"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 015 - Green Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

The little group of men around the dead man dropped into silence. The correspondent was sitting down
scribbling off a telegram to file at the station.

But he said nothing about the red mark on Stephen Laird's forehead, because no one had thought to
mention it.

That mark was scarcely noticeable now. It was nothing more than a faint blur.

Living, the red mark on Laird's forehead had impressed three men: the porter, the conductor, and the
brakeman.

Now that Laird was dead, the mark was dying, too, as though it were connected with his soul, rather
than with his body. In the excitement, the mark was forgotten.

The porter had been sent back to his car. All that the newspapers and the authorities were told was that
a man had been found stabbed on the observation platform; a fragment of blotter had been found beside
him; he had uttered certain vague words and letters before his death; and a letter which he had written
had been stolen.

But of all the details marking the murder of Stephen Laird, that vanished crimson mark was most
significant. For it was that sign that brought him to his doom!

That spot that shone like blood was the mark of death! Now, death had struck; and its mark - no longer
needed - was gone!

CHAPTER II. THE FACE FROM THE DARK
SEVERAL days had passed since the strange death of Stephen Laird, passenger on the Mountain
Limited. The case had created a wide sensation at first. Now, with no solution toward the mystery, it had
dropped into prompt oblivion.

It was evening, in San Francisco. A tall, well-dressed man entered the lobby of the Aldebaran Hotel,
carrying a light suitcase. He stepped up to the desk to register. The clerk noted the name which the writer
fashioned in a clear, sweeping hand.

The new guest's name was Henry Arnaud.

"What kind of a room would you like, Mr. Arnaud?" questioned the clerk.

"I should prefer one on the top floor," was the reply.

The clerk looked over the list of vacant rooms. The Aldebaran was a second-rate hostelry, and was
never filled with guests. But due to its location on one of the noisy streets that angle northward from
Market, the rooms on the upper floors were always occupied. At present, there was just one vacancy on
the eighth floor, the highest story in the house. The clerk passed it by.

"I can give you something on the seventh -"

"No," said Arnaud, shaking his head emphatically. "I want to be as high up as possible. If I can't get a
room on the top floor, I shall go somewhere else."