"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 139 - The Sealed Box" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

THE SEALED BOX
by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," December 1, 1937.

Within the sealed box was the key to a baffling mystery - and blood would
run before The Shadow grasped its secret!


CHAPTER I

HAND OF DOOM

THE silence of a sultry night lay over the old mansion. Dim lights from
the windows were feeble against that outside blackness. Set far back from the
street, the house was isolated amid the clusters of trees that girded the
spacious lawn.
The mansion seemed strangely remote, despite the fact that it was located
in the suburbs of Southbury, a city that had nearly one hundred thousand
inhabitants. The only feature that offset the shrouded aspect of the house was
the circling ray of an airway beacon that topped a neighboring slope.
Every half minute, that beam suddenly revealed a tall line of Lombardy
poplars; sweeping along the row of ghostly trees, it flashed a glimpse of the
mansion's gray-stone wall.
Within the house was a melancholy front hall, that absorbed most of the
light from two wall brackets. The hall merged into the darkness of a broad
stairway; and all was black above, except when the passing glare revealed a
short stretch of landing near a side window, just past the head of the stairs.
A whitish figure appeared at the top of the stairway, to hover there,
ghost-like.
The beacon's gleam slid past. It showed the figure to be a girl, attired
in nightgown and light kimono. There was a flash of a charming, rounded face,
framed against dark hair that hung over slender shoulders. Dark eyes sparkled
anxiously, small lips showed a twinge of consternation as the girl shrank back
into darkness.
The light passed; she started down the stairs. Her slippers produced a
slight clatter, that made the girl pause. By the time the beacon gave its next
flash of the vacant hall above, the girl's slippers were off. Her bare feet
made no sound as she stole to the bottom of the stairs.
Crossing the dim hall, the girl reached a deep-set door. Her light hand
turned the knob. Pressing the door gently inward, the girl peered into a room
where two men were seated.
One was white-haired; his kindly, deep-lined face was known to every one
in Southbury. He was Richard Whilton, owner of this mansion. Whilton was
esteemed for his philanthropy. Within the past two years, he had distributed a
fortune among the poor of his home city.
Whilton's visitor was a middle-aged man, tall, brisk of manner, despite
his heavy build. His eyes had a clear, steady gaze that went well with the
firm
set of his long-jawed chin. He, too, was well known in Southbury. He was James