THE CREEPING DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," January 15, 1933.

CHAPTER I

DYING WORDS

A DOUBLE row of taxicabs and automobiles came to a stop on the street in
front of the Metrolite Hotel. Motors roared and horns honked as impatient
drivers waited for the Broadway traffic to clear. They were in the midst of one
of the heavy jams that nightly congest the streets of Manhattan.
In one cab, a man leaned forward into the front seat and spoke to the
driver. He was terse in his tone as he held out a dollar bill and gave an order.
"This is close enough," he said. "Let me out here. I'll walk over to the
hotel."
The driver accepted the money; the passenger left the cab and threaded his
way among the halted vehicles until he reached the sidewalk near the Metrolite
Hotel. With quick strides he completed the last yards of his short trip, and
entered the revolving door.
The Metrolite Hotel was one of Manhattan's newest and most popular
hostelries that specialized in moderate rates. Its lobby, although not large,
was elegantly furnished, and constantly frequented by the guests. The arrival
of one individual was nothing to excite particular interest.
Hence the man who had left the taxicab scarcely looked to either side as
he approached the desk and made an inquiry of the clerk in charge.
"You have kept my room for me?" he asked. "Room 1414 as I requested when I
left yesterday?"
The clerk hesitated a moment as he surveyed the man before him. Then he
recognized the sober, quiet face, with its keen eyes and short-clipped mustache.
"Ah, yes," he said. "Of course we have kept your room, Mr. Fitzroy. Here
is the key."
"No messages?"
"I don't think so" - the clerk turned to a stack of envelopes - "Fitzroy -
Fitzroy -"
"Jerry Fitzroy."
"No messages."
The man with the mustache turned toward the elevator. He walked with
briskness and precision. Jerry Fitzroy was square-shouldered, but slight in
build. He carried himself with a challenging air across the lobby.

THE brief conversation between Fitzroy and the clerk had carried very
little information. It had revealed the simple facts that Jerry Fitzroy had
returned to the Metrolite Hotel after a short absence, and would be quartered
in his regular room - No. 1414. Yet that meager information was of great
interest to one man stationed in the lobby.
Hardly had Jerry Fitzroy disappeared; scarcely had the clerk turned to
talk to another guest; before a young man arose from a chair close to the desk
and walked to the telephone booths in another part of the lobby.
Entering a booth, this man called a number and waited thoughtfully until
he heard a low, quiet voice on the other end of the line. This voice announced
itself with two words:
"Burbank speaking."
"This is Vincent," declared the man in the booth. "He is back. Same room."
"Report received. No further instructions."
The distant receiver clicked. The young man left the phone booth and
strolled through the lobby out into the street.
No one could possibly have suspected that this brief episode had taken
place. Yet in that brief conversation, Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had
relayed to Burbank, another trusted agent, the fact that Jerry Fitzroy had
returned to the Metrolite Hotel.

UP in Room 1414, Jerry Fitzroy was removing his coat and vest. He placed
these articles of apparel on a chair, and sat down at a writing desk in the
corner. He stared speculatively through the open French window, past a little
balcony outside. Then he arose and went to his coat.
For a moment his hand rested upon the side pocket of the garment; then,
with a slight laugh, Fitzroy returned to the writing desk and again pondered.
Although this quiet-faced man appeared neither worried nor hasty, his keen
concentration showed that he was deep in thought, reviewing certain events with
the utmost care.
He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, entirely ignorant of the fact
that his presence in New York had awakened the interest of so strange a being
as The Shadow.
For the very name of The Shadow was synonymous with mystery. He and those
who served him were the sworn enemies of crime and evil. Where danger and death
lurked, there did the hand of The Shadow appear to thwart and reveal the schemes
of insidious monsters!
Again, Jerry Fitzroy returned to his coat. He brought out a pipe and a
tobacco pouch, filled the pipe, and lighted it. He stared from the window,
puffing; then, his plans apparently completed, he laid the pipe upon the desk
and drew open the drawer.
Fitzroy picked up a sheet of hotel stationery. As he started to draw the
paper from the drawer, it slipped from his fingers. He gripped the sheet again,
and laid it on the table. He reached for the pen. It dropped from his grasp as
he placed it with the paper.
The man's forehead furrowed in a puzzled manner as he looked at his left
hand and slowly moved the fingers. Fitzroy laughed, in a hollow manner. He
raised the pen in his right hand, and dipped it in an inkwell. He stared at his
right hand. It, too, seemed numb.
Shrugging his shoulders, Fitzroy attempted to write.
Now his puzzlement became concern. The letters that he scrawled upon the
paper were illegible. He dropped the pen and looked at both hands. He tried to
move his fingers. He failed.
Shaking his wrists, Fitzroy attempted to restore normal action to his
hands. The shaking became mechanical. The wrists, too, were rigid!
The man's forearms pumped up and down like pistons. They slowly lost their
motion. With hands helpless upon his knees, Fitzroy gasped and moved his
shoulders up and down, a look of horror clouding his features. The motion of
the shoulders ended.
With a hoarse cry, Fitzroy attempted to rise from his chair. His body
strained under the effort. He gained his feet and tottered; then, as his legs
succumbed, Fitzroy fell headlong upon the desk!
Directly before his terror-stricken eyes lay the telephone. With panic
overcoming him. Fitzroy swung his head and knocked the instrument on its side.
The receiver fell loose from the hook.
"Help me" - Fitzroy's words were blurted - "quickly - a doctor! Room 1414
- I may be dying!"
With that, the man lost his balance and rolled away from the desk, falling
heavily upon the floor. He lay there, gasping, his head moving from side to
side, his eyes bulging with horror.

MINUTES were moving by. The form on the floor had gained the rigidity of a
corpse - all but the head, which moved from side to side with the monotonous
motion of a pendulum.
Help! When would it arrive?
The head turned upward as the ears, still hearing, detected a sound at the
window. The eyes, wildly staring, focused themselves upon a living being.
Stepping through from the balcony was a form in black.
For a long, weird moment, Fitzroy viewed the personage who had entered.
This strange visitor was garbed in a long, flowing cloak. His face was obscured
by a slouch hat. All that Fitzroy could see were two piercing eyes that glowed
from mysterious depths as they viewed the plight of the man on the floor.
With the grip of death upon him, Fitzroy fancied that he was entering
another world. The very sight of this phantom brought confusing thoughts to his
terror-racked mind. The figure was stooping toward him!
Then came an interruption. A noise outside the door - a rattle of the lock
- the door of the room was opening. Vaguely, Fitzroy saw the black form turn
swiftly and merge with the outside darkness of the balcony.
Fitzroy tried to change the direction of his gaze, to look toward the door
of the room. He failed. The muscles of his neck were paralyzed!
Men were in the room now - men who knew nothing of that strange visitor
who had disappeared - men who saw only the pitiful shape of Jerry Fitzroy,
prone upon the floor. They were stooping over this victim of an outlandish
malady. A house detective and the hotel physician - both were looking into
those glassy eyes.
Jerry Fitzroy's gaze was rigid. The muscles of his eyeballs were no longer
functioning. His ears were scarcely hearing. The questions of those who had come
to aid him were like distant voices, faint and obscure.
With an effort, the dying man attempted to respond. His lips moved, but no
sound came from them. He seemed to sense the lack. He forced out words despite
the invisible grip that seemed to clutch his throat. Yet even those words were
articulate only in part.
"Tell - mark - secret -"
"Secret mark -"
The terse response came from the doctor.
Jerry Fitzroy's lips moved; then ceased. Only the eyes remained open; eyes
that were seeing, for a light shone in them. Then, gradually, that light faded.
The eyes still stared, but they did not see!
The physician arose from beside the body and stood with folded arms. He
turned to the house detective.
"You heard what he said?" the doctor asked.
"Yes," replied the detective. "'Tell mark secret.' Something about a
secret mark."
As the doctor nodded, the detective strode quickly to the window. He
flashed a light along the balcony. The glare revealed nothing. The detective
stepped back into the room.
The doctor was examining the dead man. He seemed a trifle puzzled by the
twisted rigidity of Jerry Fitzroy's body. He shook his head doubtfully.
"A strange form of paralysis," he declared. "It must have ended muscular
activity completely before it affected the brain. I shall call the police and
have them send a medical examiner."
He paused as he jiggled the hook of the telephone. He spoke thoughtfully
to the detective.
"Remember those words," he said. "Those words about a secret mark. They
may be important. Only you and I were here to hear them."
The detective acquiesced with a nod. He thought that the doctor was
correct. Yet both the sleuth and the physician were but half right. The words
that Jerry Fitzroy had uttered were important; but they had been heard by
another than these two.
From the darkness of the balcony, The Shadow had been listening. Somewhere
- not far away - The Shadow, too, was pondering over the significance of those
dying words!

CHAPTER II

THE HAND FROM THE DARK

A SECRET mark?
The questioner was Detective Joe Cardona of the New York force. Standing
beside the desk in Room 1414 of the Metrolite Hotel, he put the inquiry to the
house detective and the hotel physician.
"Tell mark secret," declared the doctor. "Those were the only words we
heard him say."
Cardona paced up and down the room. He looked toward the open window. He
stared at the body on the floor, which the medical examiner had just inspected.
Cardona walked to the writing desk and curiously surveyed the small collection
of articles that had been taken from Jerry Fitzroy's pockets.
Two objects commanded Cardona's attention. One was a French coin - a gold
twenty-franc piece. The other was a mottled brown feather.
"Outside of these" - Cardona indicated the two articles - "there's nothing
of importance except those papers that show this fellow's name was Jerry
Fitzroy. But a foreign coin and a bird feather - why was he carrying them?"
No one answered the question. The medical examiner was approaching to make
his report.
"An unusual form of paralysis," he declared. "A natural death. I see
nothing to indicate violence."
The house physician nodded to show his agreement with his medical
colleague.
"All right," said Cardona gruffly. "I'll be here a while. You stay" - he
nodded to the house detective - "and we can talk this over."
As a matter of routine, Joe Cardona knew that all that remained was to
order the removal of the body of Jerry Fitzroy. Yet before he sent that rigid
form to the morgue, the detective was desirous of learning the answer to the
questions that perplexed him.
The Metrolite sleuth watched while Cardona walked across the room and
stared out upon the balcony. Cardona had a high reputation in New York. He was
a crime solver in a class by himself. But here was a case that had no evidence
of crime.
Cardona sat at the writing desk. He studied the unfinished scrawl that
Jerry Fitzroy had begun. He grumbled in a dissatisfied tone. A man of
intuition, Cardona sensed foul play, even though he could not trace it.
At last Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He reached for the telephone,
intending to call and give orders for the removal of Jerry Fitzroy. At that
moment, the phone bell rang. Cardona, answering it, heard the voice of one of
his men.
"We just arrested a man in the lobby," was the information. "He came in
here, asking for Jerry Fitzroy -"
"What's his name?" demanded Cardona.
"He won't tell us. Wants to talk with you -"
"Bring him up."
Cardona smiled grimly as he hung up the receiver. Here might be a clew. An
unknown visitor, coming to visit Jerry Fitzroy after the man had died.
The house detective waited with interest. He wanted to see Cardona in
action, grilling this man whom the police had arrested.

THERE was a knock at the door. The house detective opened it to admit two
plain-clothes men who were bringing in a stocky, heavy man whose swarthy face
was emotionless. Cardona studied the man who had been taken into custody.
"See what he's got on him," he ordered.
The plain-clothes men made a quick frisk. They brought forth a
businesslike automatic, and handed it to Cardona. The detective stared at the
captive.
"Carrying a gun, eh?" he demanded. "What do you know about this?"
The swarthy man was staring at the still form of Jerry Fitzroy. Cardona
prompted him with another question.
"What's your name?"
"You are in charge here?" the prisoner asked quietly.
"Yes," declared Cardona.
"May I speak with you privately?"
A look of perplexity came over Cardona's face. The request was an unusual
one. Cardona suspected a ruse. At last he nodded to the plain-clothes men.
"Go on outside," he ordered. "You, too" - he nodded to the house detective
- "and wait by the door. There'll be no trouble here."
As the men obeyed, Cardona drew a revolver from his pocket and motioned
the prisoner to a chair in the corner of the room. A few moments later, Cardona
and the swarthy man were alone. Cardona was glowering and suspicious; the
suspect was calm and expressionless.
"Spill it," ordered Cardona. "Your name -"
"Victor Marquette," came the response, in a quiet voice. "I don't suppose
that you have ever heard of me. I keep well under cover. I am a secret-service
agent."
"With the secret service -"
While Cardona spoke Vic Marquette calmly drew back his coat and turned
back the inside of his vest. Cardona saw the badge that gleamed there.
"That is why I wanted a private discussion," announced Marquette. "There
are certain reasons why I do not want my identity known to any but yourself."
Cardona, knowing that the man was genuine, calmly pocketed his revolver.
Marquette's words explained why he had been carrying an automatic.
The secret-service man's next statement brought a new revelation.
"I am also anxious," added Marquette, "that Fitzroy's identity should not
be known. He is - or was - a secret-service man also."
"Ah!" Cardona's exclamation denoted understanding. "You and he were
working together."
"No," responded Marquette, shaking his head. "Fitzroy was working alone. I
did not know he was here. But I received a call a short while ago, telling me to
meet Fitzroy here at the Metrolite Hotel."
"A call from whom?"
"I do not know. Probably some one whom Fitzroy had instructed to call me.
I came here, only to be arrested by your men. I was amazed to learn that
Fitzroy was dead. How did he die?"
"Paralysis. Natural death, apparently. But if you think -"
"I suspect nothing" - Marquette was thoughtful - "but I should like to
know any peculiar circumstances -"
"Fitzroy spoke before he died," interposed Cardona. "He said something
about a secret mark -"
"A secret mark -"
"Yes." Cardona drew a paper from his pocket. "This is what the hotel
physician and the house detective said. Fitzroy, just before he died, was
trying to speak. His words could not be understood, except these three: 'Tell
mark secret.' Those words seemed to be part of a sentence -"
"Wait a moment" - Marquette was smiling - "I think I understand. I know
what Fitzroy was trying to say. 'Tell mark secret' - with little gaps between -"
"Yes - with gaps between."
"In full, 'Tell Victor Marquette of the secret service' - or something to
that effect."

CARDONA was thoughtful for a moment. Then he slowly nodded. He saw the
connection.
"You've got it!" he declared. "He wanted to get in touch with you. That
was the idea, eh?"
"Of course. Fitzroy knew I was in New York. He would naturally have tried
to communicate with me. Did you find any articles upon his person?"
Cardona pointed to the writing desk. Marquette arose and went in that
direction. Cardona indicated the gold coin; also the feather.
"What do you make of those?" he asked.
"The coin" - Marquette was thoughtful - "well, any secret-service man
might pick up one of those. The feather - hm-m-m - it's odd, but hardly
significant. But just a moment - where's Fitzroy's badge?"
Cardona looked puzzled.
"We went through his pockets," he said.
"Including his watch pocket?" asked Marquette.
"We may have missed that," admitted Cardona.
Marquette stooped over the body. He reached into the watch pocket of
Fitzroy's trousers and brought out a secret-service badge.
"Fitzroy always carried the badge in his watch pocket," observed
Marquette. "Poor Fitz" - he looked solemnly at the body - "I didn't expect to
find him dead."
"There's no evidence of murder," declared Cardona, "but the whole affair
looks bad to me -"
"What are you doing with the body?" questioned Marquette.
"Sending it to the morgue," responded Cardona, "unless you have some other
plan."
"Send it there," said Marquette solemnly. "The less talk about this, the
better. Fitzroy - this is strictly confidential - was engaged upon certain work
of investigation. I see nothing to indicate that he was murdered. Nevertheless,
it would be a great mistake to have it known that he was a secret-service man.
You understand?
"Send the body to the morgue. I shall see to its identification, with very
little said."
Cardona nodded. He pointed to the articles on the table.
"You want those?" he asked.
"Yes," said Marquette. "I can assure you that if Fitzroy was involved in
any dangerous business, it must have taken place outside of New York. I may be
able to trace his activities. If so -"
"I get you."
Cardona walked to the door of the room. He summoned the men who were
outside. They entered, surprised to see Marquette standing free.
"This man is all right," said Cardona gruffly. "He's an old friend of
Fitzroy's. We're sending the body to the morgue. That's all."
He followed the three, and spoke in a low tone to the house detective. The
two were outside the door during the discussion. Vic Marquette was leaning over
the body while they were absent.
With deliberate action, Marquette slipped his fingers into Fitzroy's watch
pocket and drew forth a small slip of paper. His back turned toward the door,
Marquette examined the paper.
He had noticed it when he had withdrawn Fitzroy's badge, but had made no
comment. The slip was a railroad coupon, indicating a cash fare paid from a
town named Westbrook Falls to New York City.
Marquette was standing by the desk when Cardona returned with the house
detective. In his hand, the secret-service man was holding an envelope.
Within that envelope, he had placed the slip of paper that he had found.
"These two articles" - Vic Marquette picked up the coin and the feather -
"may be of some importance. I shall study them."
He dropped the two objects into the envelope and carelessly laid the
latter on the desk. He took the rest of Fitzroy's belongings and put them in
another envelope. Cardona nodded his approval.
"I think," said Cardona, "that we can tell this man the circumstances -"
He was indicating the house detective.
Marquette was thoughtful; then gave his approval. In a low tone, Cardona
explained Marquette's connection with the secret service.
"Nothing is to be said," warned Marquette. "I know what Fitzroy was doing.
He probably gained some results. It will be my job to follow out his work."

POLICEMEN arrived to take the body to the morgue. The dead form of Jerry
Fitzroy was carried from the room. Cardona and Marquette followed, and stood
just outside the door.
The envelopes which Marquette had used were lying, unsealed, upon the
writing desk.
It was then that a strange incident occurred.
While the men at the door were watching the removal of Fitzroy's body,
something moved inward from the blackness outside the window. A human arm
reached toward the desk. A black-gloved hand plucked the envelope that
contained the coin, the feather, and the railway coupon.
A few minutes later, Cardona and Marquette returned to the room. They were
preparing to leave. Vic Marquette picked up the two envelopes. The one that had
been removed, was now replaced in its former position, by the same hand that
had taken it.
The detective and the secret-service man went down the elevator together.
They shook hands and parted outside the Metrolite Hotel. They went in opposite
directions.
Alone, Vic Marquette opened the more important of the two envelopes.
Standing near a light, he quickly examined the three articles. He smiled as he
held the twenty-franc piece. He nodded as he looked at the railroad coupon; he
frowned as he held the feather.
The significance of two articles was plain to Vic Marquette as he went on
his way. The gold coin and the railway coupon held a definite meaning. The
feather - despite the fact that Marquette had expressed no interest regarding
it to Cardona - might also be important. What it meant was something Vic
Marquette intended to learn.
One matter perplexed the secret-service man. To-night, as he had told
Cardona, he had received a call, telling him to come to the Metrolite Hotel, to
meet Jerry Fitzroy. Marquette had answered that call immediately.
The message had been sent after Fitzroy was dead - not before! The person
who had communicated by telephone - a man who spoke in a quiet voice - had
given no statement of identity. This was puzzling. It indicated the presence of
an unknown person in the maze that surrounded the death of Jerry Fitzroy.
Nevertheless, Vic Marquette was not worrying about the identity of the
unknown informant when he boarded a sleeper for Westbrook Falls, some time
after midnight. The secret-service man was content with the thought that he
possessed the only clews to Jerry Fitzroy's actions - and that of those clews,
the most important was his alone.
He had the railway coupon that told where Jerry Fitzroy had been. He,
only, had connected the mystery with the town of Westbrook Falls, wither he was
now traveling!
With all his confidence, Vic Marquette was mistaken: A hand from the dark
had performed a deed to-night. That hand had plucked the evidence, had carried
it to unseen eyes, and had returned it, unbeknown!
A gold coin - a railway coupon - a feather! The secret of strange doings
rested upon three clews. Vic Marquette had kept that information from Joe
Cardona; but he had not kept it from the hidden figure who had been shrouded in
the darkness of the balcony.
The Shadow, too, knew of those mysterious clews!
His hand had come from the dark to gain them!

CHAPTER III

THE SHADOW PLANS

A BLACK-SHROUDED room, lighted only by the weird glow of a bluish light
that shone upon the polished surface of a flat-topped table. Two hands, moving
like pale white creatures beneath the circle of light. A mysterious gem that
glimmered from a tapering third finger.
The Shadow was in his sanctum!
Somewhere in Manhattan, secluded in a spot known to himself alone, this
strange being was at work! Only his moving hands denoted his presence; only the
glowing jewel, a fire opal that constantly changed in hue, revealed the identity
of the hands.
To police, as well as to criminals, The Shadow was a figure of mystery.
His place lay in that borderland between the realm of law and the dominion of
the underworld. A strange figure - a weird presence - his very identity was a
matter of vague conjecture.
Who was The Shadow?
Many had asked that question. None had answered it!
Those who had encountered The Shadow had seen him only as a figure garbed
in black - a tall, sinister form that came and departed as a phantom of the
night.
Time and again, fierce wolves of the underworld had been thwarted by that
sinister shape. Fiends of crime had faced the being in black, had met the
burning gaze of eyes deep-set beneath the brim of a slouch hat, and had died
with gasps of terror on their lips.
Minions of the law, too, had experienced the presence of The Shadow. More
than once, a black-gloved hand, thrust from the folds of a crimson-lined cloak,
had reached to rescue those who combated the hordes of evil.
Helpless men and women, doomed to die by the design of criminal plotters,
had found salvation through the timely efforts of The Shadow. Yet none had seen
the face of the being in black. In all his missions of retribution, The Shadow
had departed; he was still unknown!
The voice of The Shadow, although a clew to his identity, had never
enabled any one to trace him. When The Shadow spoke, his words were eerie
utterances that chilled all hearers. More spectral than the voice was the laugh
of The Shadow. When its mocking tones resounded, evil-doers trembled at the
sound.
On certain nights, the voice of The Shadow was heard over the radio, on a
national hook-up. With it came the echoing tones of the gibing laugh.
Shrewd persons had sought to learn the identity of The Shadow by watching
the broadcasting station, but their efforts had been constantly frustrated. The
Shadow spoke from a curtained room, where no one dared enter. His method of
entrance and departure was known only to himself.
When daring crooks had hidden within the room to await the arrival of The
Shadow, their purpose had been artfully thwarted by The Shadow's uncanny
forethought. His voice had come to the studio over telephonic connection to a
distant point!

