"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 044 - Treasures of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

open view. He did not realize that eyes were watching him from an automobile less than thirty feet away.
Without even glancing at the cab that had brought him here, Terry ascended the brownstone steps, and
rang the bell. A melancholy dingle sounded from the depths of the house.

The cab was starting away as the house door opened. As soon as Terry had stepped inside and the door
had closed behind him, a low word was given in the automobile by the curb. The motor purred easily.
The car rolled slowly past the house and followed the direction that the taxicab had taken.

TERRY BARLISS knew nothing of this. His thoughts were busied solely with what lay ahead. He was in
the hallway of his uncle's home, a solemn, quiet place where dark-papered walls and massive pieces of
furniture were revealed only by the feeble light of heavily shaded wall lamps.

The servant who had admitted the visitor was a quiet, colorless individual who bowed as Terry gave his
name. He turned and led the way directly to a flight of stairs. Terry followed.

They reached a lighted hallway on the second floor. There the servant knocked. A woman's voice gave
the word to enter. The servant stepped aside. Terry opened the door and went into the room beyond.

There were three persons in the room. One was a middle-aged man, seated in an armchair. Another was
a trained nurse, in uniform; she had given the order to enter. Terry Barliss noticed neither of these; the
third person was the one who commanded his attention.

A withered old man lay prone in bed. His visage was as pale as the fleckless pillow slips beneath his
head. His arms, pitifully white, were stretched upon the coverlets. Only his eyes seemed living. They
turned sharply in Terry's direction. A feeble smile came on the old man's lips.

Terry Barliss was face to face with his uncle Shattuck.

Though years and health placed them far apart, the young man and the old bore a resemblance that was
amazing. In every detail, their faces were identical. Both had high cheeks, a firm chin, set lips, and
well-shaped forehead. Terry Barliss, the counterpart of his uncle Shattuck, felt that he was seeing himself
as he might some day be.

The old man motioned weakly to a chair beside the bed. Terry sat down and gripped the feeble hand that
was extended to him. His uncle began to speak, as calmly as though their last meeting had been but
yesterday.

"Terry, I am glad that you are here." The rhythm of the old man's tone was almost musical. "I knew that I
would live until you arrived-that I would live, although my days are numbered.

"This house, Terry, is your home. It belongs to you as long as I am alive. After I am dead, it still belongs
to you-my brother's son. You may keep it or dispose of it. In addition, I have left you a legacy."

Shattuck Barliss had closed his eyes while he was speaking. His ending was quiet and unabrupt. It left the
impression that it was no more than a mere pause. When, however, the old man still remained with
closed eyes and quiet expression, Terry Barliss looked about him in a questioning manner.

Terry saw the middle-aged man in the chair. This individual seemed to realize that it was up to him to
continue. He arose and extended his hand to Terry.
"I am Rodney Glasgow," he explained. "I am attorney for Shattuck Barliss. He called me here because he