbrouck strove to fight off that fearful impression which had
gripped him so surprisingly. But it remained.

Hasbrouck turned quickly, in response to an unknown impulse. He stared at the dark velvet curtains that
hung in front of the entrance to a side room. He reached forward and pressed his hand against one
curtain. The heavy cloth wavered beneath his touch.

What lay in the darkness beyond?

A shudder shook Hasbrouck's shoulders. His hand dropped quickly to his side. From the direction of the
stairway came the sound of footsteps. The young man was returning. Hasbrouck assumed an attitude of
composure.

"Come right up, Mr. Hasbrouck," said the calm voice.

Hasbrouck felt less uneasy as he ascended the stairs and reached the second-story hall. A door was
open at the front of the building. Passing the young man, Hasbrouck entered the front room alone.

An old man reclined in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows. He was attired in a dressing gown. His thin,
gray hair heightened his aged appearance. A crop of white stubble covered his face. This was the
recluse, Clinton Glendenning. His face was lined with marks of gloom and discontent.

The sight of this individual was momentarily reassuring to Don Hasbrouck. Clinton Glendenning was a
man whom one might pity, but certainly not fear.

Hasbrouck, tall and hawklike, loomed like a human scarecrow in the center of the room. He felt a certain
superiority over his host, as he went to the chair toward which old Glendenning motioned.

"Come in, Larkin!" rasped Glendenning.

The quiet-faced man at the door obeyed. He closed the door behind him, and stood within, in the attitude
of a servant awaiting his master's next order.

AN oddly assorted trio! Larkin was the only one who presented a neat appearance. He was virtually
self-effacing as he stood beside the door. His pale face formed a marked contrast to the dark,
well-pressed suit he wore.

"Well?" questioned old Glendenning shrilly. "What do you want, Hasbrouck? Why have you come here?"
"The usual matter, Mr. Glendenning," replied Hasbrouck, in a deliberate tone. "I am still searching for
Robert Buchanan."