OF all his amazing activities, none were more important to The Shadow than
those which took place in this black-walled sanctum, where two white hands, one
wearing that priceless fire opal known as a girasol, were the only shapes in
view. Here it was that The Shadow formulated his plans and received reports
from his trusted agents. Sworn to secrecy, ready to risk death in service of
their master, these agents of The Shadow were faithful men; yet despite their
contact with the being in black, they, too, lived in ignorance of his identity!
They knew only what others suspected: that The Shadow was a master of
disguise, who assumed many identities that were not his own. These agents had
witnessed the prowess of The Shadow. Had they told their truthful stories,
their statement would not have been credited. For the power of The Shadow
surpassed all belief.
To-night, The Shadow was engaged in a deep and careful study. Before him,
on the polished table, lay typewritten papers; reports compiled by his agents.
The long white hands were fingering these carefully compiled records with care.
One sheet of paper bore the typewritten heading:

Foreign Coinage Report

This sheet was the top one of several that were carefully clipped together.
The Shadow's finger moved down the paragraph, passing one page and
following through another, stopping momentarily as it rested on certain
sentences. These were the most important statements that were noted:

The suspicion of counterfeit gold coins now rests upon Peruvian and
Bolivian currency in addition to that of the Argentine.
Reports of investigation in France, Italy, and Australia not received.
Coins possessing specific gravity of gold and meeting other tests have
yielded base metals when melted.
Foreign reports lacking as coins not suspected as counterfeits have not
been melted in the countries where coined.
No trace of source of this cheap alloy which is virtually synthetic gold.
Only test appears to be melting, hence no samples of counterfeit coins
remain as existing counterfeits pass as genuine.
Secret-service investigation under way.

Turning to an appended sheet, The Shadow's finger rested upon a paragraph
that included the name of Jerry Fitzroy as a special agent assigned to the work
of tracing counterfeiting activities. The name of Vic Marquette also appeared.
Laying aside the report, The Shadow inspected another document. This was
headed:

Gold Mining Report

Again, the moving finger pointed out certain items in the paragraphs:

The steady production of gold from the New Era Mine in California has
created unusual interest.
Generally believed that this mine had been fully worked and about to be
abandoned.
Development of new veins has created a heavy demand for stock offered by
New Era Mining Syndicate.
Rumor of mine being "salted" is not credited as no outside source of
supply has been noted.
Steady production of gold is out of proportion to possible gain through
sale of stock.
Clifford Forster, controller of New Era Syndicate, is constantly on ground
in California.

THE papers lay still upon the table. The hand of The Shadow drew forth a
white sheet and a pen. But before the fingers began to write even while the pen
was poised above the paper - a tiny light glowed beyond the table.
The left hand, with its radiant girasol, reached forward and brought back
a pair of ear phones. These disappeared beyond the fringe of light; then the
lamp clicked off.
A solemn voice spoke amid the darkness - a low, whispered voice that
sounded hollow in the blackness of that shrouded room.
"Report."
A quiet tone came over the wire.
"Burbank speaking. Word from Burke, in California. Received, in code, by
Rutledge Mann. Report on Clifford Forster. Has left New Era Mine for the East."
"Exact destination?"
"Probably New York - to-morrow night. Traveling alone. Sent word to his
home in New York that he might be there to-morrow. No other facts available."
"Report received."
The little light was extinguished. The ear phones were replaced.
Connection was ended. The glare of the lamp appeared; the hand of The Shadow
poised above the sheet of paper.
The hand wrote a single word at the top of the paper. That word was the
name:

Fitzroy

Beneath the name, the hand inscribed these cryptic statements:

Where: The railway coupon.
Why: The French coin.
Who: The partridge feather

The hand moved away. Only the words remained emblazoned upon the sheet of
paper in vivid blue ink, surveyed by invisible eyes that studied them from the
darkness.
Then, as though responding to an unseen touch, those words began to
vanish. First the name of Fitzroy disappeared, letter by letter; after that,
the other words were lost in the same uncanny fashion. Only the blank piece of
paper remained!
These words, written in the amazing disappearing ink used by The Shadow,
had been like uttered thoughts. Now they were gone, existing only in the brain
of the one who had inscribed them.
Two facts had been mentioned here that would have been obvious to Vic
Marquette, the secret-service man who had gone back over Fitzroy's trail. These
were the facts that Jerry Fitzroy, investigating the matter of spurious foreign
coinage, had gone to a place named Westbrook Falls.
But the final fact - the identity of the person whom Fitzroy had visited -
had been divined by The Shadow alone.
To Vic Marquette, the presence of the feather in Fitzroy's pocket was a
mystery. To The Shadow, it was a proclamation of an unknown identity. Vic
Marquette had looked upon the feather as one from any bird; The Shadow had
recognized it as a partridge feather.
What was the connection between some unknown person and that feather? This
was a problem that The Shadow was prepared to solve. But when the hand again
appeared beneath the light, the new words that it wrote referred to another
subject.
Again a name was inscribed in that ink of vivid blue - a name that was
followed by carefully written comments:

Clifford Forster.
Home in New York.
To-morrow evening.

The light clicked out. The ear phones clattered slightly as they were
lifted by unseen hands. A tiny bulb gleamed as the voice of The Shadow
whispered across the wire to Burbank.
"Post Vincent at the home of Clifford Forster. Immediate report upon
Forster's return."
The ear phones were back; the glow was gone; the room was in total
darkness. The Shadow's plans were made. Vic Marquette had gone to Westbrook
Falls; but while he was absent, a new trail would be opening, here in Manhattan.
Temporarily ignoring the events that had preceded the death of Jerry
Fitzroy, The Shadow was training his observation upon a man who had been far
away, but who soon would be in New York.
To-morrow night would be the test. From Clifford Forster, wealthy mining
promoter, The Shadow would gain information relating to a riddle that involved
events of international importance.
Where death once struck, death would strike again. To Vic Marquette, the
demise of Jerry Fitzroy had been an unfortunate incident. To The Shadow, it
meant the beginning of a reign of fiendish crime.
A laugh resounded through the blackness. It was a harsh, mirthless laugh,
that laugh of The Shadow. It carried none of the mockery which the hidden being
so often uttered. It was a laugh that denoted the grimness of the game ahead.
The lure of gold - that lust that has made men kill throughout the ages -
was at work. Heinous crime was the ruling motive in the minds of evil villains.
To The Shadow was given the duty of thwarting great crime. Shrouded by
darkness, a hidden factor in the cross-purposes of scheming men, he had planned
to-night.
The echoes of the laugh rippled through the sanctum as though caught and
shaken forth by the motionless curtains that covered the walls of the black
room. The echoes died away like the cries of distant, spectral beings.
The sanctum was now empty. The Shadow had departed.
Two forces were already at work to oppose the crime that threatened. One,
The Shadow, had planned and issued his orders. His work began in New York.
The other, Vic Marquette, was directed at the point of Jerry Fitzroy's
last activity - Westbrook Falls.
A giant struggle was already in the making!

CHAPTER IV

AT WESTBROOK FALLS

ON the following afternoon, an eastbound limited came to a stop at the
little station of Westbrook Falls. Several persons alighted from the train,
among them a bulky, full-jowled, middle-aged man who was carrying a suitcase.
There were three or four men lounging about the platform. One of them, a
stocky, firm-jawed individual, eyed the various people who had left the train.
This observer, standing in an obscure portion of the platform, was none other
than Vic Marquette.
The secret-service man watched the newly arrived passengers go to the
dilapidated automobiles that served as cabs between the station and Westbrook
inn, half a mile away. Satisfied that all - among them the bulky man - were
going to the hotel, Marquette strolled away.
Had he been closer to the vehicle in which the bulky man placed himself,
Vic Marquette might have learned something of interest. For when the driver
asked his passenger if he were going to Westbrook Inn, the reply was in the
negative.
A short, low conversation transpired between the newcomer and the cabman.
The driver nodded his head, and the car pulled away.
But although Vic Marquette had failed to catch this conversation, the
words between driver and passenger had been overheard by another bystander.
A thin, dark-faced man garbed in khaki trousers and flannel shirt, was
standing quite close to the car, and his teeth glistened in a broad smile as he
watched the vehicle depart. Shortly afterward, he, too, walked away from the
station.
The cab in which the bulky gentleman was riding started up the road toward
the inn; but turned off after it had gone less than a quarter mile. It rolled
along a side road, crossed a bridge over a deep ravine, and swung through the
woods.
After a trip of some four miles, the car emerged from the woods and
skirted the fringe of a deep gorge - a continuance of the stream that ran
through the woods.
This chasm was below the falls, which were back in the neighborhood of the
hotel. The roar of rapids, far below, was audible to the man riding in the car,
and he peered from the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the river beneath.
Then the car swung away from the gorge and traveled beside a high picket
fence, running at right angles to the river. The fence turned, running parallel
with the stream, and the road also went in that direction. The automobile
stopped in front of an iron gate in the center of the fence.
"Here we are, sir," informed the driver. "This is Mr. Partridge's place.
Guess you'll find him at home. He's always here."

THE bulky man alighted, paid the driver, and told him to stand by. He rang
a bell on the gate. A dark, evil-faced man appeared on the walk beyond the gate,
and the stranger addressed him through the bars.
"Is Mr. Partridge at home?"
"Who wants to see him?"
The dark man's reply had a surly foreign tone - the voice of an Italian
poorly acquainted with English.
"I am Clifford Forster," said the visitor.
A gleam of understanding flashed in the dark man's face. He grinned,
showing yellow, fanglike teeth. He unbarred the gate.
Clifford Forster waved the driver of the cab away, and entered the
confines of this strange domain.
The dark-complexioned man led the way to a house among the trees. They
reached the building - an old frame structure of considerable size - and the
man who was conducting Forster motioned to the visitor to enter.
Up the steps, across a decaying porch, into a hallway - there Forster
stood face to face with a stoop-shouldered old man.
"Ah! Mr. Forster!"
The greeting came in a querulous voice. Forster, a foot taller than his
host, bowed in acknowledgment.
"Come this way - come this way - into my library."
Forster, following, noted the precision of the old man's stride. He
realized that the man was a very dynamo of energy; that despite his apparent
age, he possessed an extraordinary degree of youthful vigor.
They entered a gloomy room, and the old man turned on a light. Closing the
door, he faced Forster, who was looking about the room, noting the shelves of
curious old volumes that adorned the walls. The sound of the old man's voice
brought him out of his reverie.
"So here we are," chuckled the old man. "Clifford Forster and Lucien
Partridge. Again we meet - this time in my home instead of yours. Be seated,
Mr. Forster. Tell me why I am honored by this unexpected visit."
Forster seated himself in a comfortable chair. He drew two fat cigars from
his pocket, and offered one to Partridge. The old man declined. Forster lighted
his own perfecto, and stared calmly at the old man.
"Partridge," he said, "I want to talk with you. I thought it advisable
that we should get together. I have left you very much to your own resources.
It has occurred to me that the time has come for closer contact."
The old man, sitting with folded hands, nodded in a vague manner, as
though he did not fully understand.
They made an odd pair, these two. Forster, heavy and bulky, was a
puffy-faced, dominating type of man. Partridge, with parchment skin and white
hair, looked like an old professor, while his manner was almost wheedling
toward his visitor.
"You agree with me, Partridge?" asked Forster.
"I am glad to have you visit me," responded Partridge. "But I do not
understand. Has not all been going well? Are you not satisfied?"
"Yes," returned Forster slowly, "matters are progressing. Nevertheless -
one can never be too sure of others working in his full interest."
A troubled gleam came into the old man's eyes. Forster detected it, and
hastened to amend his statement.
"Do not misunderstand me, Partridge," he said. "I am not speaking of you.
It is Guthrie to whom I refer."
"Ah! Guthrie. He is a fine man, Mr. Forster. He has been very patient with
me. He has been ready always to listen to what I have to tell him -"
"That's just it!" interposed Forster. "Guthrie is a good listener. He is
also a good promiser. It simply occurred to me that, after all, Guthrie is
nothing but a go-between. It is you and I who are working together. Guthrie
might prove to be a disadvantage."
"Ah! But he brought us together Mr. Forster -"
"Certainly. He has served that purpose. I want to be sure that he is still
useful."

AGAIN, Lucien Partridge nodded. He was an eccentric sort of a man and his
eyes held a far-away look. They also showed an expression of worry. Seeing
this, Forster became blunt in his comments.
"I am a business man, Partridge," he declared. "A man who deals in big
business. You are an inventor - a chemist - a scientist - a man of remarkable
genius. Your work is proving valuable to me. I want it to prove more so."
"Certainly, Mr. Forster -"
"Therefore, I thought that it would be best for me to check up on
Guthrie's activities. I let him conduct all negotiations with you until matters
began to move. I did not want to worry you, or to disturb you. But now that you
are producing, I feel that the time is ripe for our direct contact."
Forster paused and watched the old man nod. Then he continued in the same
vein.
"I have made an investment in you, Partridge," he said. "An investment of
more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. When Lawrence Guthrie first
told me of you and your synthetic gold, I laughed at him. But when I saw you at
work, I was willing to invest in your genius.
"This place - house, laboratory, and all - are part of my investment. They
belong to you, and here you are producing the gold that I desire - a fair return
for the money that I have invested. But I am desirous of accomplishing the
maximum in results. The maximum! You understand?"
"Certainly, Mr. Forster."
"Guthrie," continued Forster, "painted me a wonderful picture. I invested
a quarter of a million. I was willing to invest more. I wanted to see results,
and I told Guthrie so.
"At last, a few months ago, your process began to work. Since then, I have
been receiving gold regularly - approximately twenty thousand dollars' worth
each month.
"It seemed to me that now that the process was completed, the output would
increase. Guthrie promised me that it would. But it has not. Guthrie has not
explained why. So I have come to you to find out."
"My gold," said Partridge thoughtfully, "is something that I do not value
in terms of money, Mr. Forster. I love to make it - to see that shining yellow
gold and to know that it is my own creation.
"For a long time" - the old man's tone became reminiscent - "I sought the
infallible secret. The weight of lead; the luster of copper; the polish of
silver - these I sought to combine to make my gold. Ah! The processes I used" -
Partridge began to close his clawlike fingers as though molding an invisible
object - "the discoveries I made - the metals I formed that looked like gold -
until at last I found it!"
He paused and stared at Forster with wild, glaring eyes, his lips spread
in a triumphant grin.
"I found it!" Partridge's voice was a crackly, gasping scream. "I found
it! I found it! Gold!"

AS though exhausted by his fervor, the old man slumped back in his chair.
Forster surveyed him thoughtfully. He knew that he was dealing with a fanatic.
He resolved to humor him.
"Make your gold," he said approvingly. "Make much of it. The more the
better. But remember - I am the one who requires it; not Guthrie. He is nothing
more than my agent."
Partridge nodded.
"You could make millions of dollars' worth," urged Forster. "Millions,
instead of thousands. So Guthrie has said; but he has not acted. Make more and
more -"
Forster paused as he saw the gleam in the old man's eyes. He knew that he
was arousing Partridge's interest. He waited to give the old man a chance to
advance a promise.
"You want millions?" questioned Partridge. "I shall give you millions! But
you must remember - this secret is my own. For you only I make this gold. No one
must know where it comes from."
"No one knows," declared Forster. "No one - except you, myself, and
Guthrie."
"Those at your mines?"
"They know nothing."
"You are always there?"
"I have been, since the first shipment was made. I have come East - after
wiring Guthrie to stop shipments - to speed up production. That is why I wired
you that I would make this visit."
"I understand," nodded Partridge. "You wished to see for yourself - to
learn if all that Guthrie has said is true. You would like to have me show you."
Eagerness showed on Forster's face. The man's cupidity, apparent in his
every action, was stressed to the utmost.
As Lucien Partridge motioned for him to rise, Clifford Forster sprang to
his feet and walked forward as the old man started toward the hall.
Outside the door, they encountered the dark-faced man who had met Forster
at the gate. Noting Forster's questioning gaze, Partridge made an impromptu
introduction.
"This is Vignetti," he said. "I call him my faithful Corsican. I have
traveled many places - to many lands" - he smiled wanly - "and in Corsica, many
years ago, I offered shelter to a young lad whose parents had been slain in one
of those fearful feuds they call a vendetta. Vignetti has served me ever since."
During this explanation, the Corsican stood silent and immobile. Partridge
saw that Forster was noticing this, and the old man supplied the reason.
"Vignetti speaks very little English," he declared. "Enough to inquire the
business of strangers - to meet people at the gate as he met you. He is like a
watchdog; and for that reason he is the very man I required here."
With a few words of Italian, the old man ordered Vignetti to follow as he
led Clifford Forster through the premises.

THEY entered a large room off the hall. This formed a chemical laboratory.
They descended a stairs to the basement. Here were vats and crucibles.
In one corner lay a stack of yellowish bars. Forster's glance was avid.
Partridge smiled.
"Unsuccessful experiments," he said. "That metal is not gold. It
represents wasted effort."
The old man unlocked a door, and they ascended stone steps to a long
expanse of lawn around the house. Partridge motioned Forster forward. They
passed a small tool house fifty yards from the big building; then Partridge
held up his hand warningly as they came to the edge of a cliff.
Forster moved forward cautiously and peered down into the chasm. The river
foamed a hundred feet beneath. On each side, as far as Forster could see, were
sheer, stonewalled precipices as smooth as though they had been cloven by a
mighty ax.
"These premises are immune from intruders," smiled Lucien Partridge. "No
living being could scale that mass of rock."
"But the fence -"
"See there?" Partridge pointed first in one direction; then the other.
"Observe how the ends of the fence project over the edge of the cliff. Now note
this wire" - he indicated a cord that ran along the edge of the cliff from fence
to fence - "which serves as the connecting link. This forms a network within the
fence. It is insulated, only here it borders the cliff. At night, the current
which passes through the wire would spell death to any who might touch it."
"The gate?"
"That, too, is wired at night. No one can enter these grounds. You see.
Mr. Forster, how well I am protecting my operations."
They walked back to the house, Forster nodding his approval more and more
as he noticed burly-looking men working about the premises. With Vignetti and
these others, Lucien Partridge had the necessary protection from intruders.
Greedy though he was for profits, Forster recognized these factors as
necessary expenditures. But when they had reached the house, and were again
standing in the library, Forster returned to his original theme.
"I must leave shortly," he said, glancing at his watch. "But before I go,
I would like to talk more regarding the output -"
"Certainly," interposed the old scientist. "Wait a moment. I shall have
Vignetti summon a cab to take you to the station." He spoke to the Corsican,
then turned again to Forster.
"From now on," resumed Forster, "I shall keep in contact with you,
Partridge. I am tired of Guthrie's promises. The output now should be one
hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold a month. Perhaps more."
Partridge smiled gleefully as he raised his hand.
"Millions, Mr. Forster," he crackled, in a whisper. "You shall have
millions. All that you want. So long as my secret is preserved -"
"It is known to none but myself and Guthrie."
Vignetti was returning. He spoke in Italian, and Partridge responded in
the same language. The Corsican departed.
"The cab is on its way," remarked Partridge. "You are going to New York. I
am returning to my laboratory. Returning to plan a greater flood of pure gold."

CLIFFORD FORSTER was elated. He listened in rapture as the old man babbled
on. Vignetti reappeared, carrying a smock upon which rested a pair of long
gloves.
Lucien Partridge paused to don the gloves, taking each at the wrist, and
slipping his hands into the depths. Then Vignetti helped him with the smock;
and the old man walked to the hall, with Forster at his elbow.
The front door was open. As they waited there, Partridge still listening
eagerly, the expected cab appeared beyond the iron gate. Vignetti walked ahead
to unbar the way. Partridge and Forster followed.
Halfway to the gate, the old man paused to bid his guest farewell. There
was a quiet warning in the old man's voice as he said adieu.
"Your hopes will be realized," he declaimed. "Have confidence in my
ability. I am working in your interest."
"Say nothing to Guthrie," advised Forster, in return. "Do not tell him
that I was here. This matter concerns us only. This has been a secret visit."
The old man nodded. He extended his gloved right hand. Forster gripped it
warmly in a parting shake. Then the bulky man lumbered hurriedly to the waiting
automobile.
At the railroad station, passing away ten minutes before the arrival of
his train, Clifford Forster again came under the observation of two watching
men - Vic Marquette and the slender individual who looked like a Spaniard.
Clifford Forster did not know that he was being watched. He was thinking
of the visit he had just paid to Lucien Partridge. His mind was filled with
dreams of wealth. Forster was confident that the near future held much in store
for him.
Could he have seen the true future, his dreams would have turned to dread!

