"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 078 - The Third Skull" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Death hovered above this scene. There was something preternatural in the stillness of the room. The
pallor of the old man's countenance spoke of ebbing life. Darkness, thick at the doorway, gave the
semblance of waiting specters, ready to claim a passing soul.

Closed windows, drawn curtains, closed off the outer world. This room might well have been the most
isolated spot in all the globe. That fact must have occurred to the withered old man, for he expressed his
thoughts with a chuckle that was contrast to his previous nervousness.

"New York!" he cackled. "New York, with all its clamor! Everywhere about - noise and commotion -
yet none close by!"

The words were followed by a trailing chortle from half-opened lips. Propping himself upon one elbow,
the old man listened again. He was trying to detect sounds from below; noises that he had fancied he had
heard before. But his ears caught nothing.

There was a table beside the old man's bed. Upon it rested five objects: a candlestick with a half-burned
candle; a box of matches; a pad of paper; a fountain pen and a book.

The old man stretched long fingers toward the table. He fumbled with the match box, extracted a match,
struck it and managed to light the candle. He shook the match to extinguish it; then, by the glow of the
quivering candlelight, he tore a sheet from the pad of paper.

Clutching the book and the fountain pen, the old man leaned back against the pillows. With his left hand
holding the sheet of paper on the book, the old man delivered a satisfied sigh; then began to write with
the fountain pen.

One phrase completed, the old man read the words aloud, in senile fashion, his lips forming a cracked
smile as he quavered:

"I, Hildrew Parchell, being of sound mind -"

Quavering words ended; but the hand kept on writing, while the lips uttered intermittent chuckles.
Steadily, line after line, old Hildrew Parchell completed the document that he was inscribing. He finished
with a scrawled signature. He laid book and pen aside; but retained the paper, to read what he had
written.

Ink dried. The old man folded the paper, crinkling it between his hands. His grinning face was grotesque
in the candlelight. Then came a waver of the flame.

The old man stared at the candle; then glanced sharply toward the door of the room. His dried
countenance hardened.

A MAN was standing on the threshold. The light from the wall brackets showed the intruder to be a
hunch-shouldered individual of slight build. That same light revealed a sallow, scheming face. Hildrew
Parchell recognized the newcomer.

"Hothan!" exclaimed the old man, harshly. "Homer Hothan! What brings you here? I thought you had left
New York."
"I had." The intruder stepped forward. His face was somewhat youthful; his voice was almost pleading. "I