"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 098 - The Third Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Sounded pretty bad. His voice was husky; he coughed like he was goin' to crack apart."

"Too bad. He's been that way for a week. Only yesterday, I told him he ought to stay indoors. Said he
was too busy - didn't even have time to see a physician."

Carrying the change in his fist, Ronig left the drug store and went back to Yorne's house. He noted the
name-plate as he rang the bell. A minute passed; then the door was opened by a tall, weary-faced
servant whom Ronig took for an Englishman.

"Change for Mr. Yorne," he informed. "He told me to bring it to him."

"You may deliver the money to me," informed the servant, dryly. "I am Parlington, Mr. Yorne's butler.
Kindly wait here a few moments, please."

The change amounted to nineteen dollars and forty cents. Parlington was counting it as Ronig watched
him cross a gloomy hall and enter the distant door of a lighted room, which, from its location, might have
been a study.

Ronig waited; the hall was silent except for the ticking of an old-fashioned grandfather's clock that
registered a few minutes past six. The taxi driver compared the time with his watch. While he was doing
this, he heard the sound of Yorne's hacking cough, coming from the open door of the distant study.

Half a minute later, Parlington returned. Eyeing the taxi driver rather dourly, the butler inquired:

"Your name is Luke Ronig?"

Ronig nodded.

"Mr. Yorne wanted to be sure," informed Parlington. "He does not trust cab drivers, as a rule. He saw
your name on the card; so he told me to make positive that you were the right man."

"What's that got to do with it?" demanded Ronig. "I showed up with the dough, didn't I? Say -"

"Here is your tip," interrupted Parlington, frigidly. He handed Ronig forty cents. "Good evening."

RONIG pocketed the change. Parlington opened the door; the cabby went out and boarded his taxi. He
headed for an avenue, swung southward and kept on until he reached a westbound street. Turning into
that thoroughfare, Ronig looked over the pedestrians whom he passed. He pulled up to the curb and
hailed a shabbily dressed man who was shambling through the drizzle.

"Hey, fellow!" greeted Ronig. "You walkin' over to Broadway?"

The shabby man nodded.

"Hop aboard," invited the cab driver. "I'll give you a lift; and a dime besides, for a cup of Java."

The shambler grinned as be climbed into the back of the cab.

"I get the idea," he chuckled. "Them coppers on Sixth Avenue won't let you jam into Broadway with an