CHAPTER V

DEATH CREEPS

LONG shadows lurked in the misty night as Clifford Forster ascended the
brownstone steps of the old house which was his New York residence. His key
clicked in the lock, but before he could open the door, some one responded from
the inside.
"Ah! You are in to-night, Graver," said Forster approvingly. "I did not
know whether or not you had received my wire."
"I am always here, Mr. Forster," responded the tall, solemn-faced man who
had answered the door.
"You are a good caretaker, Graver," rejoined Forster. "I shall not need
you to-night, however. I am going in the library, and when the doorbell rings,
I shall answer it myself. I am expecting a visitor."
"Very well, sir."
Forster watched Graver go upstairs. Then he went into the library, a room
at the side of the house. This room was damp and musty. The windows were
closed, and the curtains drawn.
Outside, the street was dark. The temporary glow of light that had
revealed Forster entering the door no longer showed. But in that darkness, a
man was emerging from an alleyway opposite the house.
This individual, clad in a dark suit, walked briskly along the street,
away from the house. He entered a small store, and went into a telephone booth.
It was Harry Vincent, calling Burbank to notify him that Clifford Forster had
arrived in New York.
While Harry Vincent was thus engaged, footsteps again resounded on the
sidewalk in front of Forster's home. A man ascended the steps and rang the
bell. The door opened, and Clifford Forster invited the stranger in. The two
went into the library.
"Well, Guthrie," inquired Forster, "what have you to report?"
The man who had joined Clifford Forster made a striking contrast to the
bulky mine owner.
Lawrence Guthrie was a cadaverous individual, who looked much older than
he actually was. His face was long and shrewd, his hair was thin; his eyes
stared sharply and cunningly.
Now, he was looking at Forster with the evident intent of learning why the
mine owner had made this surprise trip to New York.
"I got your wire," said Guthrie, in a quick, nervous voice. "I have come
here as you told me; but I do not understand why you needed to see me. Matters
have been going well enough."
"Well enough to suit you, perhaps," growled Forster, "but not well enough
to suit me!"
"Why not?"
"Look here, Guthrie," declared Forster, in a direct tone, "we might as
well have a show-down right now! I'm going to start right from the beginning."
He reached in his pocket, withdrew a parcel of folded papers, and spread
them on the table.
"Here's everything," he said. "Your agreement, Partridge's agreement, a
list of expenditures, everything that pertains to our transactions. So if
there's any argument, we've got it in black and white. You understand?"
Guthrie looked puzzled.
"I - I don't understand -"
Clifford Forster interrupted the weak protest.
"You will understand!" he affirmed. "I'm looking into matters, coolly and
impartially. You do the listening while I do the talking. Then I'll hear from
you."

GUTHRIE was silent as Forster examined the documents before him. A worried
expression came over the cadaverous man's brow. Nevertheless, he kept his
silence and waited.
"We'll start with the beginning," declared Forster. "You are a promoter,
Guthrie, and a good one. Somehow, you uncovered Lucien Partridge, who wanted to
be financed in the making of synthetic gold. You aroused my interest. I met
Partridge. I took a chance. I put up the money."
"That's right," agreed Guthrie.
Another pause followed. Forster was looking at the papers. Guthrie was
staring at Forster. Neither man noticed an almost imperceptible motion of a
window shade at the side of the room.
A long, flat shadow began to project itself across the floor, almost to
the table across which Guthrie was facing Forster.
"I saw a way to make millions," continued Forster, "and I promised you
your share. The terms were satisfactory to both of us. I waited while the old
man got things working.
"I felt good when the first lot of gold landed at the New Era Mine a few
months ago. That was the beginning. I looked to you and Partridge to keep it
up."
"Which we have," said Guthrie.
"Yes," retorted Forster coldly. "You have - in dribbles! With those
dribbles, you have given promises. Double the output - double that again - but
you haven't done it. Why not?"
Guthrie chewed his lips.
"It's Partridge's fault," he said. "He's the one that's making the gold. I
don't know anything about it -"
"Passing the buck to Partridge, eh?" questioned Forster. "That stuff
doesn't go, Guthrie. What about your promises?"
"I was telling you what Partridge promised me."
"Yes? Well, why hasn't Partridge produced?"
"I thought he was producing. I've stayed away from Westbrook Falls, like I
told you I would. The shipments go out from there. It would be bad business for
me to be hanging around the place -"
"Some one is stalling," interrupted Forster. "It's either you or
Partridge. I've talked with" - he hesitated quickly - "I've good reason to
believe that you're the one to blame."
Guthrie made no answer to the implication. Slumped in his chair, he was
the figure of dejection. His attitude might have been that of a guilty party;
on the contrary it might have indicated an innocent man faced by unjust
accusations.
"I've dealt squarely with you, Guthrie," said Forster. "Maybe I've been
too much on the level. I told you from the start that this synthetic gold
business would have to be handled quietly. If we told the public we were
manufacturing gold, the gold market would take a drop. That's why I'm planting
the yellow stuff in the New Era Mine.
"Now that I'm in the racket, I'm going the whole way. The New Era can't
last indefinitely. It would excite suspicion. That's why I'm going to sell out
- and start planting gold in the Procyon Mine instead of the New Era.
"After that" - Forster shrugged his shoulders - "well, why go on further?
You know the game, because I let you in on it. Now it looks like you're trying
to start a racket of your own."
"No! I'm playing square!" protested Guthrie. "I want to see your plans
work. The more gold you get from Partridge, the bigger the cut I get -"
"Yes?" Forster's interruption was cold. "But suppose you are
double-crossing me? Suppose you are holding out some of the gold Partridge is
producing?"
"Maybe Partridge is holding out on you. I'm not."
"Partridge?" Forster's question was disdainful. "The value of gold means
nothing to him. He's contented, now that he is established. I know your past,
Guthrie; that's what makes me leery; and it puts me in a position where I can
dictate.
"You've always been out for all you can get. A slick promoter, looking for
easy money. Well" - Forster's pudgy lips hardened - "for once you're trying to
bleed the wrong man!"

LAWRENCE GUTHRIE leaped angrily to his feet. He shook his fist at Clifford
Forster, and shouted his reply to the other man's accusation.
"I'm no double-crosser!" he cried. "I'm in the middle - between you and
Partridge. He's eccentric; I've got to handle him sensibly. Instead of giving
me a chance, you - you -"
Leaning forward across the table, Guthrie hurled a series of loud
expletives at Forster. The mine owner, his own face aglow with fury, leaped up
to meet the challenge. In his haste he overturned the chair in which he had
been seated.
As Guthrie still mouthed curses, Forster shot across the table and swung a
futile blow. For a moment, he and Guthrie were locked in ferocious struggle;
then Guthrie shoved Forster away. The bulky man caught himself at the edge of
the table and stood glowering fiercely.
Guthrie, rapidly calming, was chewing his lips as though regretting what
he had said. He knew that Forster held a whip hand over him; that he had made a
mistake in losing his temper. He saw Forster half leaning against the edge of
the table, panting heavily.
"There's no use fighting about this," declared Guthrie, in an apologetic
tone. "I guess we're both wrong. Why not be reasonable about matters -"
Forster, slowly recovering from his exertion, began to move along the edge
of the table. He made no threatening gesture toward Guthrie - in fact, Forster
seemed almost incapable of such action. But he showed intense antagonism in the
glowering look that he directed at the visitor.
"You - you" - Forster's voice was filled with growling rage - "you're
trying to crawl out of it now, eh? We'll see about that - we'll see -"
Forster began to pick up the papers that lay on the desk. His hands
fumbled. The documents eluded his grasp. Still staring at Guthrie, Forster kept
on in his vain attempt.
Suddenly his hands seemed to become rigid; his arms lost their strength.
He sank upon his elbows, and stared with bulging eyes toward his hands.
"What - what is happening?" he exclaimed, in a frightened voice. "My hands
- my arms -"
He stared at Guthrie, and his voice rose to a wild scream as he saw the
other man's pale face.
"You've crippled me!" screamed Forster. "I'm paralyzed! My hands - my arms
- my shoulders! This is your work, Guthrie! Your work, you hound!"
Guthrie's eyes were wild as he heard these words. He backed across the
room toward the door. Forster screamed new imprecations as he saw Guthrie
departing.
"This is your work, Guthrie - your work -"
Guthrie opened the door and stepped quickly into the hall. He was
panic-stricken now. He hastened across the hall toward the street door. As he
hurried, he passed a man who was coming down the stairs. It was Graver, alarmed
by the cries that he had heard.
The caretaker did not follow Guthrie. In fact, he scarcely noted the
departing man, so anxious was he to reach the library, where new shouts were
coming from Clifford Forster. The bulky mine owner was slumped across the
table; his glassy eyes saw Graver the moment the caretaker arrived.
"Stop him!" Forster was shouting hoarsely. "Stop Guth - stop Guth" - his
voice choked as he tried to pronounce the name - "stop that man -"
The rest of Forster's words were inarticulate; but Graver understood.
Turning, the caretaker hastened in pursuit of Lawrence Guthrie.
The front door slammed as he ran through it to the street. A moment later
there was a dull thud in the library as Clifford Forster tumbled to the floor.
The dying man was staring straight upward, his eyes glazed, his lips
moving helplessly. The terrible paralysis had reached his throat; his limbs
were numbed. The creeping death was claiming another victim!

THEN those staring eyes saw a strange sight, which to Forster's feverish
vision appeared to be a vista of the world beyond.
Into the range of Forster's gaze came a tall figure garbed completely in
black - a being wrapped in the folds of a long cloak, with features obscured by
the broad brim of a slouch hat.
The spectral form came closer. It stood above Clifford Forster; it leaned
over him. The eyes of The Shadow burned like points of light as they met the
stare of the dying man.
Instinctively, the numbing brain of Clifford Forster realized that here
was some one who might prove a friend. The sight of those eyes cleared his
fading mind. The thought of Lawrence Guthrie vanished from his clouded brain. A
wild gleam of new suspicion came over him.
With a last effort, Forster tried to speak. His lips moved; his voice came
in a creaky groan as he sought to pronounce the words that he desired.
The effort was too great. The trembling lips ceased their motions.
Clifford Forster's bulging eyes saw no more. The creeping death had gained its
victory!
Somber and motionless, The Shadow stood looking at the dead man before
him. Then to those keen, hidden ears, came a sound from the street outside. The
Shadow turned, and, with one gloved hand gathered up the papers that lay on the
desk.
Voices sounded as the front door was thrown open. With a quick, swift
stride, The Shadow moved across the room, his long cloak showing its crimson
lining as it swished through the air.
When Graver and a policeman burst into the room a moment later, they saw
only the dead form of Clifford Forster. The silent witness of the encounter
between Forster and Guthrie - the one man who had observed Clifford Forster in
his final death throes - was no longer there. Only a long shadow lay across the
floor, projecting from the window. Neither Graver nor the officer observed it.
That shadowy shape silently slid away. The window curtain rustled so
slightly that its sound could not be heard. The two men were alone in the room
where the creeping death had struck.
The Shadow had departed. Death had done its work here. This part of crime
was over. But elsewhere, The Shadow knew, more crime was breeding; the source
of the evil was somewhere else!

CHAPTER VI

IN THE LABORATORY

LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was at work in his laboratory. Garbed in a stained frock,
and wearing long white gloves, the old man was making a series of unusual tests.
Holding a test tube in his hand, he poured a small quantity of a colorless
liquid from a bottle.
To this he added a few drops of a purplish fluid; then a few grains of a
reddish powder. The liquid in the test tube clouded; then changed to a brownish
hue. Within it appeared tiny flakes of gold!
Partridge set the tube in a holder above a Bunsen burner. He ignited the
flame and kept it at a low point. The gold flakes moved slowly within the
liquid. The old man watched the results eagerly; then walked away and descended
the stairs to the room below.
Here two men were standing beside a furnace. As Partridge approached, one
of them leaned forward and opened the bottom of the furnace to reveal a
crucible filled with a yellowish mass of molten metal. Partridge smiled and
nodded.
The door was closed, and the roar of the furnace sounded, the old man
listening as though hearing music that was pleasing to his ears. He walked from
the room and went upstairs. From the laboratory he went through a door that led
outside.
Dusk was falling. A single star glimmered in the dulling sky. Lucien
Partridge's eyes turned in that direction. But they did not notice the star.
They were centered upon a chimney at the top of the building.
A spurt of flame appeared through the chimney. It died away. Then came
another red spurt. Lucien Partridge chuckled. He went back into the laboratory
and again stood watching the tube that glowed with flakes of gold.
The old man turned to see Vignetti entering the laboratory. He motioned to
the Corsican, and the faithful servant came to stand beside him. Partridge
pointed to the test tube and chuckled. Then, in a low voice, he began to speak
to Vignetti.
Partridge's method of conversation was curious. He spoke in English, as
though expressing his thoughts aloud. Whenever he came to certain remarks, he
turned to Vignetti as he spoke, and added a few words in Italian as an
interpretation.
"You see it there, Vignetti?" he questioned, as he pointed to the now
boiling tube. "Perhaps I have discovered it - perhaps not. Ah - some day,
Vignetti, I shall have it!
"Gold - gold!" The old man's voice rose to a scream. "The alchemists
sought it" - the voice became a whisper - "but they could not find it. They
tried to transmute baser metals into gold. My way has been different. I have
compounded those metals. By seeking first that which would resemble gold, I
have sought to some day step beyond and form gold itself.
"Perhaps I shall fail" - the old man smiled wanly - "but it does not
matter now. My false gold has brought me true gold. That is because I am
clever, Vignetti."

PARTRIDGE turned off the Bunsen burner, and watched the gold flakes settle
to the bottom of the muddy liquid. The old man shrugged his shoulders, and
turned again to Vignetti.
"You remember that man who was here a few days ago?" he asked. "He wanted
my gold, Vignetti. The real gold - not that yellow stuff that looks like gold.
"I have been giving him gold Vignetti - gold that is mine - gold that I
have obtained by my own brains, in exchange for the false gold. But he wanted
still more - more - more - always more.
"Well, Vignetti" - the smile kept over Partridge's lips - "we need not
worry longer about him. He was too greedy, Vignetti."
The old man paused. When he spoke again, his tone became reminiscent. His
English words were freely interspersed with Italian, and Vignetti listened with
intent pleasure.
"You have traveled far with me, Vignetti," said Partridge. "We have been
everywhere. You have seen - you have learned. The vendetta that you saw in your
youth was nothing, eh, Vignetti? A few people - killing - there on one island.
Those who killed were killed in turn.
"But my vendetta" - the old man's gleaming eyes found their reflection in
Vignetti's flashing optics - "ah, my vendetta is with the world! One man
against many - and I never fail! Not when I have you helping me, my faithful
Vignetti.
"You remember in Peking, Vignetti? My quarrel with that Chinese savant, Li
Tan Chang? He knew that I sought to kill him. He would not tell me the secrets
that he knew. To kill him was my only way. He tried to kill me, when he so
blandly stretched forth his hand.
"But you were there, Vignetti! You knew what he meant to do. Your knife
saved my life. I gained what I wanted; and with it, I learned the secret of the
death that Li Tan Chang had sought to deal to me. Ah! That secret has served me
well!
"Remember how I used it in Hamburg, when Tolfens, the German scientist,
would not reveal his methods of experiment? Tolfens is dead - but his work goes
on. It is my work, now. You have done well, Vignetti, to be faithful to me."
The old man drew himself up proudly. He stared across the room as he
mechanically removed his working gloves. He gave the gloves to Vignetti. The
Corsican unlocked a drawer in a table and placed the gloves at the front of the
drawer.
"Gold!" Partridge pronounced the word in a tone of grandeur. "Gold! I
shall have all of it, Vignetti! All that is in the world, some day. So much
that I shall rule! Rule as master!
"Those men who are working for me - those friends of mine in so many lands
where I have been. They are gaining wealth. Morales - Gleason - Armagnac -
Pallanci - Sukulos" - the old man's lips formed other names - "they are gaining
wealth; but I have more. All mine is gold - I want nothing else. Gold - gold -
more gold - I shall have it. Forster wished it, but I shall have it. I have
much of it now - millions!"
A crackling laugh came from the old man's throat. He seemed to be enjoying
a long joke. Vignetti stood by, calmly surveying the old man. His expression
showed that this eccentric conduct was a regular routine with Lucien Partridge.
"Yes, Vignetti" - the old man's new tone was cunning and calculating -
"wealth is already mine. With wealth I shall have power. Other wealth cannot
equal mine. My power shall never fade. Soon I shall be ready to rule the world.
"Still, I must beware. There are men who will try to shatter my power. Out
of chaos, I shall rise to my great glory. I must create chaos! Death brings
chaos! There are men who rule here in America. Big men of business - big men of
politics - big men of power - and I shall meet them.
"As friends we shall meet - they and I. As friends they shall die! Is that
not wonderful? It is better than the knife, Vignetti - for the knife is a sign
of enmity.
"That is your method of vendetta that you knew in Corsica. My method is
infinitely better - the method of Li Tan Chang - the method of friendship!
Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

THE cackling laugh echoed through the laboratory. Even stolid Vignetti had
imbibed the old man's enthusiasm. His dark face was livid with an insidious
pleasure.
"Bankers - millionaires - presidents" - Partridge's tone was contemptuous
- "what do I care for them? They shall die, at my bidding. Any who shall
question me shall die!"
In the bright electric illumination of the laboratory, Lucien Partridge's
face had gained a fierceness that was unbelievable. But now his frenzy faded.
Once again he became the quiet, placid old man that Clifford Forster had found
so amiable.
A bell sounded from another room. Lucien Partridge looked at Vignetti. The
Corsican nodded. That bell indicated a visitor at the outer gate. The servant
hurried from the laboratory, and Lucien Partridge waited by the door until he
returned.
"It is Mr. Lawrence Guthrie," explained Vignetti, in his broken English, a
method of speech that he frequently used in his announcements.
"Ah Guthrie!" Partridge's voice indicated pleasure.
With gleaming eyes, the old man walked into the hall. There he spoke to
Vignetti in Italian. The Corsican nodded. Partridge pointed to the door and
made a motion that indicated that admittance should be granted. Vignetti
started for the gate.
A few minutes later, the Corsican ushered Lawrence Guthrie into the
laboratory. Lucien Partridge, his lips framed in a pleasant smile, stood
waiting to greet his unexpected visitor.

CHAPTER VII

GUTHRIE SPEAKS

THERE was a troubled look in Lawrence Guthrie's eyes as he faced Lucien
Partridge. The old man saw that his visitor was worried. He also saw Guthrie
turn an anxious glance toward Vignetti, who had entered behind him. Partridge
spoke in Italian. The Corsican retired.
Guthrie, his face more cadaverous than ever, became a pathetic object the
moment that he stood alone with Partridge. It was obvious that he was under a
terrific strain; that he had borne up under a mental ordeal.
Now, with none but the old man to witness his plight, Guthrie collapsed
upon a stool that stood beside a workbench. He turned hunted eyes toward Lucien
Partridge.
"What is the matter, Guthrie?" questioned Partridge, in a solicitous tone.
"I didn't do it!" exclaimed Guthrie. "You will believe me, Partridge! I
didn't do it."
His voice choked, and he buried his head upon his outstretched arms.
Lucien Partridge stood quietly by; then spoke in an inquiring tone.
"What is it that you did not do?" he questioned.
Guthrie raised his head and stared, unbelieving. He saw Partridge's
puzzled expression. For a moment, an elation glimmered on Guthrie's
countenance; then it changed to suspicion. Partridge observed the dissimilar
emotions. He spoke in a gentle, kindly tone.
"What is the trouble, Guthrie? You seem weighted by worry -"
"Nothing," protested Guthrie, staring about him with a hunted expression.
"Nothing - that is - if you don't know about it - yet I can't believe that you
have not heard -"
"Heard of what?" inquired Partridge.
The mild manner of the old man accomplished more than a sharp questioning
might have done. Staring, Guthrie saw only friendliness in the benign
countenance of Lucien Partridge. He gripped the old man's arm and spoke in a
tense voice.
"You have not heard" - his words were breathless - "you have not heard of
Forster - of Forster's death?"
"Forster?" Partridge seemed puzzled. "You mean that Clifford Forster is
dead?"
Guthrie nodded; then lowered his gaze.
"Clifford Forster dead!" declared Partridge, in a stunned tone. "I cannot
believe it!"
"The newspapers were full of it," said Guthrie suddenly. "I thought that
surely you must have read the reports."
"I have no time for newspapers," responded Partridge. "I live in a world
of my own, Guthrie. I have few friends outside. You were one; Forster was
another. Now, he is gone. You must feel the loss also, Guthrie."
"I do!" blurted Guthrie eagerly. "It is a shock to me, Partridge. That is
why - why I am so worried - why I have come to see you - because I thought you
might suspect -"
He paused, afraid to continue; but as he saw Partridge still solicitous,
Guthrie gave way to a sudden resolve. He arose and stood beside the workbench,
facing Partridge while he spoke.

"FORSTER came to New York a few nights ago," he declared. "While he was in
his home, he was overcome by a paroxysm that resulted in his death. Now the
police suspect murder. They are trying to find a man who was in Forster's home
when death came over him."
"Ah! They suspect foul play?"
"Yes. They are still seeking the visitor. They have not found him.
Apparently, they have gained no clew to his identity."
"Do you know who he is -"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Myself."
Guthrie uttered the last word in a bold, deliberate manner. Lucien
Partridge seemed staggered. He stared at his visitor in a startled manner,
totally unable to recover from his surprise.
"Listen to me, Partridge," pleaded Guthrie. "I'll tell you all I know -
why I am here - everything. You will believe me?"
"You are my friend," replied Partridge simply. "I believe my friends."
A relieved expression swept over Lawrence Guthrie's visage. He felt free
to speak, and his words shouted a new confidence.
"I went to see Forster that night," he explained. "Forster summoned me
there. Unfortunately, we had a misunderstanding. I left because Forster
appeared to be unreasonable.
"As I was leaving, he seemed to be suffering from a momentary attack of
dizziness; but I had no idea it might prove fatal. His caretaker was there; I
had no reason to remain. But the next morning, I was amazed to read in the
newspaper that Clifford Forster had died, and that an unknown visitor was
supposed to have caused his death the previous night!"
"Why did you not go to the police?" asked Partridge. "You could have told
them."
"They would have asked me why I visited Forster. I would have had to tell
them all about the gold - about your secret - about my deal with Forster. Such
a strange story would have excited suspicion."
"I understand."
"But the strain was terrible," continued Guthrie. "The longer I waited,
the worse the case would be against me when they found out my connection. I was
afraid.
"Then I realized that there was one person who might suspect the identity
of the visitor at Forster's house. That one was you!"
Lucien Partridge made no response. His eyes had a thoughtful look.
"You understand, don't you?" questioned Guthrie. "I was sure that you had
learned of Forster's death - that you would wonder where I was - that you would
suspect me as the unknown man.
"The strain became so great I had to talk to some one. I realized then
that it was my duty to tell you what had happened. I slipped away from New York
- I came here - here - to find my only friend!"
"You have done wisely," declared Partridge in a slow tone. "Come, Guthrie.
You are tired. Let us go in the library, where we can rest and talk at ease."

