"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 032 - The Ghost of the Manor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

thought. One patch of light revealed him momentarily.

It showed a thin, expressionless face, a mass of gray hair brimming from beneath a derby hat, and long,
thin hands - one gripping the handle of the cane, the other clutching a bulky portfolio beneath the arm
above it.

The cane tip crunched as it encountered the gravel of a driveway. It tapped again as the sidewalk was
resumed. No lights glimmered from the left, where a high stone wall blocked all view. The old man was
passing the broad front of an old estate which broke the row of newer residences, built tightly for space.

As exactly as if he had counted the taps of the cane, the old man turned left after he had gone a hundred
paces. Instead of encountering the solid wall, he passed directly through a stone archway and followed a
flagstone walk. With head still bowed, he approached the front of a huge gray house that rose like a
ghostly mountain in the darkness of the night.

DIMLY lighted windows showed. They only added to the gloominess of the antiquated structure. The
old man reached steps that led him to the heavy front door. Without looking up, he grasped a huge brass
knocker and pounded upon the barrier.

The door opened. A solemn-faced servant in time-worn livery stood aside and bowed as the old man
entered. Glancing at the servant's face, the visitor chuckled.

"You knew it was me, eh, Wellington?" questioned the old man.

"Yes, Mr. Farman," replied the servant. "You always come by the front door, sir - and always the
knocker - never the bell."

The old man laughed and clapped the servant on the shoulder. There was a friendly gleam in his eyes.

"Years have brought changes to Delthern Manor," he remarked, his voice taking on a sad tone, "but
Horatio Farman still follows his original custom. You are a newcomer, Wellington, compared to me. You
are still young, even with - how many years of service is it, Wellington?"

"Twelve, sir."

"Ah, yes. A brief period, Wellington. Old Hiram served here thirty-five before he died. Ah, well! Time
goes rapidly. I must think of the present - not the past. Is all ready in the reception hall?"

"Yes, sir."

Wellington turned and conducted the visitor toward a pair of sliding doors at the right of the hallway. He
drew one aside, and Horatio Farman hobbled into a huge room that seemed of mammoth proportions
due to the dim illumination.

The vast apartment was a strange relic of the forgotten past. Unlike the hallway outside, it was not
illuminated by electricity. Instead, candles provided the light.

Horatio Farman, with a sigh that resembled satisfaction, surveyed this scene that had withstood the
inroads of modern invention.
The great height of the reception hall was due to a gallery that ran entirely around the room. This was