THE old man led the way, and Guthrie followed him like an obedient child.
In the library, Guthrie slumped into a chair and sat staring straight ahead,
while Partridge watched him.
"Tell me," said the old man. "Why did you and Forster quarrel?"
"It was about the gold," responded Guthrie, in a monotonous tone. "Forster
was angry because the production had not been increased."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him" - Guthrie hesitated - "I told him that you were doing your
best; that the promises I had made were based purely upon my belief that you
would increase the output."
"What did he say?"
"He claimed that I was double-crossing him; that you were producing more
gold than he was getting; that I was secretly appropriating some without his
knowledge."
"And you replied -"
"I told him the truth. I said that I came here seldom; that I left the
shipments to you. He doubted my story. He became so insulting that I lost my
temper and cursed him. Then I thought it best to leave."
"And now -"
"Now I do not know what to do. I am innocent; yet I am afraid to tell my
story. I cannot bring your name into the picture, of course. It would be unfair
to you."
"You would not have to mention my name to the police."
"They would force it from me, Partridge. I would have to tell all if I
told part."
The old man nodded thoughtfully; then he walked forward and placed his
hand on Guthrie's shoulder.
"Did people know that you were a friend of Clifford Forster?" he asked.
"Very few," responded Guthrie uneasily. "Our relations were kept secret;
but I am afraid that my name may become known. Forster had papers - there on
his desk."
Lucien Partridge tightened his lips as he heard this statement. Guthrie
was sitting with bowed head. Partridge nodded thoughtfully to himself.
"I have a plan, Guthrie," he declared. "A wonderful plan. I can protect
you."
"How?" questioned Guthrie, raising his head in eagerness.
"Wait until the morning," urged the old man, in a cryptic tone. "Have
confidence, Guthrie. Get some rest to-night. I shall have Vignetti call you
early."
"You are sure that your plan will work?"
"I am certain of it. Do not worry, Guthrie. Remember, I have wealth. While
Forster lived, the gold that I produced belonged to him. Now that he is dead, it
is ours."
The statement was uttered in a most matter-of-fact tone. Nevertheless, it
brought a bright look of eagerness to Guthrie's haggard face. Like Forster,
Guthrie was governed by cupidity. In his worry, he had forgotten that the
principal recipient of Partridge's synthetic wealth was now eliminated.
Gold! The very thought of it elated Lawrence Guthrie. He raised his head
and managed to force a smile to his lips. That smile was an ugly grin. Lucien
Partridge returned it with a mild, benign smile.
"Perhaps you can rest more easily now," declared Partridge. "Come. I shall
summon Vignetti to show you to a room upstairs. You must have sleep - for a
journey lies ahead of you to-morrow."
Guthrie arose and nodded. His face showed relief; his tired frame was
capitulating now that his mind no longer worried.
The Corsican entered in response to Lucien Partridge's call. He conducted
Lawrence Guthrie to a room upstairs.

VIGNETTI was the last person whom Lawrence Guthrie saw that night; he was
also the first person whom Guthrie encountered in the morning. It was six
o'clock when the Corsican knocked at the door and summoned Guthrie to rise.
Guthrie was in good spirits when he came downstairs. The door to the
laboratory was open. He entered the room, and found Lucien Partridge, bright
and cheery, standing at a worktable.
"You slept well," was Partridge's comment.
"Yes," responded Guthrie. "You appear to have enjoyed a good rest."
"I have been here all night," smiled Partridge. "This afternoon I shall
nap for a few hours. That is all the sleep I require. When one is older and
completely engrossed in great work, sleep is scarcely more than an occasional
habit."
Guthrie stared incredulously.
"Now," declared Partridge, in a calm tone, "I shall tell you your plans. A
train is due at Westbrook Falls at seven o'clock. You will take it."
"To New York?"
"No - away from New York. It reaches Buffalo before noon. There you must
take a train for Canada. Go to Toronto - change again, and take a train to
Montreal. Remain there, at the Hotel Francais, where you will receive a message
from me within a few days. Do you understand?"
"I do. This message -"
"It will be most welcome to you. It will bring you funds - enough money
for you to travel to Europe in luxury and comfort. It will also give you full
instructions regarding your passport. Everything will be in proper order. Rely
upon me. Register under your own name; there is no reason for worry.
"But under no circumstances must it be known that you have been to
Westbrook Falls. Therefore, upon arriving in Buffalo, you must be sure to
destroy any ticket stubs that you have received.
"Do the same when you arrive in Toronto; and also in Montreal. For in
Montreal you are starting upon a new career. You are to forget the worries of
the past. You understand?"
"Everything is quite plain," nodded Guthrie. "Rely upon me to follow your
instructions."
Vignetti entered the laboratory. Lucien Partridge beckoned to him, and
spoke in Italian. Vignetti responded in the same language.
"Vignetti will get the car to take you to the station," explained
Partridge, to Guthrie. "You can wait here with me while I start the day's
experiment. I am anxious to be back at work."
Guthrie watched Vignetti reach into the drawer. He noticed a pair of
gloves at the front of the drawer; the Corsican passed over them, and picked up
another pair that were folded at the back of the drawer. He brought them to
Lucien Partridge, who laid them on the table. Then Vignetti produced a smock
and helped the old man don it. The Corsican went away.
"Remember," said Partridge, "you must obey my instructions. I have
confidence in you, Guthrie; you must have the same in me."
"I have," responded Guthrie. "You have given me a new hold on life; you
are a real friend, Partridge!"
The old man smiled quietly as he picked up one glove and let it dangle
from the fingers of one hand, as he inserted the other. He drew the glove on
from the wrist; then he repeated the operation with the second glove. He turned
to the worktable, as though to begin a new experiment. At that moment Vignetti
entered.
"Ah!" exclaimed Partridge. "The car is ready. Come."
He led the way through the hall, out through the front door and to the
gate. Guthrie and Vignetti followed. The Corsican entered the car. Guthrie
paused to say good-by.
"I can never thank you enough," he said sincerely. "You are indeed a true
friend."
"Wait," replied the old man. "Wait until I have completed all my plans.
Much is in store for you, Guthrie. Much that you do not expect."
Their hands joined in a shake, Guthrie's bare palm gripped within
Partridge's glove. Guthrie entered the car. Vignetti drove away.
Looking back, Guthrie saw the figure of Lucien Partridge, standing at the
open gate. With white hair flowing in the morning breeze, the old man was the
picture of benignity.
The car turned the corner, and the picture ended. Vignetti was silent at
the wheel; Guthrie was complacent as he leaned back in the seat.
Lawrence Guthrie's mind was no longer troubled. Through his brain rang
those words that Lucien Partridge had uttered after the parting handclasp.
"Much is in store for you, Guthrie. Much that you do not expect."
Like Clifford Forster, Lawrence Guthrie had left Lucien Partridge carrying
a promise. Like Forster, Guthrie thought of gold. Like Forster, Guthrie felt
sure that he had left a true friend.
Not for one moment did Lawrence Guthrie's mind turn to thoughts of
creeping death!

CHAPTER VIII

THE MAN FROM THE ARGENTINE

DIRECTLY across the river gorge from the spot where the road turned to the
woods, a man was standing in a clump of bushes. In his hands he held a pair of
powerful binoculars. His eyes were peering through the glasses.
As the car which Vignetti was driving came into view, the concealed
observer saw it from a distance of less than one hundred yards. With the aid of
the binoculars, he clearly discerned the faces of Lawrence Guthrie and Vignetti,
for the car was moving slowly at the turn.
When the sound of the motor had disappeared into the woods, the man
lowered his glasses and emitted a short laugh. Turning, he strolled along a
faint path that took him away from the place where he had been watching.
Tall, dark-haired, and with flashing black eyes, this man had all the
appearance of a Castilian grandee. His dark complexion was another evidence of
his Spanish ancestry. As he walked along through the woods, the man smiled in a
satisfied fashion.
The path bordered the cliff opposite the rear of Lucien Partridge's
well-protected stronghold. It was just far enough from the edge of the gorge to
hide the presence of the walker. When the man arrived at one particular spot, he
stopped and again raised his binoculars. Pressing aside the branches of a small
tree, he sighted across the chasm to the estate where Partridge dwelt.
The large frame mansion showed among the trees. The little workhouse near
the gorge was hidden behind sheltering trees. The observer seemed to be
watching for any sign of activities upon the premises. At length, he ended his
lookout and continued along the path.
The way led from the cliff, and after a short walk, the man came to a
small cottage that was situated in a clearing. There was no road to the
cottage. It was an old deserted building, apparently on the verge of
abandonment.
The man ascended the steps of the cottage and walked quietly through the
open door. He turned into a room where a short, powerful man was seated dozing
in a chair. At the sound of the footfalls, the short man leaped up excitedly.
When he recognized the man who had entered, he sheepishly resumed his chair.
The tall man laughed.
"Frightened you, eh?" he questioned. "Ah, you are becoming nervous, Jose."
Jose made no reply.
"Our friend has gone," remarked the tall man. "You remember - the one you
saw arrive last night? I suspected that he would be leaving early to-day. That
is why I was on watch to see him. They must rise early, Jose, if they expect to
catch Alfredo Morales asleep."
The speaker laughed and walked across the room. He placed the binoculars
in a case and turned again to Jose.
"Bring me some breakfast," ordered Morales. "We will not wait for Manuel.
It may be some time before he arrives."

JOSE went from the room. Some minutes later, he returned with a tray of
breakfast, and set his burden upon a table.
Although Jose was evidently the servant of Alfredo Morales, the two men
were on an equal basis after Jose had completed his task, for one sat at each
side of the table, and both began to eat.
"Yes," remarked Morales thoughtfully, "he is gone. That makes three of
them, Jose. Three visitors since we have been watching. I suppose that this
last man has gone to New York like the others. Well, we shall wait for Manuel's
report."
Breakfast completed, Morales waited impatiently, watching through the open
door. At last a man appeared in the clearing. This was the slender,
dark-complexioned man who had seen Clifford Forster arrive at Westbrook Falls.
The newcomer advanced across the clearing and greeted Morales.
"Well?" questioned Morales.
"He has gone, senor," was the reply.
"To New York?"
"No. He bought a ticket for Buffalo."
"Hm-m-m," observed Morales. "That is different, eh, Manuel? Did he seem
like the others had - pleased with his visit?"
"Yes, senor," responded Manuel. "He was rubbing his hands while he waited
for the westbound train. Rubbing them - so" - Manuel imitated the action -
"like one who is happy. He seemed very pleased, senor."
"Good," declared Morales. "Now tell me, Manuel. Are those two men still at
the inn?"
"Yes, senor. I believe so. I have not seen them to-day -"
"Then you do not know if they are still there. Go back, Manuel. Keep watch
as before - at the station - and come back here later on."
When Manuel had left, Morales strolled about the clearing, smoking
cigarettes, one after another. He went back into the house, and again startled
Jose by his stealthy arrival. This time Morales laughed in an irritable manner.
"What is the matter with you, Jose?" he questioned. "Do not tell me that
you are still frightened at every shadow that you see."
A troubled look appeared upon Jose's greasy face. The servant tried to
avoid the glance that Morales directed toward him.
"You and your shadows. Bah!" Morales spoke contemptuously. "You are a
fool, Jose. I brought you with me because you were a brave man - and one who
could speak English fluently. Around here you are useless. Every night, when
you watch, you talk of shadows. Bah!"
"But I have seen them, senor!" blurted Jose. "I have seen them. Out there
- in here - everywhere!"
"You have madness, Jose. You spoke to me about those shadows twice. I
looked where you pointed. I saw nothing. What is it that you can see and I
cannot see? Nothing! That is what you have seen, Jose - nothing!"
"But, senor, I have seen the same thing more than once. It is not just
shadows that I have seen. One time I looked quickly - there I saw - him! He was
like a shadow himself, senor!"
"I was there Jose," responded Morales, in an annoyed tone. "I looked where
you pointed. I saw nothing - not even a shadow."
"But he was gone, senor. Gone before you saw -"
"Gone? From the middle of the clearing? You are crazy, Jose. You are
crazy! No man could have disappeared into the ground or into the air."
"No man, senor! I am afraid of no man. But if he is more than a man - some
one that certain eyes can see and other eyes cannot -"
"Forget those superstitions, Jose," cried Morales. "We are dealing with
people, not with ghosts. Enough of such foolishness!"
With that Morales took the binoculars and left the house, turning again
toward the path that led from the cottage to the lookout spot upon the cliff.
When his chief had gone, Jose stood at the door of the cottage.
Apprehension showed on the man's greasy countenance.
Jose, a creature of ignorance, was fearful as he gazed about him. His eyes
wandered upward to the flat-topped roof of the cottage. Moving backward, the man
stood still; then, looking about him, suddenly discovered that he was standing
in the center of the clearing. Fearful of this haunted spot, Jose sprang to the
door of the cottage, looking behind him as he ran.
After gaining the house, the man's trepidation faded. He went into the
main room and sat in a chair. There his worry began to fade as he dropped into
a doze. This one place seemed to give Jose a sense of security. Here his
laziness overcame his apprehension.

IT was afternoon when Alfredo Morales returned to the cottage. Again, Jose
sprang up in alarm when his master entered. The servant prepared a lunch, and
Morales ate in silence. It was obvious that his spying had not brought new
results.
Morales went back to his observation spot after his meal. He returned a
few hours later. Jose was awake, this time, standing on the porch. The sky had
clouded; here in the woods, premature darkness was settling.
Almost immediately after Morales had arrived, Manuel appeared from the
woods, and hastened to make his report. Morales listened with intense interest.
"They are there," declared Manuel. "Both of them are at the inn. The man
with the hard face; the man with the beard. You can tell them easily. They are
both very wise; but they have not seen me. I have been too careful."
"You will stay here, Manuel," ordered Morales. "You will do as I have
instructed. Jose will prepare your dinner. I am going down to the inn. Remember
- I shall walk back alone. Be ready then, with Jose to help you."
Long shadows had settled on the clearing when Alfredo Morales set forth
into the woods. Manuel and Jose were watching him from the porch. Manuel was
indifferently rolling a cigarette; but Jose was watching intently. The presence
of those sinister shadows seemed to worry him.
"What is the matter, Jose?" questioned Manuel, as he happened to glance
toward his companion. "One would think that you were looking at a ghost or
something."
"I have not been well," growled Jose. "It is that sea-sickness that began
ever since we left Buenos Aires."
"Bah! You have been here more than a week. That is a poor excuse, Jose."
The greasy-faced man did not reply. Jose was watching the figure of
Alfredo Morales, the man from the Argentine, as it disappeared amid the
thickening blackness of the wood. When he could no longer glimpse his departing
master, Jose, after a last troubled look at the shadows in the clearing,
shrugged his shoulders and went back into the cottage. Manuel laughed and
followed him.

PERHAPS it was fear that had governed Jose; possibly the man was possessed
of an overkeen vision. At least, Jose had sought to study every suspicious
shadow that he had seen from the porch of the cottage. Yet despite his sharp
gaze, Jose had failed in his self-appointed task.
For something had moved at the edge of the clearing the moment that
Alfredo Morales had passed. That something had cast its shadow across the path;
yet even Jose had failed to see the ominous patch of black.
Moving after Morales as though it were the man's own shadow, that changing
splotch of blackness had followed - lengthening and shortening amid the
flickering light that trickled through the waving branches of the leaf-clad
trees.
On went Morales, striding directly along a path that broadened and became
more firm. Always, close behind him, slid a shape that was nothing more than an
inky silhouette. It was not until Morales emerged from the woods and struck a
dirt road that the moving shadow assumed a new appearance.
Then, momentarily, it appeared in more sinister form. Instead of a gliding
shadow, it became the outline of a being clad in black - a tall figure garbed in
a cloak. Two sparkling eyes shone from beneath the covering brim of a shapeless
hat.
The vision persisted only for a moment. It merged with the trees at the
side of the road. On through the dusk strode Alfredo Morales, totally oblivious
of the weird apparition that had appeared behind him.
This evening - Alfredo Morales was bound upon a special mission - a work
that concerned Lucien Partridge as well as others. Confident that no one knew
of his presence in this vicinity, Morales was convinced of his security. He had
no thought for the vague fears that had been expressed by Jose.
Yet those fears had now become reality. A phantom shape had become a
living being. Alfredo Morales had come beneath a mysterious surveillance.
The Shadow was trailing the man from the Argentine!
What was the connection between Alfredo Morales and Lucien Partridge? What
cross-purposes and counter-plots were reaching their culmination here in the
peaceful vicinity of Westbrook Falls?
Only The Shadow knew!

CHAPTER IX

MORALES RECEIVES A VISITOR

IT was scarcely more than a mile from the cottage where Alfredo Morales
lived to the Westbrook Inn. But from Lucien Partridge's abode, it was necessary
to travel several miles around the outer course of the semicircular stream to
reach the bridge, which, in turn, was more than a mile above the hotel.
Hence Morales, living but a short way from Partridge, had a tremendous
advantage so far as traveling distance was concerned when it came to visiting
the summer hotel. Partridge's situation across the chasm was one of isolation -
which was exactly what he desired.
When Morales arrived at the Westbrook Inn, he was still unconscious of the
fact that he was being followed. As the man from the Argentine came into the
lighted area of the hotel veranda, the trailing blackness disappeared behind
him. No trace of The Shadow's presence was visible.
Dinner was being served at the hotel. Morales went into the dining room
and seated himself at a table. There, he began a cold survey of the people
about him. It was not long before he had selected two objectives.
One was a stocky, firm-faced man who apparently paid no attention to the
presence of Morales. This was Vic Marquette, the secret-service agent who had
come to Westbrook Falls in an effort to solve the riddle that surrounded the
strange death of Jerry Fitzroy.
The other was a man of medium height - an eccentric-looking individual -
whose principal note of physiognomy was a thick, short-cropped beard of
blackish hue.
This man appeared to take a keen interest in his surroundings. As soon as
he was observed by Morales, the bearded man returned the other's stare. That
settled, the two men shifted their gaze elsewhere.
Morales sensed that he was being watched by both Vic Marquette and the
bearded man. One had not appeared to notice him; the other had apparently
forgotten him. Nevertheless, Morales smiled to himself. He had come here to
observe these men; there was no objection whatever to them observing him.
Only one guest entered the dining room after Morales had arrived. The
Argentinian threw a quizzical glance toward the newcomer; then smiled again
when he saw that the arrival was a nonentity.
The belated guest was an old man who hobbled with the aid of a cane. He
was a sour-faced person, and his deafness was apparent by the way he shouted
his order at the waitress, much to the amusement of the other guests.
Dinner went by. Morales did not leave the dining room until after
Marquette and the bearded man had departed. When he at last arose, the only
person remaining in the room was the old man.

OUT in the lobby, Alfredo Morales lighted a cigarette and sat in a
comfortable chair. He began to take a shrewd interest in everything that was
going on about him. He became nervous in his demeanor. He threw away his
cigarette, although it was only half finished; then lighted another one
immediately.
From the corner of his eye, Morales spotted both Marquette and the bearded
man. Neither one seemed conscious of the other's presence, but it was obvious to
Morales that they were both interested in his actions. The only lull in this
game of watchdog was when the old man with the cane hobbled through the lobby
and obtained his key at the desk.
"Eccentric old chap," Morales heard some one say. "Phineas Twambley is his
name. Supposed to be worth a lot of money, but I've never seen him give even a
nickel tip."
Morales settled back in his chair and lighted another cigarette. He seemed
half asleep as the minutes ticked by. He was thinking of the two men whom he had
watched. He had completely forgotten old Twambley, who had gone upstairs.
Had Alfredo Morales caught a mental flash of Twambley's room, he would
have been amazed. For the old man, at that particular moment, was old no longer.
His cane was out of sight in the bureau drawer. From the back of an
upright trunk, Phineas Twambley was drawing forth two garments - a black cloak
and a slouch hat.
One minute later, Phineas Twambley was The Shadow. Tall, silent, and
swift, he swept across the room and entered a dimly lighted hall. Half a minute
later, his sinister figure disappeared through a large window that led to the
fire escape.

DOWN in the lobby, the lethargy of Alfredo Morales came to a sudden end.
With a suspicious glance about him, the Argentinian suddenly arose and
hurriedly left the hotel lobby. Once outside, his manner became stealthy as he
moved toward the road by which he had approached the Westbrook Inn.
Morales was wearing a panama hat. In the darkness, it shone almost like a
luminous object. Had any one chosen to follow him now, the trail would have
afforded no difficulty.
There was a strange change in the actions of Alfredo Morales. He had been
in a hurry to leave the inn; now he was calm and deliberate as he began the
stroll back to the cottage. All along the way, he left a trail of half-consumed
cigarettes.
When he entered the woods, the Argentinian was humming to himself. When he
reached the clearing, he continued the noise. The lights of the cottage shone
through the gloom, and cast a reflection upon the open space in front. There
Morales sauntered onward.
He crossed a patch of black that seemed like an extension of the darkness.
He did not notice it. Alfredo Morales was not like Jose, his servant. He did not
pay attention to shadows - even though they might be long, like this one, and
shaped like a silhouette.
The door of the cottage was open. Morales entered it with the air of a man
returning to his home. He went into the main room, which was located at the
side. Here he drew the blinds. But he had left the front door open behind him.
The silhouette upon the clearing was motionless. But now a moving object
made its appearance. A man came into the sphere of light. It was the bearded
stranger whom Morales had observed at the Westbrook Inn.
Stealthily, the stranger ascended the steps and entered the open door of
the cottage. He made his way quietly to the door of the main room. He peered in
to see Alfredo Morales seated at a desk in the corner.
The Argentinian was writing. Now he laid the papers aside. With a sign of
weariness, he leaned his head forward upon his arms.
The bearded stranger moved into the room. His objective was the table
where the papers lay. It was a job that required stealth; but the odds were in
his favor. Alfredo Morales seemed totally oblivious of all that was happening
about him.
The intruder reached the center of the room. He was smiling, his lips
forming a ruddy curve amid the black beard. One hand was in his pocket, in
readiness to draw a weapon should Morales be suddenly aroused.
He paused, as motionless as Morales. His eyes were watching the man in the
chair. So intent was the intruder that he did not see a thin splotch of black
that came creeping inward from a farther window of the room - a shadowy shape
of inkiness that edged forward with uncanny ease.
Nor did Morales see that weird shade. Seemingly half asleep, he was
unaware of the black-bearded man. Not cognizant of the presence of a human
intruder, how could he have noticed a creeping shape that neither lived or
possessed physical form?
The bearded man was carefully advancing; then he paused again, his lips
pursed within the black beard. He sensed danger. Not from Morales, who was
unwatching; not from the shape that now formed an unmoving blotch upon the
floor; but from a new direction.
Instinct suddenly dominated caution. The intruder swung quickly toward the
door of the room, drawing his hand from his pocket. That hand did not bring
forth a weapon. Instead, it came from the pocket with fingers spread out wide.
The bearded man's hands went above his head.

STANDING at the door, armed with rifles, were the two henchmen of Alfredo
Morales. While the bearded stranger had advanced, Jose and Manuel had entered
behind him to cut off his retreat.
Sullenly, the intruder faced his captors. Then, as a chuckle reached his
ears, he turned his head toward the chair where Alfredo Morales was seated.
The tall, shrewd-faced man from the Argentine was wide awake, laughing at
the success of the trap that he had prepared.
The stranger no longer considered Jose and Manuel. He recognized that they
were mere underlings, who had obeyed the orders of Alfredo Morales.
Whatever his fate might be, it rested in the hands of the suave
Argentinian. For long, cold seconds, the bearded man faced his smooth-shaven
captor. It was Morales who broke the silence.
Rising from his chair, the man from the Argentine made a low, courteous
bow. There was nothing of mockery in his action. That role was ended. With an
imperious wave, he signaled Jose and Manuel. The rifles were lowered. Another
wave, and the henchmen departed.
This action came as a surprise to the bearded stranger. In fact, he had
encountered a series of surprises, each as sudden as his unexpected capture.
Morales appeared to be a friend - not an enemy. He had ordered his men away -
leaving his uninvited guest still armed.
The bearded man lowered his hands. Morales offered no objection. But the
stranger made no motion toward his pocket. Instead, he quietly waited for
Morales to speak, wondering what new surprise might be forthcoming.
Again Alfredo Morales bowed. Then, in his suave, modulated English, he
spoke.
"Good evening, Monsieur Armagnac," he said. "I have been awaiting you.
This visit is a pleasure."
Complete bewilderment showed on the bearded face. The stranger's
expression clearly showed that Morales had guessed his identity. In view of
this new astonishment, Armagnac was incapable of a reply. Alfredo Morales
smiled.
"I have business with you, Monsieur Armagnac," he said. "It is business
that will interest you. Be seated" - he indicated a chair - "and let us
converse."
Still bewildered, the bearded man obeyed the request. He sat in the chair
indicated by Morales. The Argentinian resumed the seat where he had been
resting when Armagnac had entered.
With a suave smile, Morales opened his silver case and offered a cigarette
to Armagnac, who accepted it. Morales took one for himself, and proffered a
light.
Then, resting back in his chair, Alfredo Morales began to speak in a
quiet, methodical tone. His visitor listened intently - still wondering at
these new words.
They formed an odd contrast: Morales calm and unperturbed; Armagnac,
puzzled and uncertain.
The eyes of the listener were focused upon those of the speaker. Neither
man observed that long black blotch that lay upon the floor - that strange,
silhouetted projection that came from the window.
Silent, unnoticed, and motionless, the shadow of The Shadow rested within
this room!

CHAPTER X

ONE AND ONE MAKE TWO

ALFREDO MORALES was an easy, convincing speaker. He had the remarkable
aptitude of divining the thoughts of those who listened to him. Hence the
discourse which he commenced took on a turn that was both illuminating and
interesting.
In his talk, Morales made statements, put forth questions, and gave both
replies and answers, while his bearded visitor sat in silence.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Armagnac," purred Morales. "It was
quite thoughtful of you to pay me this visit. It is not every one who can have
the honor of a guest so talented as Pierre Armagnac, from Marseilles, France.
"You see, I have heard of you, Monsieur Armagnac. I know who you are; but
you do not know who I am. Ah, well. I am of lesser importance. It is not
surprising that Alfredo Morales of Buenos Aires should recognize Pierre
Armagnac of Marseilles; but it would be surprising if Monsieur Armagnac had
ever heard of Senor Morales."
Morales paused and smiled. Then he continued in his soft, catlike tone.
"Pierre Armagnac is a great man in his chosen profession. Alfredo Morales
is much less capable. Hence, while Armagnac was indifferent to the existence of
others of his craft, Morales was more inquiring. He studied to learn who was
great and who was small. He did that before he schemed for greater things.
"But Armagnac, too, was a schemer. He and Morales both had the same idea"
- the speaker tapped his forehead - "and both came to the same place. Armagnac
was the greater, but Morales held the advantage. For Armagnac had never heard
of Morales; while Morales knew much of Armagnac."
Another pause while Morales studied the effect of his words upon Armagnac.
Then, with a calm movement, Morales drew an envelope from his pocket and opened
it. He held a small object in his hand. He tossed it in the air, and it
fluttered to the floor - a mottled partridge feather.
The action brought a smile to Armagnac's bearded lips. The Frenchman
uttered a low grunt to signify that he understood the gesture. Morales pointed
to the feather.
"You carry such trophies?" he questioned.
In reply, Armagnac produced a wallet from which he extracted a feather
similar to the one that Morales had brought. The Frenchman let the feather
flutter from his hand. It reached the floor almost at the same spot where the
other lay. Morales saw significance in the result.
"A feather," he remarked. "A sign of recognition between myself and
another man. A sign between yourself and that same man. It is my thought that
those feathers may be a sign between Pierre Armagnac and Alfredo Morales. Do
you agree?"
"I agree," responded Armagnac in a deep voice.

"GOOD," Morales commented warmly. "Now I shall speak plainly. I shall tell
you much that you already know - and some things that you may not know. Question
me when you wish; I want you to understand all.
"Here, across that gorge" - Morales pointed to the direction of the river
- "lives a very clever man. The partridge feather is his sign, for his name is
the same: Partridge.
"Some time ago, this man - Lucien Partridge - discovered the secret of
making a metal, or alloy, that is very much like gold. In seeking a use for
that metal, he discovered one. He planned to introduce his synthetic gold into
the coinage of the world.
"To do that, he required agents. He chose them. Pierre Armagnac in France;
Alfredo Morales in the Argentine; Eleutherios Sukulos in Greece; Enrico Pallanci
in Italy; Jasper Gleason in Australia; Otto Larkon in Scandinavia. There are
others in the list but it is unnecessary to name them. A dozen in all. I
suppose you were at least aware of their existence?"
"I thought there must be at least eight," responded Armagnac. "I did not
trouble myself much about any of the details."
"No, that was unnecessary in a way," admitted Morales. "You knew that
there were many; that was sufficient to indicate great wealth. For Lucien
Partridge sold his synthetic gold throughout the world; sold it, for real gold,
to these counterfeiting agents. He is a widely traveled man, Partridge. A
schemer always, he knew such men as you and myself in every country.
"You gained wealth, Armagnac. With Partridge's metal, your coins, like
mine, could not be detected as counterfeits.
"But a thought occurred to you, Armagnac. For every million francs you
made, Partridge obtained a million also. You began to wonder how many millions
of pesos, of pounds, of bolivars, of lire he was obtaining. That is what I,
too, began to think.
"Ah! A wonderful thought. Why be a counterfeiter in one corner of the
world, while somewhere a lone man is drawing in wealth from everywhere? You
thought - as I thought - that Lucien Partridge must possess a tremendous supply
of gold - of real gold.
"You knew - as I knew - that counterfeiting must have its end. You
wondered - as I wondered - what would happen then.
"You and I, Armagnac, were working to create a world emperor - a
gold-crazed man who would draw gold as a mosquito draws blood; on, on, on,
until the burst.
"So you asked yourself - as did I - why should that go on? Would it not be
wonderful to find the center of that vast gold supply; to grasp it and to hold
it; to end this ceaseless activity that might lead to ruin?
"So you came here - as I came - to locate that gold supply. We have been
seized of the same desire. Two of us - two of the entire dozen who knew the
truth!"
Morales rested hack in his chair and stared at Armagnac. The talk of
fabulous wealth had brought a bright flush to the Argentinian's sallow cheeks.
Armagnac, now, was the one who remained placid. He put forth a question.

"WHAT do you propose to do?" he questioned. "What is your plan, now that
you have discovered a rival in myself?"
"We shall join forces," responded Morales, with a smile. "Perhaps you
wonder why I make the offer. I shall tell you.
"First, it would be unwise for us to quarrel. It might bring disaster to
both of us. Second, there is gold enough for both of us - as much as either of
us can desire. Third, I am stalemated. I have reached the point where I am
ready for the grand coup; yet I am afraid to move without the help of another
man of wisdom."
"You have your subordinates," suggested Armagnac warily.
"Bah!" responded Morales. "What are they? Men who know nothing. Men of
ignorance. Good servants, yes, who will prove useful; but men who will give the
game away. Tell me, Armagnac, how have you schemed to crack this nut across the
river?"
"I have come quietly," replied Armagnac, in a shrewd tone. "I have been
watching, studying, waiting. There must be a way, to the man who knows."
"But you have not found it?"
"Not as yet."
"My case" - Morales was smiling - "is different, Armagnac. I came prepared
for action. I am ready. I have spied from without; but I have not been able to
spy from within. Is that your case?"
"It is," admitted Armagnac.
"I have advanced beyond you," declared Morales. "Yet I have encountered
the same difficulty. I am wary, because I wish to avoid what you would term a
contreteps. There is but one way to learn all that I wish to know. That is to
openly visit Lucien Partridge. But should I do so - ah - then would I be
helpless to proceed. Is that not true?"
"It is."
"Should Pierre Armagnac work from within," suggested Morales, in a cagey
tone, "he, too, would be unable to work from without. But should you do that
inner work" - Morales was becoming direct in his statement - "nothing would
hinder me from the outer work, for which I am already prepared."
Armagnac nodded thoughtfully.
"That is why I led you here," declared Morales. "Together, we can
accomplish our desire. Alone, either of us may fail. I must have another; so
must you. We must each have a man who knows all. So why not - the two of us?
One and one make two."
"You wish my agreement?"
"Exactly."
Armagnac arose and extended his hand. Morales came to his feet and joined
in the clasp.
Two men of evil genius were united in a common cause. The strategy of
Alfredo Morales had won him the alliance of Pierre Armagnac.
Now, as the two resumed their seats, Morales leaned forward and spoke in a
low confidential tone.
"I shall tell you all my plans," he said, "but before I do, it would be
wise for you to obtain the information I require. When you have assured me that
you have the facts I need, we will be on a fair basis. Each of us will have some
knowledge that the other must need. You understand?"
"That is good," returned Armagnac.

THE Frenchman spoke thus because he realized that he was at a
disadvantage. He had no idea what scheme Alfredo Morales might have designed;
but he knew well that the man from the Argentine must possess a workable
method. Despite the friendliness evidenced by Morales, it was obvious that
Armagnac had first fallen into the other's power.
Crafty to the extreme, Pierre Armagnac saw that he was necessary to
Alfredo Morales. Why should he balk or why should he demand to know everything,
now?
Morales had been frank. He needed contact with what was going on across
the river. Armagnac was ready to get that contact. Then, he knew well, he would
possess an advantage of his own. There could be no talk of other than equal
terms.
But even as he visualized the fabulous wealth that the future was to
bring, Pierre Armagnac experienced a disturbing thought. He hastened to express
it before Alfredo Morales proceeded with other discussions.
"You drew me from the inn," remarked Armagnac, "because you were sure you
knew my identity. You made yourself conspicuous so that I would follow. But
there was another at the inn - a man whom I was watching. Who is he? Some other
man who has designs?"
Morales shook his head.
"He is not one of us," he declared. "I obtained information on every one
of Partridge's agents before I set sail from Buenos Aires. I do not know the
man's identity. He has not been to Partridge's, for I have watched there. But I
have prepared to interview him."
"To interview him? Where?"
"Here. As I interviewed you."
A gleam of understanding came over Pierre Armagnac's bearded countenance.
Surely, he should have realized this scheme. The same lure that had brought him
to this cottage would bring another also. But where was the other? Morales
seemed to divine the question that was in Armagnac's mind.
"I study men," declared Morales. "I studied two at the inn to-night. One
was yourself - a man who meets a risk quickly. The other, I could see, was
slower of action.
"I did not think that both would follow me. I felt sure that one of them
would follow me; and that the second would trail the first. You, I knew, would
be the first. The second should be here shortly. He is one who would not enter."
"Then you expect him?"
"Very soon."
"But if he will not enter?"
"He will enter." Alfredo Morales pronounced the words in a prophetic tone.
As if in answer to his statement, footsteps sounded outside the room.
Pierre Armagnac leaped to his feet. Alfredo Morales remained seated, smiling.
Into the room came three men. Two of them were armed with rifles. They
were Jose and Manuel. Between them was the third man, his hands raised above
his head, his face sullen and expressionless. It was Vic Marquette of the
secret service.
Alfredo Morales chuckled, and Pierre Armagnac smiled as they recognized
the features of the man whose identity they did not know.

CHAPTER XI

THE DEATH SENTENCE

ALFREDO MORALES had become an inquisitor. His victim was Vic Marquette. A
shrewdly watching spectator, Pierre Armagnac listened to the questioning. Jose
and Manuel, rifles crooked over elbows, stood in readiness behind the man whom
they had captured.
"Good evening," remarked Morales, in a suave tone. "May I ask the purpose
of your visit?"
No change of expression appeared upon Marquette's stolid countenance.
"A rather out-of-the-way spot, this cottage," resumed Morales. "It is not
surprising that we should wish to know the identity of a chance visitor."
Vic Marquette maintained his indifference.
"Who are you?"
The question snapped from the lips of Alfredo Morales like the crackle of
a whip. The Argentinian's eyes were flashing angrily, as he demanded the
identity of the prisoner.
"I happen to be a guest at the Westbrook Inn," replied Marquette, speaking
for the first time. "I was walking through the woods, and I saw the light of the
cottage. I approached, not expecting the welcome that I have received."
A sneer appeared upon the Argentinian's lips. He knew well that Marquette
was bluffing. He had expected such a statement.
"Visitors are not welcome here," he said. "unless they state their name
and purpose."
"My name is not important," retorted Marquette, "and I have no purpose
here."
"This is private property," stated Morales. "It is risky for a person to
enter here unasked. I regret to say that I cannot be held responsible for any
accidents" - he accented the word in a sinister tone - "that might occur to
intruders."
Marquette had no reply. Morales glared at him; then seeing that the
secret-service man was obdurate, he spoke to Jose and Manuel.
"Search him," he ordered.
Manuel obeyed, while Jose kept watch. The one item that came from
Marquette's pocket was a businesslike automatic that Manuel tossed on the
floor. Then Manuel stepped back and joined guard with Jose.

MORALES reached forward and picked up the automatic. Jose watched the
action. An odd look appeared in Jose's eyes. At the very spot from which
Morales had lifted the gun, Jose saw the shadowed silhouette of a man's
features!
Morales, apparently, did not notice the shadow. But Jose's eyes moved
along the floor, following an extended blotch that terminated at the window.
The greasy-faced man trembled. It was with an effort that he managed to
retain his rifle.
Had it not been that Morales was interested in other matters, the leader
would have noticed the servant's trepidation. But Morales, now that he had
examined the automatic, was again ready to question Vic Marquette.
This time, Morales spoke in a harsh voice that brooked no delay. He
betrayed impatience in his words.
"Who are you?" he snarled. "Why are you here? Answer - or take the
consequences!"
Vic Marquette did not answer. He knew well that he was dealing with two
dangerous men. Both, he realized, were foreigners. Anything that Marquette
might say would lead to the one fact that he did not wish to reveal - namely,
his connection with the secret service.
Lurking near the house, Vic had been trapped by Jose and Manuel. They had
been lying in the clearing after their capture of Pierre Armagnac. Now, facing
two men from other countries, Vic knew that he could expect no mercy if he told
them who he was.
Of all the forces of law in the United States, these men would be most
antagonistic to the secret service. So long as they doubted, Vic might remain
secure. That, he felt sure, was his only chance.
Vic Marquette was a great believer in luck. Usually, he was a man of
caution. But here, at Westbrook Falls, he had blundered unwittingly into a trap
that he had not believed could exist.
Morales was talking in a low tone to Armagnac. Suddenly Morales turned a
quick glance toward Marquette, and put a sharp question to take the prisoner
off guard.
"You are one of Partridge's men, eh?" he asked.
Vic made no response. His expression puzzled Morales. There was nothing to
show that the name was known to the prisoner. At the same time, this fellow had
the perfect poker face. The fact that he betrayed no surprise might well mean
that he had been prepared for such a question.
Again Morales went into conference with Armagnac. Morales had a great
respect for the Frenchman's shrewdness. The fate of the prisoner was resting in
the balance. Morales wanted advice.
"Shall we hold him or -"
Morales did not finish the question. Armagnac knew the alternative that he
was suggesting.
"That depends," whispered Armagnac.
"Depends upon what?" asked Morales.
"Your plans," declared Armagnac, in a low tone. "How soon do you expect to
act?"
"As soon as you have done your work."
"I shall complete that to-morrow."
"Then I can act on the next night."
A cruel smile appeared upon Armagnac's bearded lips as he heard this
statement. With only two days ahead, the Frenchman preferred certain action.
"I have been watching this man," he whispered. "He has no contacts at the
inn. I think that he is working alone. That means -"
Morales listened, but Armagnac did not finish the sentence. He turned his
right thumb downward. The action indicated death.

VIC MARQUETTE was the victim of unfortunate circumstances. At the worst,
he expected nothing more than harassing imprisonment. That was because he did
not realize the situation existing between these two schemers who were
discussing his fate.
Alfredo Morales, ruthless though he was, would scarcely have decreed
death. But Pierre Armagnac had a reason for indicating the extreme sentence. He
felt that somewhere in the mind of Alfredo Morales might lurk a suspicion of a
connecting link between the Frenchman and the new prisoner - both of whom
Morales had seen at the inn.
For Armagnac to indicate mercy would have been to excite doubt. With this
prisoner a common enemy, the more drastic the fate proposed by Armagnac the
better established would be the alliance between the Frenchman and the
Argentinian.
So calloused was Armagnac's decision that Morales did not hesitate
further. He knew that the rest lay in his hands.
There was no more need of questioning Vic Marquette. All indecision was
ended. Action alone remained.
In the midst of this dramatic scene, one man was experiencing a fantastic
terror. It was not Vic Marquette, who calmly watched the men who were deciding
his fate. The worried individual was Jose. With eyes still upon the floor, the
squat, greasy man stared at the mysterious shadow that lay before him.
The shadow was alive! Backward and forward it moved - a silhouette without
a human form to cast it! To Jose, it was a sinister creature that seemed to view
him with invisible eyes!
Both superstitious and intuitive, Jose was convinced that unseen eyes were
watching him. He was sure that here, in this strange country, he had come under
the domination of one of those weird phantoms of another world - a being that
could strike him dead!
Jose, brutal and uncouth, feared no human enemy. But all that lack of
physical fear was counterbalanced by his terror of the unknown.
Here, at this cottage, he had been obsessed by shadows. Now one was alive,
and at his very feet!
As the long shadow moved toward him, Jose cowered away, almost expecting
to see it rise and materialize into a black being that would overpower him with
ghostlike clutches!
In another moment, Jose would have betrayed his terror with a wild,
frightened scream. But as he watched, the shadow on the floor began to move
away. It dwindled toward the window, and both horror and relief dominated
Jose's superstitious mind. He trembled as he saw this convincing demonstration
that the black blotch was alive; he panted in relief because it was no longer
haunting him.
Now orders were coming from Morales - orders which Jose must obey. The
leader was calling for a rope to bind the prisoner. Manuel responded before
Jose could recover from his inertia. So Jose remained on guard, the muzzle of
his rifle against Vic Marquette's ribs.
From the corner of his eye, Jose watched the floor. The weird silhouette
did not return.
Manuel arrived and bound Marquette's arms. Morales took a coil of rope. He
signified for Armagnac to accompany him.
Under the direction of Morales a procession left the cottage and crossed
the clearing. First was Vic Marquette, his arms tightly roped behind him. Jose
followed with the rifle, forcing Marquette onward. Then came Armagnac, suave
and interested.
Last of all was Morales, carrying an automatic in his right hand, a coil
of rope about his arm, and a flashlight in his left hand.

THE illumination of the electric lantern showed a vague path ahead. Vic
Marquette walked stolidly along it. Strange, grotesque shadows shimmered across
the path. Jose noticed them and shuddered.
The path went off into the woods away from the gorge, a distance of a
quarter mile. It came to an abrupt ending by a large mound of rock.
Morales gave a low command. Dropping his rifle, Jose drew a huge
handkerchief from his pocket and gagged Marquette.
Morales held the rays of his lantern on the scene, with the automatic
ready. Jose tumbled Marquette on his back; then took the coil of rope from
Morales. The henchman used it to bind Vic Marquette's legs.
Pierre Armagnac was an interested spectator. He knew that Vic Marquette
was to die; but he had not anticipated the method. Now he was to learn the
system which Morales intended to use.
Jose carried Marquette to the mound of rock. Morales beckoned, and
Armagnac followed. As they reached the mound, Morales held out a warning arm.
The Frenchman stopped. He was at the verge of a clearing, dull moonlight
bathing the vista beyond.
Morales stooped and picked up a small stone. He tossed it in the air. It
disappeared as it dropped in the clearing. After long seconds, a tiny plunk
came from below.
Armagnac understood. They were at the edge of a precipice, with water far
below.
"A quarry," whispered Morales. "A straight drop of a hundred feet; filled
with stagnant water and slime. There is no one near here, but a splash is
better than a gunshot, which might be heard for miles."
"The body?" questioned Armagnac.
"Jose is taking care of that," responded Morales. "See? It will remain at
the bottom for a long time."
In the dull moonlight, Jose was affixing heavy stones to the body of Vic
Marquette. It was now that the secret-service man realized the death that
threatened him. He writhed upon the ground. Jose dealt him a tough blow.
Marquette, half-stunned, lay still.
"Come," whispered Morales. "It is better not to wait."
"Why not?" questioned Armagnac.
"The road," replied Morales. "It is not far away. We will go there and
make sure that no one is parked near there. Sometimes cars stop."
Morales spoke to Jose, cautioning the underling to wait several minutes
before proceeding. That would allow time for Morales and Armagnac to return,
should they spy any one in the neighborhood. The sound of a heavy splash might
carry to the road through the woods.
The flashlight glimmered through the trees as Morales and Armagnac
retraced their footsteps. In the moonlight, the squat form of Jose was
monstrous as it worked above the prisoner, taking care to attach the stones so
that they could not possibly come loose.
Pierre Armagnac had passed the death sentence; Alfredo Morales had given
the orders; Jose was to be the executioner of Vic Marquette, who was doomed by
these fiends to a terrible death.
Only the moonlight showed on the mound of rock above the quarry - the
moonlight which brought flickering shadows and among them a long, motionless
silhouette which neither executioner or victim could see.
A blotch at the edge of the great quarry - nothing more than a shade of
night. Such a trivial, formless object alone lay between Vic Marquette and the
death which yawned below!

CHAPTER XII

THE SHADOW THAT LIVED

JOSE'S task was completed. The powerful henchman of Alfredo Morales had
applied the sinking stones to the ropes which bound Vic Marquette. Crouched
over the form of his intended victim, the squat, greasy-faced man paused to
listen.
There was no sound from the woods behind. Long minutes had gone by.
Morales and Armagnac had not returned. Obviously they had found the road
deserted, and had gone back to the cottage. There would be no witnesses to the
death of this bound man. The judges had washed their hands of it.
Jose grinned. This task was to his liking. A push - a long wait - a clunk
from the water beneath. How easy it was to kill, and how pleasant! Jose was a
villain who liked variety in methods of dealing death.
Vic Marquette moved feebly. His eyes stared straight up and saw the cruel,
merciless face of Jose. This was a man with whom he could not treat. Jose was a
creature who obeyed one master. That master had decreed death.
Jose sneered as he saw those eyes. He wanted to see the victim plead; but
all he received was a cold, firm gaze.
Jose had encountered men before who had not feared death. There was no use
wasting time with them. Stepping back, Jose leaned forward to raise the body on
its way.
Then the clutching hands that gripped the body of Vic Marquette paused in
response to Jose's gaze. Looking over the body, to the brink of the precipice a
scant five feet away, Jose saw a flat shadow in the moonlight. It lay there, a
long, gruesome shade, projecting from the edge of the precipice, directly over
the path where Jose intended to roll the victim's body!
That wide streak of black was motionless, but it made Jose tremble; for it
was almost identical with the black shape that Jose had seen upon the floor of
the main room in the cottage!
Jose's hands trembled; then, with an angry snarl, the villain pressed the
body forward. Why should he fear shadows? Even such shapes might move. This one
seemed to be swaying now. What of it? Morales was right; no danger could lurk in
moving patches of blackness.
The lust for murder was stronger now in Jose's mind than any superstitious
reasoning that might normally dominate him. The intended killer rolled his
victim's body forward as he raised his head to sight the edge of the cliff.
Then came a gargling cry from Jose's greasy lips. It was the low, snarling
whine of a hunted, beaten beast.
Leaping backward, Jose forgot the mission that he was here to perform.
Then his trembling limbs failed him. He cowered on the mound of rock, staring
across the body of Vic Marquette, that lay face downward in the moonlight.

THERE, before Jose's bleary eyes, was a shadow that lived! It no longer
lay as a substanceless shade across the flatness of the rock. It was a real
form, a solid form, rising like a grim specter from the limitless depths of the
quarry, emerging over the edge of the cliff like a figure of avenging doom!
Upward came that dread form until it stood as a tall, weird shape in
black. It was a being that had the semblance of a human. Garbed in flowing
cloak and broad-brimmed hat, this apparition made a terrifying sight.
Jose tried to rise to his feet. Then he sank again as the folds of the
cloak spread outward, impelled by the arms beneath.
Jose had fallen flat on his face, his eyes staring upward toward that
monstrous, batlike form that held its ghoulish pose upon the very edge of the
great cliff. All the superstitious fears that Jose had suffered during the past
few days were molded into reality now.
Weird stories of human vampires - terrible forms of dead bodies that had
come to life - grotesque shapes that had appeared like apparitions upon the
broad expanses of the Argentine pampas - these were visualized by the cringing
coward whose work had been thwarted.
Jose sensed that this was more than a mere ghostly phantom that might
disappear as quickly as it had come. In that belief he was correct. It was The
Shadow who stood before him; and The Shadow, a living being, dealt vengeance as
well as fear.
Skirting the path from the cottage, this creature of the night had
preceded the fiends who were marching Vic Marquette to doom. As they had
approached, The Shadow had slipped from sight into the one spot where no one
could have suspected a concealed observer - over the curving, rough-hewed edge
of the quarry, where he had clung with ease to await developments.
There, The Shadow had been secure, ready to loose a surprise attack from
an unexpected quarter. He was blocking the path along which Vic Marquette would
be pushed to doom.
Had Alfredo Morales and Pierre Armagnac remained to witness the execution,
they, as well as Jose, would have tasted the metal of The Shadow's automatics.
But they had gone; now, with only Jose before him, The Shadow had relied
upon his spectral guise to strike terror into the heart of the superstitious
man who had sensed his presence, and had feared it.
Before Jose could recover from the dread that had gripped him, a sound
reached his ears and awakened greater fears. The whispered tones of a mocking
laugh came from the being that stood before him.
Those chilling echoes left no room for doubt. This fantastic apparition
was a reality. The figure in black that had come from nowhere lived - and
living, it uttered mirth that was inhuman.

THE SHADOW was moving forward, step by step. The spreading arms were
folded now. To Jose, that advance meant certain death; yet in his panic, he
could not turn to flee. Words were spoken by concealed lips - words that were
uttered in Spanish.
"Jose" - The Shadow's voice was spectral - "I have warned you! You have
known of my presence, even though you have not seen my form until now. Death
awaits you if you fail to do my bidding. Unbind this man who lies before you!"
Trembling, Jose looked up to see The Shadow standing just beyond the form
of Vic Marquette. For an instant, the cringing man hesitated; then, catching
the glimmer of two avenging eyes, he crawled forward by inches until he had
reached the bound body.
While The Shadow watched, Jose tugged at the knots until the ropes were
loosened. Under the glare of those burning optics, he struggled with frenzied
haste. At last, Vic Marquette lay free.
The Shadow's arm formed a long black line in the dull moonlight. Jose saw
a finger pointing back toward the cottage in the woods. He moved away in the
direction indicated. He stumbled over his rifle and nearly fell.
"Wait!" The Shadow's low command was hissed. "Remember, I have warned you!
If you say to any one that you have seen my presence, I shall strike you dead. I
shall kill you, Jose; kill you with the most horrible death that man has ever
suffered!"
The words were followed by a fearful laugh that brought new qualms to
Jose. He was afraid to leave this spot until he received The Shadow's bidding.
"Pick up your gun" - The Shadow's words were tense and vibrant - "return
to those who left you here. Tell them that you have done their bidding.
Remember: I shall be there to hear you speak!"
Mechanically, Jose plucked the rifle from the mound. He faltered as he
backed away toward the path. Fierce eyes were upon him as The Shadow's voice
gave its command.
"Go!"
Jose stumbled toward the path. For a moment, he lingered, about to raise
his rifle in a frantic burst of rage at this indignity. But as he heard The
Shadow's laugh, all thoughts of resistance passed from his terror-stricken
brain. The sight of that avenging figure was too fearful. Gripping the barrel
of his gun, Jose fled.
The laugh of The Shadow sounded mirthlessly. The right hand lowered. The
left hand, close to the long black cloak, disappeared with an automatic that it
held.
Jose had not seen the weapon. Had he aimed his rifle toward The Shadow, he
would have learned the accuracy of The Shadow's aim.
Now with Jose gone, The Shadow acted swiftly. Vic Marquette had half
arisen. He was staring blankly about him - a man just awakened from a daze.
Stooping, The Shadow raised him to his feet.
Scarcely realizing whether he was guided by friend or foe, Vic felt
himself guided along a downward path. Trudging through the woods, supported by
a strong arm, the secret-service man was dimly recalling events which he had so
recently experienced.

THE side path ended when they reached the road. Here, beneath the trees,
The Shadow's form was invisible. Vic Marquette, regaining his alertness,
realized that he was some distance from the cottage. He heard a low voice close
beside him.
"Go back to the hotel. Do not approach that cottage again. Leave, to-night
before you are seen."
The words were a command. Vic understood. He realized suddenly who had
spoken. This was not the first time that Vic Marquette had encountered The
Shadow. In his recollections, the secret-service man remembered a tall figure
in black who had saved him in a battle against enemies of the law.
"The Shadow!"
Marquette's brain was no longer hazy as he gasped these words. He turned
and groped through the dark, expecting to discover the mysterious person beside
him.
The Shadow was gone. From the trees beside the road came the whispered
tones of a low, sardonic laugh - the parting sign of The Shadow.
The secret-service man stood wondering. Then he realized the wisdom of The
Shadow's injunction.
Vic could not grasp all that had happened, but somehow he understood that
he had not only been saved from death, but that his enemies believed him dead.
The cottage in the woods was a trap - to go there unarmed would be futile.
There was only one course - to follow The Shadow's bidding.
Moving slowly along the road, Vic recalled one question that had been
asked him by Alfredo Morales. That question had concerned some one named
Partridge.
Vaguely, Vic remembered the feather that Jerry Fitzroy had carried. A
partridge feather! Yes - the cottage in the woods could wait. Let the men who
had captured him believe him dead. Partridge was the man whom he must find. The
others would be watched by The Shadow.
In the light of his recent experience, Vic had much confidence in The
Shadow's ability to cope with them.

WHILE Vic Marquette was setting forth toward the Westbrook Inn, another
man was stumbling through the woods a few hundred yards away. It was Jose,
frantically working his way back to the cottage.
He had lost the path in the darkness, and he was impelled onward through
the underbrush by the fancied sound of a ringing laugh that still echoed in his
ears. Nearing the cottage, he rested. A gasp came from his lips. Did he hear
that same laugh, close beside him? He was sure of it!
Again, Jose blundered wildly through the thicket until he staggered into
the clearing and stumbled upon the steps to the house. The door opened, and
Manuel looked out.
With an effort, Jose regained some of his bravado, and entered the
building. He found Morales and Armagnac awaiting him.
Jose's bedraggled appearance immediately caught the attention of Morales.
The Argentinian quickly asked a question.
"Well?" he inquired. "What has happened?"
Jose was setting his rifle against the wall. Momentarily turned away, he
was facing the window at the far end of the room.
For an instant, his eyes were wild. There, on the floor, he saw that same
long shadow - that black projection from the window that slowly swayed backward
and forward.
The effect on Jose was electric. Frightened though he was, he stiffened,
and his face took on a scowl as he turned to answer the question that had been
put to him.
"Did you do the work?" demanded Morales.
"Yes," growled Jose.
"That is the trouble, then?"
"Nothing - except those ropes. One of them was tangled on my foot. I
nearly went over the cliff myself."
Morales laughed. Jose's excuse passed without question. Jose was noted for
his clumsiness. Morales turned to Armagnac.
"You see?" he asked. "That is the way. A good man to do the work, but a
blunderer. We must not blunder when we deal with Lucien Partridge."
"There will be no blunder there," returned Armagnac.
An hour later, Jose, partly recovered from his former dread, crept back
along the path to the mound of rocks above the old quarry. Now that he had
spoken false to Morales, he was worried lest his lie be discovered. He was
thinking of those ropes and stones that he had left on the brink of the cliff.
The moonlight was shining on bare rock when Jose arrived. The sight of the
place worried the man. He was puzzled when he discovered that the stones and the
ropes were no longer there.
It all seemed like a dream to Jose, who was imaginative despite his brutal
nature. He wondered whether he had actually experienced that encounter with The
Shadow. Perhaps - the thought was a hope to Jose - he had pushed that body off
the cliff, and then imagined what he had seen!
As Jose stared into the moonlight, a sudden sound broke from close beside
him. The noise was low and weird, like a ghostly echo of a laugh that Jose had
heard before upon this very spot!
Before the man could turn, a whispered voice came to his ears. Its hissing
tones carried a final warning in words that gave Jose new terror - for they
brought up the future as well as recalling the past.
"Remember!" The Shadow's utterance was sinister. "You have done my
bidding. When I appear again, you will still obey. For those who do not obey
will die!"
The voice trailed into a hollow laugh. Jose waited to hear no more. He
fled along the path, back to the cottage, striving to fight against his newly
awakened panic.
Shortly afterward, a tall form in black emerged from a clump of bushes
beside the mound of rocks. The Shadow stood like a spectral image upon the flat
surface that glistened gray in the moonlight.
A low, triumphant laugh echoed from the cliff. Its hissing tones seemed to
reach the sepulchral depths of the old quarry, to be reechoed like the
tantalizing whispers from a myriad of elves.
Then The Shadow was gone. Silence and moonlight alone remained upon that
spot.

CHAPTER XIII

ARMAGNAC PROPOSES

ON the next afternoon, an automobile from the Westbrook station swung up
the road toward Lucien Partridge's estate. As it turned beside the river gorge,
its occupants were plainly visible to Alfredo Morales, stationed across the
river. Through the spyglasses, the Argentinian recognized the bearded face of
Pierre Armagnac.
The Frenchman was paying a visit to Lucien Partridge, in accordance to the
plan that he and Morales had agreed upon. When the car had passed the turn in
the road, it was no longer in view, but Morales knew well that Armagnac would
not turn back from his mission.
The Frenchman alighted in front of the heavily barred gate, and dismissed
the chauffeur in the vehicle that had brought him. His keen eyes studied the
arrangements of the high iron fence. It did not take Armagnac long to
appreciate the formidable barrier that this made. He knew that it was in all
probability protected by electric wires.
Armagnac was wondering about Morales when he rang the bell. Last night he
had gained a high respect for the Argentinian's ability, but he felt doubtful
that Morales possessed a sure scheme of entering the grounds.
It might be possible to counteract the electric barrier, but Partridge
must certainly have signals that would signify the resultant short circuit.
Through the bars of the gate, Armagnac spied the evil face of Vignetti,
and decided that the man must be a Corsican. So when Vignetti arrived at the
gate, Armagnac spoke to him in French, and inquired for Lucien Partridge.
Vignetti growled a reply in poor English, and broke into a gusto of
Italian dialect. Armagnac grinned. Base Italian was still the language of many
Corsicans, and Vignetti appeared to be one of those who resented French
domination of his native isle. So Armagnac repeated his inquiry in English, and
gave Vignetti his name.
Despite the fact that Morales had assured him visitors were usually well
received by Lucien Partridge, Armagnac waited rather doubtfully until Vignetti
retured. The Corsican opened the gate, and the Frenchman entered. A few minutes
later, he was in Partridge's library, awaiting the arrival of the old man.
Lucien Partridge came in from the laboratory. He wore a rather puzzled
expression as he faced Pierre Armagnac. It was difficult to tell whether the
old man was pleased or displeased to see this visitor. He motioned to Armagnac
to be seated, and quietly awaited to hear what the Frenchman had to say.

ARMAGNAC did not delay long with his story. He sized the situation
quickly, and knew that his best procedure was to gain Partridge's confidence at
the start.
"You must be surprised to see me here," he remarked.
"I am surprised," returned Partridge. "I thought that you were in France."
"I was in France until eight days ago," declared Armagnac. "Then I decided
to come here - leaving Mercier in charge of operations at Marseilles."
"Do you think this visit is wise?" quizzed Partridge. "I did not request
it. You sent me no notification."
"You will soon be glad that I am here," returned Armagnac. "Perhaps you
think that I am bringing bad news. On the contrary, I am bringing the opposite.
My news is good. It all depends upon one factor, however -"
"Which is -"
"Your ability to supply me with a tremendous quantity of the yellow metal."
An avaricious gleam came into Partridge's eyes. Armagnac saw it and
resisted the temptation to smile. He leaned forward and spoke in a low tone.
"I have a scheme to make millions. Millions - beyond all dreams."
"In France? I thought that you were working to the limit there, Armagnac."
"Not in France."
"You cannot operate elsewhere, Armagnac," declared the old man coldly.
"That is our arrangement. Each man with his own country."
"You misunderstand me," smiled Armagnac. "I intend to operate within my
limits. But I intend to do exactly what the French government is doing to-day."
"Which is -"
"To assist in the expansion of the French colonial possessions," returned
Armagnac, still smiling.
"The French colonies?" questioned Partridge sharply. "That would be too
much effort for the gain, would it not?"
"You do not know the French colonies of to-day," returned Armagnac. "That
is where the new wealth lies. Africa - ah - it is a rising empire! No one can
realize it until they have been there.
"The French colonies are being backed by gold. Millions upon millions of
gold. I can tap that tremendous source while I still work in France. Mercier is
doing well at Marseilles. I intend to travel."
The enthusiasm in Armagnac's voice was contagious. Already, Partridge,
with his love for gold, was visualizing new opportunity. He recalled that
French colonial expansion was becoming a modern epoch. Armagnac was crafty and
informed. Armagnac must be right.
The old man leaned back in his chair. Armagnac saw that he was interested.
The Frenchman began to weave a picture of fabulous wealth. His stories of
equatorial Africa took on the semblance of a new "Arabian Nights."
Time rolled by; still Armagnac kept on. At last his smooth voice died
away. Armagnac hid a smile within his beard as he witnessed the effect upon
Lucien Partridge.
"So you see," he added, "it required no code letter with a partridge
feather to bring me here posthaste. I am ready; but my work must begin at once.
A well-planned base in Africa must be heavily supplied with the metal I desire."
"You shall be supplied," remarked Partridge.
Armagnac appeared dubious. Partridge eyed him closely. The old man was
slightly annoyed at Armagnac's demeanor.
"You doubt me?" he questioned sharply.
"Not your intention," returned Armagnac, in a suave tone. "I merely am
afraid that you do not realize what a huge order this will be. Much greater
than your former output."
"How much greater?"
"Double your total production. Double the amount you are sending to me in
France."
There was a tone of conceit in Armagnac's voice. It aroused Partridge's
reply.
"Double your supply?" quizzed the old man ironically. "Do you believe that
you alone are using my output? Is France all the world? Bah! Come with me!"
He erase and beckoned to Armagnac to follow. The Frenchman was elated.
Partridge was playing into the trap. As his name indicated, he was a wise old
bird; but Armagnac fancied himself craftier than any bird.

PARTRIDGE led the way through the laboratory. They descended into the
rooms below. Here men were at work about a crucible. Partridge passed beyond
them. He unlocked a door of a storage room. A mass of yellow bars greeted
Armagnac's eyes.
"There is some yellow metal," crackled Partridge. "Come. I shall show you
more."
Partridge led Armagnac from one storeroom to another. When they had
completed the rounds, they went up to the laboratory. There Partridge smiled at
the astonishment which Armagnac now evidenced.
"Yellow metal," quavered the old man. "Tons of it! Metal that looks like
gold. Metal that passes for gold - as you - and others - have learned."
"You have a vast store," remarked Armagnac, affecting a wise look. "I did
not realize before the extent of your operations. But, of course, much of that
is real gold that you have received from myself and others."
"Real gold?" questioned Partridge. "Real gold, in those rooms below? Do
you think that I would leave the true gold in such proximity to the false? No,
no, Armagnac. I am too wise for that. My real gold" - his voice became cagey -
"what I have of it - is kept elsewhere."
"On this property, of course."
The old man's eyelids flickered. He paused a moment; then smiled.
"Of course I keep it here," he said. "This place is a stronghold. But I do
not keep the real gold with the false. I keep it out there."
He pointed from a window of the laboratory, across the lawn, to the little
building a hundred yards away, by the edge of the cliff. Armagnac observed the
steel-sheathed door.
"Deep in the cliff," remarked Partridge. "Down beneath the basement of
that workhouse. There I keep my real wealth. You speak of millions. Come - I
shall show you."
The two men strolled across the lawn. Armagnac, his eyes moving like
little beads, was scanning every spot about him. The bearded Frenchman
possessed a photographic mind. Already he was on the trail of the most
essential detail that he had sought.
They arrived at the workhouse. Lucien Partridge unlocked the strong door.
The two entered a one-room building that was equipped with shuttered windows.
The door remained open, and the dull light that entered showed nothing but a
barren floor with workbenches and tools.
Pierre Armagnac gazed about him in evident disappointment. Lucien
Partridge chuckled. He moved a bench aside, and opened a trapdoor that was
artfully concealed in the floor. He motioned Armagnac to descend a ladder. The
old man followed with surprising agility.
They were in a stone-floored room. Partridge illuminated it with a hanging
lamp. In one corner he raised a rough stone with his clawlike fingers. The stone
was merely a flat slab. The light came down on an extension wire. Partridge held
it above the hole.
"Look there, Armagnac," he said.
The Frenchman gazed below. It was staring into a veritable shaft that ran
at an angle into the ground. It had roughhewn steps that served as shelves; and
on those ledges Armagnac saw bars and masses of golden metal.

ARMAGNAC arose and looked at Partridge. He saw the old man's face beaming
with miserly joy of possession. Here, he knew, was the secret storage room of
the vast wealth which Lucien Partridge had gained through his illicit
enterprises.
In the brief inspection permitted him, Armagnac knew that Morales had
spoken the truth when he had declared there was enough for two.
The bearded Frenchman tried to suppress the elation that he felt. He
endeavored to show indifference after he and Partridge had left the workhouse.
The old man pointed to the door after he had locked it.
"Protected with an electric signal," he said. "Let any one attempt to open
it at night. The alarm would sound immediately. But no one will try" - the old
man chuckled - "for no one can enter here, where I have my fence and my great
cliff to the river."
They reached Partridge's laboratory. There, Armagnac expressed interest in
Partridge's experiments. They talked together until after dusk. Then Armagnac
suddenly remembered that he must take the train to New York.
"I told the driver to return, unless I notified the station otherwise," he
said. "I presume that he will be here shortly. Well, Mr. Partridge, we are men
well suited. I want the yellow metal that looks like gold. In return I shall
add to your storage room of real gold."
"You are leaving for France immediately?"
"As soon as possible."
"That is wise. You may count upon me for all the synthetic gold that you
require."
Armagnac's eyes had a far-away look. He seemed to be visualizing the vast
opportunities that lay within the colonies of France. His lips curved in a
foreboding smile.
Vignetti entered to state that the automobile had arrived to take the
visitor to the station. Pierre Armagnac was about to leave, when Lucien
Partridge restrained him.
"Wait a few moments," insisted the old man. "You have ample time. I shall
walk outside with you. But first, let me don my laboratory garb, now that
Vignetti is here."
The Corsican arrived with gloves and smock. Lucien Partridge calmly donned
the garments. He accompanied Pierre Armagnac to the gate. The Frenchman was
talking in a low voice, weaving vast, vague schemes of his future work.
At the gate, Lucien Partridge extended his hand. Pierre Armagnac clasped
it, glove and all. He listened while the old man spoke.
"What I have revealed must not be known," remarked Partridge, in a low
tone.
"Certainly not," responded Armagnac.
"It is a closed book -"
"Never to be reopened."
The men parted. Armagnac looked back as he drove away in the dusk. The
benign old man was standing at the gate, with Vignetti close beside him. An old
fool and a dumb servant; so Armagnac considered them.
The automobile rolled on toward the station. Armagnac sat back in the
cushions, thinking deeply. He noticed that his right hand was tingling
slightly. He rubbed his hands together, and the sensation ceased.
Armagnac was more than pleased as he stared from the car window. He had
discovered the old man's lair. To-night, plans would be made that would mean
great wealth for Pierre Armagnac and his partner, Alfredo Morales.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MEETING

IT was after nine o'clock that night when Pierre Armagnac left the
Westbrook Inn for a quiet stroll. As usual, the bearded Frenchman was wary in
his actions. He laughed at his own precautions, however, for he was sure that
there was no one at the hotel who might be interested in his activities.
As Armagnac made his way along the road toward the cottage in the woods,
he failed to notice a peculiar phenomenon - a drifting shape that kept pace
close behind him.
Had Armagnac noted that fleeting form of blackness, he would probably have
ignored it. For it was scarcely more than a shadowy blotch moving along the path
that he was taking.
When he reached the clearing in the woods, Armagnac gave a low whistle - a
signal agreed upon between himself and Morales. He advanced; opened the cottage
door, and entered. There he found Morales awaiting him. The Frenchman smiled in
greeting. He sat down and began his tale.
"I have learned all you wish to know," he said. "Your surmise is correct.
The gold is kept outside the house."
"Ah!" exclaimed Morales. "The real gold?"
"The real gold. The synthetic metal is in the large building."
"Excellent! How far is the real gold from the house?"
"One hundred yards - in a frame workhouse by the edge of the gorge."
"Better yet! Is it guarded?"
"By an electric alarm that evidently goes to the mansion."
"The mansion, too, is a frame structure?"
"Yes. The laboratory takes up much of the main floor. The furnaces are in
the basement."
Morales drew Armagnac to a table and produced paper and pencil. The
Frenchman began to draw an outlined plan of Lucien Partridge's domain.
Armagnac's remembrance of detail was amazing. When he had completed his sketch,
the territory across the river was an open book to Alfredo Morales.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Argentinian. "I could not have done so well had
I covered the terrain by plane. That would have been a bad thing to do - and it
would not have given me the details that I absolutely needed. For instance -
the hiding place of the gold. I suspected that it might be outside the house.
"In the house or out, I would chance the scheme that I have in mind. But
inside would not be so good as outside. Ah - you will understand, soon."
A line of darkness crept along the floor. To-night, as on the preceding
evening, it extended inward from the window. The area of darkness became
motionless, escaping the attention of the plotters.
Armagnac was telling Morales his estimate of the wealth concealed in
Partridge's secret hiding place. The Frenchman was enthusiastic. Morales, now,
was dreaming as he listened.

"GOLD - masses of it - shelves of it" - Armagnac was breathless - "and the
old man has no need of worry. Guarded, hidden, weighing such a huge amount - how
can it be spirited away?"
"Why do you think he showed it to you so readily?"
"I led up to it. He knew that I was planning to make millions of my own.
He wanted to add to my confidence. He is gold-mad.
"You know, Partridge has sought to make real gold. He claims that he has
succeeded, to a remarkable degree. This yellow metal is but inferior. But -
according to his tale - he cannot produce the perfect metal cheaply enough to
warrant its manufacture."
"He is a dreamer," declared Morales. "One cannot be too sure about his
capabilities."
"But he has gold," said Armagnac. "I could see his ambition in his face.
He wants to dominate the world by controlling the gold supply. A remarkable
ambition, but too high. Better to seek what we have sought - a vast quantity of
gold that will enable us to forget our counterfeiting."
"It will be ours," returned Morales, with a sallow smile. "Ours - very
soon!"
Armagnac expressed doubt in his eyes. Morales smiled more broadly.
Armagnac's doubt increased. He spoke thoughtfully, with carefully chosen words.
"I have done my part, Morales," said the Frenchman. "Now is your turn. By
our agreement, we were to exchange information and services. I have found out
all that you needed. Now I want to know your plans."
Morales began to laugh. Armagnac wondered why. The Argentinian arose and
lighted a cigarette. His mirth continued. When he paused, he faced the
Frenchman and explained the reason for his laughter.
"Armagnac," he said, "you are wondering what I intend to do. You have
brought me information that is worth millions; yet you yourself cannot
understand its value. Unthinkingly, you have ended your own usefulness in this
enterprise.
"I am here with men; with method; with purpose. You are alone. I need you
no longer. You have begun to realize that fact. Nevertheless" - his eyes
flashed shrewdly - "I place each of us upon an equal basis. Why? Because one
and one make two - and two are better than one.
"I am thinking of the future - of the vast possibilities that will open up
to two clever men who can work in harmony. You understand? This will be the
beginning.
"You ask me my plans? I shall show you. You, Pierre Armagnac, with all
your experience, with all your genius, will admire the schemes of Alfredo
Morales."
Approaching the door of the room, Morales uttered a low whistle. Jose
entered from the outer door. Morales questioned him.
"Manuel has not returned?"
"No."
"Remain here, Jose. Keep watch until we return."
Armagnac expected to see Morales indicate that they were to leave the
cottage. Instead, Morales went to a door in the corner of the room. He paused
there, and spoke, with dramatic effect.
"You were in the great war, Monsieur Armagnac?"
"Yes," replied the Frenchman, puzzled.
"There were many successful attacks then," declared Morales. "Many attacks
that were directed against strongholds more formidable than the one in which
Lucien Partridge now barricades himself."
"Quite true."
"I have my forces, Armagnac. There are men whom you have not seen - men
who are waiting. To sweep into Partridge s domain - to carry off that gold -
such would not be difficult with proper equipment, provided that -"
Morales paused to observe if Armagnac caught the thought. The Frenchman
responded quickly.
"Provided that the way should be open," he said. "But it would have to be
clear for quick action."
"Exactly," declared Morales. "Often, in warfare, infantry have gained
their objective almost unmolested because of the attack that preceded it."
"The barrage."
"Yes. You have named the very method that I intend to use against Lucien
Partridge. Come. I shall show you."

MORALES opened the door. He revealed a flight of steps that led upward.
Beckoning, Morales ascended the steps. Armagnac followed, closing the door
behind him.
Jose sat down in a chair. His task was to keep watch while his master was
on tour of inspection. Jose gazed idly about the room. His eyes sighted the
long shape of black that lay upon the floor.
A startled expression crept over Jose's greasy features. He looked toward
the window; then at the black silhouette. Again his eyes were raised toward the
window. Jose uttered a gasping scream as he cowered in the chair.
Silently, like a weird phantom of the night, a figure had appeared within
the room. There, by the window, stood that strange being whom Jose had
encountered on the mound of rocks.
The Shadow's arms were folded; his long black cloak swayed mysteriously
from his shoulders. His fierce eyes glowed beneath the protecting brim of the
slouch hat.
Chilling, whispered mockery emerged from invisible lips. That echoing
laugh brought terror to Jose. It was unreal, that shuddering mirth that came
from the personage in black. The very air seemed tense with the power of The
Shadow's presence.
"Jose" - the words that followed were in Spanish - "I am here to warn you
again. Should you speak one word against my bidding, I shall strike. Only while
you obey me can you live."
The Shadow strode across the room. He towered over the cowering form of
Jose. His burning eyes fathomed the man in the chair.
Jose could not meet that glance. He turned away, pitifully frightened,
expecting doom which he could not prevent. The shuddering laugh echoed in his
ears.
Then came silence. Jose waited. Slowly, he turned his head and gazed about
the room. He was alone. The being in black had departed. There was no silhouette
upon the floor. Jose's eyes sighted the door through which Morales and Armagnac
had gone.
Was that the route which The Shadow had taken? Jose did not know. He was
afraid to leave the chair. Still cowering, he waited, hoping that Morales and
Armagnac would not be long in returning.

CHAPTER XV

DEATH ARRIVES

ALFREDO MORALES and Pierre Armagnac were standing upon the flat roof of
the cottage. A trapdoor lay open behind them. They were not concerned with the
route by which they had reached this spot. They were examining a squat, bulky
object to which Morales pointed with pride.
This object was a powerful, wide-mouthed mortar, firmly placed in the
center of the roof.
"What do you think of this little toy?" questioned Morales, in a low voice.
"It is a beauty!" exclaimed Armagnac.
"You see," Morales spoke again. "Look there."
He pointed upward through the space amid the trees off toward the moonlit
sky. Armagnac followed the direction that he indicated.
"That is the way to Partridge's house," explained Morales. "This mortar
will send the messengers that I have prepared. That messenger will clear the
way for me."
A figure was rising through the trapdoor. Neither Morales nor Armagnac saw
it. They were staring through the trees. The Shadow grew into a tall, spectral
form that moved silently across the roof and merged with the darkness of the
single chimney that projected above the house.
"The range?" questioned Armagnac.
"It is perfect," answered Morales. "This mortar possesses remarkable
accuracy. I have found the range by careful calculation. The target is a huge
one - Partridge's mansion.
"The building is visible from different spots along the gorge. I have
surveyed it by military engineering. My range is perfect. It cannot fail."
"But what will be the result?"
"Let me explain my purpose, Armagnac. There is one thing that we must
counteract - that one thing is time. To attack Partridge; to overcome
resistance; that would be easy. But it would take time. There are state police
twelve miles from here. Once an alarm has been spread, they would come to the
scene."
"That is the danger, Morales. After you have begun the attack, you must
work swiftly."
"I am prepared for that. When the time has been set, I shall be waiting
with a crew of men and motor trucks, ready to enter and remove the gold. It
will be a simple matter, swiftly executed; but one factor is most necessary."
"The way must be clear."
"That is it, Armagnac. A stubborn resistance by Partridge and his men
would bring about a disastrous delay. That is why I needed the information that
you have brought me.
"If the gold were in the large mansion, where Partridge and his men are
stationed, the task would present insurmountable difficulties."
"Because of Partridge and his men? You will encounter them when you attack
the workhouse -"
"Partridge and his men will be no obstacle," interposed Morales. "They
will be gone before we enter. They will be buried in the ruins of that old
mansion."
A short exclamation came from Armagnac. Now the Frenchman was beginning to
understand the details of the Argentinian's plan.
"This mortar," said Morales, "will deliver a giant bomb squarely upon the
roof of the mansion. There will be a muffled report from this side of the
river; then a tremendous explosion when the bomb strikes the big house across
the gorge. That will be the end of Partridge and his men. But should the gold
be in the doomed building -"
"I understand. You would be unable to remove it."
"Exactly. Now that I know where the gold is, I can get it. The wired
fence; the protection on the workhouse; those mean nothing, so long as no
living beings remain within. Alarms are utterly useless if there are none to
hear them."
"Your plan is perfect!" exclaimed Armagnac. "You can drive the trucks
through the broken gate. Load them and leave. People will hear the explosion,
of course -"
"What of it?" questioned Morales, as Armagnac paused. "Partridge is known
to be a chemist. His experiments may logically involve explosives. The wreckage
of his building will be attributed to his own negligence."
"That is true, but the noise will bring many people to the scene."
"The nearest spot is the hotel. That is six miles by road. An explosion,
in the middle of the night, will create bewilderment at first. Then the
improvised investigating squads will start. We will be gone when they arrive."
Armagnac nodded. He realized that the plan was well founded. With a crew
of strong workers, the removal of the gold could be swiftly executed. Morales
smiled.
"The rescuers," he said, "will come from above Partridge's place. Both the
hotel and the barracks are in that direction. They must cross the bridge over
the gorge and take the narrow road. There they will find the way blocked by a
wrecked truck. It will delay their progress, more than four miles from
Partridge's."
"You could block the road altogether."
"I do not wish to do so. The old, broken truck must appear to be an
accident. It will allow more time to get away. I have estimated exactly,
Armagnac. It will be a full hour before the first arrivals reach there."

MORALES turned and started for the trapdoor. Armagnac followed him. When
the two men reached the downstairs room, they found Jose seated in the chair,
staring fixedly at the door through which they came.
"What is the matter, Jose?" growled Morales. "Are you still worrying about
shadows?"
"Shadows?" questioned Armagnac.
"Yes," sneered Morales. "Jose is becoming so apprehensive that I can
scarcely trust him here. Every time he sees a shadow, he is frightened. I
intended to leave Jose here to discharge the bomb; but I think I shall intrust
that task to Manuel."
"When will you attack?" questioned Armagnac.
"At three o'clock in the morning," replied Morales. "To-morrow, I shall
make all arrangements. We will be prepared at midnight. Three o'clock will be
the zero hour."
"An excellent time for operation."
Morales did not respond to Armagnac's reply. He was looking at Jose, whose
eyes were staring across the room. Had Morales followed the direction of Jose's
gaze, he would have seen a long, silhouetted streak of blackness emerging from
the door to the stairway. Morales had not closed that door upon his return to
the room.
"Come, Jose!" exploded Morales impatiently. "Why are you so frightened?
Have you seen any one, other than your shadows?"
Jose shook his head. He opened his lips as though about to speak. The
shadow on the floor was moving warningly.
Both Morales and Armagnac were staring at Jose, who seemed to be seeing
ghosts. The bearded Frenchman laughed as he moved a few paces across the room.
"Shadows can hurt no one," said Armagnac. "What are shadows? Nothing!"
The bearded man was standing directly upon the silhouetted patch of
blackness. Jose trembled. To him, that was a danger spot.
"Shadows?" Armagnac raised his arm so that his hand formed a shadow upon
the wall. He moved his fingers. "See? There are shadows - they are nothing."
Armagnac's fingers became rigid. He stared at them in bewilderment. He
raised his other hand. He tried to move its fingers. They, too, had stiffened.
Armagnac shook his arms. They weakened and refused to function.
"My shoulders!" he cried. "They are numb! Something is happening to me!
What can be the matter?"
The Frenchman began to sag. His legs could no longer support his weight.
He collapsed upon the floor, his body covering that shadow which Jose dreaded.
Armagnac was gasping words in both French and English. Suddenly, his eyes
were livid. A terrible horror was reflected in those optics as they stared
toward Alfredo Morales.
"The creeping death!" gasped Armagnac. "I have seen it - have seen it kill
- when I was in Saigon! Help me" - his voice was dwindling - "help -"
Armagnac's lips were moving, but they formed no articulate words. Morales
was leaning over him.
A sudden light of fury flashed in Armagnac's eyes. A vivid recollection
had come to him. His lips seemed to phrase a warning; then they moved no more.
Firm, rigid they remained, pursed within the black beard. The staring eyes
became glassy.
Pierre Armagnac was dead!

JOSE was wild with terror. To him, the fact that Armagnac had stood within
the range of that patch of black upon the floor was proof sufficient of The
Shadow's power.
Staring beyond the Frenchman's body, Jose saw a form in black. He thought
that he caught the shudder of a vague, mocking laugh. Then, as Morales drew
Armagnac's body across the floor, Jose saw that the patch of black was gone.
"The creeping death," remarked Morales thoughtfully. "In Saigon. Some
strange malady to which he was subject. Poor Armagnac!" Morales laughed. "Well,
his work was finished. Together, we might have encountered trouble in the
future. When death strikes, it often strikes wisely."
Thus philosophizing, Morales looked up to see Manuel entering the room.
The slender, dark-faced henchman stared at the dead body of Pierre Armagnac.
"He is dead," remarked Morales. "A great misfortune - for Pierre Armagnac.
Perhaps not for Alfredo Morales. I am glad you have returned, Manuel. You, are
more reliable than Jose. We shall drop this body in the quarry, you and I,
while Jose remains here. Jose" - Morales spoke contemptuously - "is becoming
faint-hearted. He does not like to look at death."
Jose did not answer the derisive words. He watched while Morales and
Manuel raised the body of Armagnac, and carried it from the house. Then he
stared at the door that led upstairs. The floor began to blacken. Jose trembled.
The spectral form of The Shadow appeared from the stairway. Jose cowered
in a corner. The Shadow laughed in a sepulchral whisper. He stood watching
Jose. Then he spoke in his low, sinister tone.
"Beware, Jose" - the words seemed prophetic - "I have warned you. You have
seen - death!"
The whispered laugh was repeated. When Jose again stared toward the spot
where The Shadow had been, the room was empty. The being in black had gone.

LABORING along the path to the quarry, Morales and Manuel finally reached
the mound of rocks. Their progress had been slow and troublesome.
Now they filled Armagnac's clothing with small stones. Together, they
pushed the body over the edge. A resounding splash from beneath marked the
watery burial of Pierre Armagnac.
After Morales and Manuel had gone back along the path to the cottage, a
shade of black appeared upon the sparkling surface of stone. Then The Shadow
stood in the moonlight, staring downward into the quarry. A low, sinister laugh
came from the hidden lips beneath the turned-up collar of the black cloak.
Pierre Armagnac was dead. Jose attributed that death to The Shadow.
Alfredo Morales believed that it was due to a strange ailment. Manuel had no
theory.
The Shadow, alone, had suspected the cause of that creeping death. He had
marked the truth: that Pierre Armagnac had been murdered by the design of
Lucien Partridge. Armagnac, himself, had realized it; but his frozen lips had
failed to tell.
Armagnac was gone. The contest lay now between two men: Morales and
Partridge. Both were ruthless; both were fiends of crime. What would be the
outcome?
Only The Shadow knew. His laugh told that he, too, would enter into this
strange conflict!

CHAPTER XVI

THE NEXT NIGHT

TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since the death of Pierre Armagnac. Two men
were standing in Lucien Partridge's laboratory. One was the old man; the other
was the faithful Vignetti. The Corsican was watching the completion of an
experiment.
Lucien Partridge turned to Vignetti with an evil grin. He pointed to a
test tube which contained a small quantity of a fine, grayish powder.
"There lies death, Vignetti," declared the old man.
The Corsican grinned in fiendish fashion.
"This is what I have wanted, more than gold," chuckled Partridge. "He who
has gold must be able to deal death. My false gold brought me real gold. The
death that I have given has been real death.
"But only with those gloves have I dealt death. Those gloves, deeply
covered with the powder that gives the creeping death to those who would spoil
my plans. Now, with this new powder, I can send death. Send it, Vignetti! Send
it, anywhere - throughout all the world! Ah! What a vendetta this will be!
"Kings - presidents - men of wealth and fortune! They shall be my victims.
You will help me, Vignetti. This powder, worked into harmless letters, will kill
those who touch it. Not instantly - no, Vignetti, that would not be wise - but
after a time, when no one can know the cause!
"Death will rule, Vignetti! Death as I deliver it! Soon we shall begin.
With gold, I shall be the master of life! With my powder, I shall be the master
of death! Such men as Armagnac - I shall not have to wait for them to visit me.
I can send death to them!"
The old man's face was a rhapsody of evil. A curious elation dominated
him. His eyes were staring far away; his tone was reminiscent.
"Li Tan Chang!" he remarked. "His own invention brought him death. That
night in Peking, when you were prompt with the knife, Vignetti. You suspected
the approach of Li Tan Chang's creeping death. After all, it is an Oriental
malady; but that wise Chinaman was the first to use a means to deliver it.
"What would he think if he were alive to-day! You prevented my death,
Vignetti. I learned the secret. Now I have developed a more potent poison.
Where it required much of Li Tan Chang's formula to work through the flesh, a
small amount of mine will serve the purpose!"
The old man emptied the contents of the test tube upon a sheet of paper.
Partridge was wearing laboratory gloves. Yet he used the utmost care as he slid
the powder into a small, square box.
"I shall put it safely away," he said. "We will not need it for a while,
Vignetti. To-morrow. I shall prepare my list of those whom I would like to die.
Men who have never seen me; men who have never heard of me; but all men who some
day might try to obstruct my plan to rule the world!"
Vignetti nodded. He knew what was in his master's mind. Partridge,
speaking his medley of English and Italian dialect, continued as he walked
toward the library.
"You shall help me, Vignetti," he declared, "with this new method of
death. Chance letters, mailed from here and there; all will carry the death
that up to now I gave by hand.
"When people visit me, the old method will be best. It is much better that
such people die far away. But for those who do not come - for those I want to
die whom I do not meet - we will send this new powder!"
The old man put the box away in a table drawer. He brought out an envelope
and opened it. The envelope contained a list which bore the names of many
persons. Lucien Partridge chuckled gleefully as he studied this line of
intended victims.
"Vignetti thinks it a vendetta," he said softly, after noting that the
Corsican had gone. "Ah! It is a vendetta; but such a one as the world has never
known!
"The Romans had their lists of prescribed victims; those who were to die.
But my list! Ah, all will surely die, unbeknown! Chaos will rule! Dynasties
will perish; republics become ungoverned masses; great enterprises will fail!
"Men will be afraid to command. They will look for a leader. Then, as
dictator for all the world, I shall rise as the master of all autocrats. Who
else could do the same? I shall have the wealth of Croesus; the power of
Napoleon; vast territory beyond the dreams of Alexander. The ruler of all the
world!"
The old man sat in silence. His lips moved happily. Across his face
flickered changing emotions that showed the turn of his eccentric mind. One
moment benign, another moment fiendish, his expressions were the extreme in
contrast.

VIGNETTI entered the room and interrupted the old man's thoughts with a
short announcement.
"Mr. Cranston is here," he said.
A new expression came over Partridge's face. This was one of perplexity.
"Cranston," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, we received his telegram to-day.
It referred to the New Era Mines. Urgent business, so he said. I must see him,
Vignetti; but I doubt that he can know much. However - I expect you to be ready
-"
Vignetti nodded and left to usher in this guest who waited at the gate.
A few minutes later, a tall man attired in evening clothes entered the
library. Lucien Partridge arose to greet his visitor.
"Mr. Cranston?" he questioned.
"Yes," came the reply. "My name is Lamont Cranston."
Lucien Partridge was oddly impressed with the appearance of his visitor.
Never, throughout his long life, had the old man met such an unusual personage.
Lamont Cranston possessed a face that was enigmatical. One could not have
divined his age from his features. He seemed young, yet old; quiet, yet
purposeful.
His face was chiseled like that of a sculptured statue; at the same time,
it possessed a masklike quality that betrayed no emotions. Two sharp, piercing
eyes glowed on either side of Cranston's hawkish nose; yet there was neither
suspicion nor unfriendliness in that steady gaze.
Even in his voice, Cranston exhibited a remarkable contrast. His tones
were deliberate and easy; still they carried an even note that made each
syllable stand out distinctly by itself. Lucien Partridge felt himself
dominated by the personality of this amazing individual.
So keenly was the old man studying his visitor that he did not observe a
peculiar phenomenon that accompanied Lamont Cranston. Across the floor,
spreading like the spectral shape of a gigantic bat, lay a huge shadow. As
Cranston turned toward the chair which Partridge indicated, that shade took on
the aspect of a long, thin form, topped by a broad-brimmed hat.
Perhaps the changing shadows were due to the peculiar lighting of the
room. Whatever the case might have been, the final shade still remained after
Cranston had seated himself. It was then that Partridge turned an inquiring
gaze toward his visitor.

"I HAVE been wondering why you wished to see me, Mr. Cranston," Partridge
remarked. "It is not often that I receive visitors."
"So I have understood, Mr. Partridge," returned Cranston, in an even,
smooth tone. "Clifford Forster - Lawrence Guthrie - both were friends of mine.
I know that they have visited you."
A faint trace of suppressed worry appeared upon Partridge's countenance.
The old man quickly recovered from his betrayed emotion.
"Yes," he responded. "Both have been here. Poor Forster - I understand
that he is dead."
"Yes," returned Cranston, "Forster is dead. But I am surprised that you
have not mentioned Guthrie also. He died since Forster."
"Guthrie - dead!"
"Yes, he died - like Forster - on a train in Canada."
An expression of feigned regret appeared upon Partridge's face. He
hastened to make a cunning statement.
"Both were acquaintances of mine, Mr. Cranston. Merely acquaintances, you
understand."
"So the world believes," responded Cranston, with the faintest trace of a
smile. "But I happen to have obtained information of a different sort."
"Which is -"
"That both Forster and Guthrie were concerned in some enterprise which
caused them to deal with you - an enterprise that also involved the New Era
Mines."
"Where did you receive such information?" questioned Partridge coldly.
"Through my intended purchase of stock in the New Era Mines," responded
Cranston. "There I learned of certain negotiations upon which the success of
the mine depended.
"Forster evidently had contracts and other documents. These were not found
after his death. However, I was able to trace a connection with Guthrie and one
with yourself. That is why I have come to see you; in the hope that you can
tell me all the details."
"Mr. Cranston" - Partridge's eyes were gleaming in a friendly manner -
"there was a slight connection between both of those men and myself. I have not
made the fact public, because our slight negotiations were intended to be kept
private.
"Here, in my laboratory, I have made experiments in the refinement of
gold. Lawrence Guthrie learned of it. He included Clifford Forster to consider
taking an interest in those experiments. Our friendships were in the making.
Clifford Forster visited me here, some time before he died. Lawrence Guthrie
also called to see me on occasions."
"Did he come here after Forster's death?"
"I am not sure" - Partridge was speculative - "indeed, I scarcely think
so, Mr. Cranston."
"I must tell you an important fact," said Cranston, in a kindly tone.
"Lawrence Guthrie was suspected in the death of Clifford Forster. Hence
Guthrie's death has caused much comment."
A look of vague understanding seemed to trouble Lucien Partridge. Noting
it, Lamont Cranston hastened to add further remarks.
"Knowing that your name was connected with both men," he resumed, "I
thought it best to call on you - to learn if, by any chance, either of these
two had ever evidenced an enmity for the other."
"You are a police official?" quizzed Partridge.
"No," asserted Cranston, "I am merely a financier who is interested in the
success of mining enterprises. Due to my proposed purchase of New Era stock, I
am naturally concerned with the underlying affairs of that company.
"I have discovered traces of facts that I have told to no one. Indeed,
there is no connection whatever between myself and either Guthrie or Forster.
"I came from New York last night. I registered at the Westbrook Inn under
an assumed name. I do not want my presence here to be known to any one. I
waited until evening to call on you.
"After dining at the hotel, I was taxied here. I must go back to the inn
to get my luggage and leave on the late train for New York. But I was desirous
of making your acquaintance, for the reasons that I have mentioned."
"I understand," nodded Partridge. "Well, Mr. Cranston, time is too short
for us to discuss these matters now. If you had come earlier in the evening -
but it is nearing midnight. If I were sure that you alone knew of Forster's
connection with Guthrie -"
"I alone know that fact," interposed Cranston.
"Then," continued the old man, "I might be able to do something for you.
Could you arrange matters so that you could return here - say within a week or
ten days?"
"Gladly, Mr. Partridge."
"That would be excellent. You must allow me time to consider matters; to
locate correspondence which I had with Guthrie and Forster. Say nothing about
this matter until you hear from me."

LAMONT CRANSTON arose and bowed. He extended a card that bore his name and
address. Vignetti entered and aided the guest to don his coat and hat.
"I left the car waiting outside with the driver," explained Cranston. "So
I shall leave you now."
"One moment, Mr. Cranston," remarked Partridge hastily. "You have time to
see my laboratory. It is only a few steps away."
He led the way, with Cranston and Vignetti following. The shadows of the
three merged; but that cast by Cranston seemed to obliterate the others as they
entered the lighted laboratory.
Partridge spoke to Vignetti; the Corsican obtained his master's smock, and
brought a pair of gloves from the rear section of the table drawer.
"An excellent laboratory," commented Cranston, gazing about him.
"Yes," replied Partridge, as he donned the smock and pulled on the gloves.
"I always experiment at night."
"Then I shall bid you good night," said Cranston courteously, as he turned
toward the door.
"I shall go with you to the car," offered Partridge.
Cranston, tall and imposing, preceded Partridge across the hallway and
along the walk to the iron gate. As Partridge spoke to him, Cranston did not
appear to hear the old man. He kept on and reached the car. Partridge, with
Vignetti at his heels, hurried to the open window of the sedan.
Lamont Cranston pushed a package aside. He lifted something from the seat
beside him. Lucien Partridge, wishing him good speed, could not see his hands
in the dark until the moment came for the final parting.
"Good night," said the old man, extending his gloved hand, just as
Cranston ordered the driver to proceed.
"Good night," responded Cranston, as he reached to accept the clasp.
A curious smile was creeping over Partridge's features as he extended that
fatal hand, which bore the poisoned powder upon its glove. The clasp was made,
unnoticed by the driver. Suddenly the car shot forward; Partridge was forced to
release his clutch. He stepped back, to catch a glimpse of Cranston leaning from
the car, waving a belated good-by.
A sharp oath came from Lucien Partridge's lips. The cry was echoed by a
growl from Vignetti. For in that last flash, Partridge had seen something which
he had not noticed during the handclasp.
He knew now why Lamont Cranston's hands had not been visible in the car.
The discovery made him wild with rage. Upon entering the sedan, Cranston had
donned a pair of long black gloves!
Partridge's handshake that bore the creeping death had gone to naught!
Glove had met glove. Lamont Cranston - otherwise The Shadow - had frustrated
the shrewd purpose of the fiend!

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHADOW ON THE CLIFF

A TREMENDOUS fury had possessed Lucien Partridge. He realized that he had
been thwarted by a man whose subtle craftiness was more potent than his own.
Not an irate word; not the semblance of a threat had passed between him
and Lamont Cranston. The old man had intended to send forth another
unsuspecting victim. Instead, Cranston had outwitted him; yet, in turn, had
left no evidence that he had suspected the old man's design.
Partridge was in a quandary. Was Cranston merely a chance visitor, who
knew no more than he had said? Or was he a shrewd investigator who had come to
learn the secret of Partridge's application of the creeping death?
In view of their conversation, the first surmise must be correct. But,
instinctively, the old man sensed that Lamont Cranston had come to learn one
single fact; that forewarned, he had been forearmed.
In either case, it would be dangerous for this man to live. Knowing of
Forster's connection with Guthrie, and the double connection between those men
and Partridge, Cranston was a menace to the old man's schemes. Either
unwittingly or by design, he could spoil Partridge's mighty dreams of life,
death, and wealth.
Something must be done to intercept him before he could manage to leave
Westbrook Falls. Fitzroy - Forster - Guthrie - Armagnac - none of these
compared with Cranston as a danger. Turning, his face still livid with rage,
Partridge spied Vignetti. His wild expression became an insidious sneer.
"Vignetti!" he exclaimed. "This is your chance to-night. Remember Li Tan
Chang! That man who has gone" - Partridge pointed down the road - "take him as
you took the old Chinaman. Death! By the knife! The vendetta!"
The Corsican needed no further urging. Only one road led to the inn.
Vignetti had a car available. He knew the road well. He could easily overtake
the man who had eluded his master's clutches.
Three minutes later, Lucien Partridge was smiling grimly as he watched the
tail light of Vignetti's car disappearing around the turn in the road. This
would be bold work to-night; but Lucien Partridge did not fear the outcome.
A subtle killing would be best. Vignetti might engineer such a deed. But
even if the Corsican should attack Cranston in the open, the deed would not
reflect upon Lucien Partridge. Vignetti never failed with the knife. No matter
what might happen, his passion for the vendetta would cause him to maintain
silence.
The fact that Lucien Partridge's servant had madly slain in cold blood
could never be construed as a crime on the part of the kindly faced old man.
That face was not kindly as Partridge turned back toward his mansion; but when
he came into the light, the old man was smiling with a benign expression.

MEANWHILE, Vignetti was speeding to the pursuit. Driving wildly along the
road, the Corsican was striving to gain upon the car ahead. Within a mile, he
caught sight of the tail light up ahead. He kept on behind the sedan, waiting
for a spot where vengeance might be possible.
As they neared the bridge, luck favored Vignetti. A large, battered truck
was standing in the center of the road. The sedan was forced to stop. Vignetti,
drawing up slowly behind it, covered every bit of the car with his headlights.
He saw the driver get out and approach the truckmen.
Stopping his car, Vignetti leaped out and crept forward. This was his
opportunity. Cranston was in the back seat of the sedan. He could attack and
kill while the driver was expostulating with the truckmen. Then he could turn
and drive away before he was noticed.
Vignetti placed his hand upon the handle of the door. He slowly turned the
knob. He opened the door. He saw a form leaning in the darkened corner.
With a savage leap, Vignetti sprang forward with his knife. His swift
thrust entered that huddled shape. The blade passed through a nonresisting
object and buried itself into the cushions of the seat.
Vignetti sprawled upon the floor of the car. His stroke had gone through
nothingness!
Rising to his knees, the Corsican quickly withdrew his knife. He struck a
match and held it cupped in his hands.
What he had mistaken for a human being was nothing more than a coat,
topped by a hat upon its collar. The dummy object was stuffed with a sheet of
wrapping paper!
Bewildered, Vignetti leaped from the sedan and closed the door behind him.
He rushed up to the driver, who was returning from his argument with the
truckmen. The fellow seemed surprised to see Vignetti.
"What's the matter?" he questioned.
"That one - where is he?" Vignetti's words were uttered in broken English.
"In the back seat of the car," was the response. "I spoke to him when I
got out."
"He spoke to you?"
"I spoke to him. He didn't answer."
"No - not now is he there."
The driver opened the rear door of the sedan. He saw the coat and hat. He
reached out, and the garments dropped as he touched them. He looked at
Vignetti, puzzled.
"What're you doing here?" he questioned.
"Mr. Partridge - he send me," explained Vignetti. "He say important for
this one to come back. Back to see. I open door. Man not there. Where?"
"It beats me!" declared the driver, as he rummaged around the back seat.
"This is his hat and coat all right. This paper - say that must be off the
package he brought with him. Left his hat and coat and took the package. It
beats me!"
"He no pay?"
"Sure he paid me - plenty. I made a deal to take him up to Partridge's and
back. But I can't figure when he got out. You didn't see him?"
"I no see."
The driver shrugged his shoulders. The truckmen were moving their vehicle
to the side of the road. The driver jumped in the front seat and went by.
"Lucky you got by, cap," one of the truckmen called to him. "We're stuck
here for a while. Guess we're going to get started, but it will be tough if we
bust again before we get to the bridge. This road is too blamed narrow."
Vignetti was not interested in the truckmen's troubles. He was wondering
what had become of Lamont Cranston. He realized suddenly that the man must have
left the sedan within a mile of Partridge's place.

FUMING, Vignetti hurried back to his own car, and managed to turn it
around in the narrow road. He sped on toward Partridge's and shot along the
road beside the gorge. Watching on both sides, he sought any sign of a person
in the darkness. He saw no one. When he pulled up in front of the gate, he saw
that Partridge had gone inside.
Running to the house, Vignetti encountered his master. In a wild outburst
of Italian dialect, he told his story. Lucien Partridge evidenced a sour
expression.
"That man is dangerous, Vignetti," he declared. "He suspected you as well
as me. We must be alert to-night. Come."
He led the way to the gate. There, the old man listened, as though
expecting to hear a sound amid the dark. The lights of Vignetti's car showed
the road toward the gorge. The old man remained in statuesque pose, staring in
that direction.
Whatever Lamont Cranston had done, he had certainly not returned to this
spot. Yet Partridge's surmise that the visitor was still in the vicinity was
not an incorrect one. For while the old man waited at the gate, a tall, silent
figure was approaching the edge of the river chasm, around the corner from the
range of the automobile lights.
The night was dull and cloudy. Even at the edge of the gorge, the tall
black figure was scarcely visible. The rays of the moon were obscured by
fleeting clouds.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. Calling Vignetti's turn - deceiving
the driver who thought he still had a passenger - the specter of the night had
dropped from the sedan, leaving the hat and coat that he had worn. The package
which he had opened had contained the outer garments which he now wore - the
long black cloak and the broad-brimmed slouch hat.
Reaching beneath his cloak, The Shadow drew forth four disklike objects.
Flat surfaces that bent as he twisted them, he attached these articles to his
hands and feet.
Stooping, The Shadow thrust his head and shoulders to the very edge of the
dim cliff. Then, inch by inch, foot by foot, he let his body go over the
precipice a few yards from the extended end of the iron fence that bounded
Lucien Partridge's domain.
A few minutes later, a momentary clearing of the clouds showed a black
form clinging to the sheer wall of the great gorge! Suspended over nothingness,
The Shadow was creeping along the cliff, past the projection of the barring
fence!
The moonlight passed. The only sign of The Shadow's progress was the slow,
squidgy sound of the rubber suction cups that he had attached to his hands and
feet.
Like a fly upon the side of the wall, this amazing personage was feeling
his way past the barrier that prevented entrance into Partridge's domain!
No human fly could have clung to that sheer surface of granite. Even with
the suction cups, it was a task of the utmost danger. Had one hand or foot
failed to force a purchase, death would have been the result, for the upper
edge of the cliff was overhanging at the spot where The Shadow now rested.
At times that clinging, moving figure swayed. The strain was terrific. Yet
The Shadow kept on, until he was clear of the fence, which to touch would have
caused death or given the alarm. Then up the precipitous wall he went, nearer
and nearer to the top.
The clouds cleared suddenly. The moon was directly overhead. The Shadow
did not move. The strange light caused his vertical body to cast a long black
line straight down the wall of the cliff.
For The Shadow, himself, was the nucleus of that strange shadow, a narrow
patch of black, many feet in length. Had Alfredo Morales been watching from
across the gorge, he would not have believed that shade to be a living being.
The sky darkened. The Shadow, secure amid the blackness of night, moved
upward. He passed the fringe of the cliff. On the very brink, regardless of his
proximity to the mighty drop, he paused to remove the suction disks that had
served him so well in this amazing journey.
Rising, the being in black stepped over the insulated wire that connected
the ends of the electrified fence. Then his tall form merged with the darkness
of the lawn.
The most formidable barrier to Lucien Partridge's domain had been
conquered. The one spot from which the old man had believed he was perfectly
protected was the very spot that The Shadow had chosen for his entry into this
sphere of action.
The moon was shining again, but its cold rays revealed no living form upon
the tree-sprinkled lawn. The Shadow was somewhere; but his presence could not be
detected.
Out of darkness The Shadow had come; into darkness had he returned!

CHAPTER XVIII

THE HAND OF DOOM

"PUT the car away, Vignetti."
Lucien Partridge uttered the order in a querulous tone. He had begun to
realize that it would be useless to stand here expecting Lamont Cranston to
return.
The Corsican entered the car and backed it. The headlights gleamed across
the road and suddenly revealed a man who was standing on the other side. The
stranger made a motion as though to dodge the illumination; then changed his
mind and walked boldly into the light.
It was not Lamont Cranston. The man's stature showed that fact. The
stranger was shorter than Cranston, stockier in build, and swarthy of
complexion.
"Who is there?" demanded Lucien Partridge.
"Mr. Partridge?" came the gruff reply.
"That's my name," responded the old man. "What do you want?"
The man came close. He made no sign of greeting - which was fortunate, for
Partridge still wore the fatal gloves. Instead, he merely stated his identity in
an apologetic tone.
"My name is Vic Marquette," he said. "I came up here to see you, but I
lost my way. I wasn't sure whether or not this was the right place."
"Marquette?" questioned the scientist harshly. "I don't know the name.
What is the purpose of this visit?"
"A friendly call, Mr. Partridge," asserted Marquette calmly. "I've been
trying to find you, because I've got something to discuss with you. Perhaps
this will identify me better."
He drew back his coat to reveal his secret-service badge. Partridge saw
the metal gleam in the light from the car. He bowed courteously, in his
characteristic role of friendliness.
"Come right into the house, Mr. Marquette," he said. "I shall be glad to
talk to you there."
They went into the mansion, through the hall, to the laboratory. There,
Partridge carefully removed his gloves, drawing each one off with the aid of
the other, his hands touching nothing but the wrists. He doffed his smock, and
laid it beside the gloves.
"I was beginning an experiment," he remarked. "It was interrupted by the
return of my servant, Vignetti. I sent him down to the station on an errand
which he failed to perform. A trustworthy man, Vignetti, but, like all of them,
he lacks perfection."
Vic Marquette was studying the old man carefully. Lucien Partridge smiled
and motioned to his visitor to come into the library. Ensconced there,
Partridge looked questioningly at the secret-service man.

"I GUESS you wonder why I'm here," began Marquette. "Well, I'm going to
give you the details, Mr. Partridge. There's something phony taking place in
this vicinity; and as near as I can make out, it may be directed against you.
Have you any enemies, Mr. Partridge?"
"Enemies?" The old man's echo denoted surprise. "I have only friends. This
amazes me."
"Well," declared Marquette bluntly, "there are some dangerous people not
far from here. I found that out, nearly to my sorrow. In meeting them, I
inferred that they were none too friendly toward you. So that's why I'm here
to-night."
Partridge was nodding in a dazed sort of way. This idea that he might have
enemies appeared to perturb the old man. It gave new confidence to Vic Marquette.
Since he had made his bold gesture, he felt convinced that no danger could
be lurking here. As a secret-service man, looking into the affairs of persons
who were inimical to Lucien Partridge, he felt a sense of strong security.
"Let me go back to the beginning," said Marquette, in an open manner.
"First of all, one of my companions in the secret service died very suddenly,
not so long ago. His name was Jerry Fitzroy. Did you ever hear of him?"
"Fitzroy?" Partridge did not appear to recognize the name.
"I worked with Fitzroy," resumed Marquette. "I learned that he had been to
Westbrook Falls. So I came to this vicinity to investigate. I was watching for
suspicious persons. I found one."
"Ah! Who was he?"
"I do not know his name. He was a bearded man who appeared to be a
Frenchman. I saw him at the inn."
"A bearded man" - Partridge was thoughtful" - a bearded Frenchman. Was the
beard very dark?"
"It was black."
"Ah! It may be the same one!"
"Which one?"
"The man whom Vignetti saw outside the grounds. I am an inventor, Mr.
Marquette. I have chosen this remote and isolated spot so that no one will
interfere with my work. I keep the place properly guarded. We are naturally
suspicious of strangers. Such a man as you describe was unquestionably in this
neighborhood."
"I am not surprised to learn that," declared Marquette. "I followed that
man one night. His trail led to a cottage in the woods."
"Near here?" asked Partridge, in an annoyed tone.
"On the other side of the river," responded Marquette. "Near the hotel.
When I approached the cottage, I was seized by two men who dragged me into the
cottage. There were two men there. One was the bearded Frenchman; the other
appeared to be a Spaniard. They demanded to know my business."
"You told them?"
"No."
"That may have been wise."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I thought that they intended to keep me a prisoner.
Instead, they put me in charge of one of their men - a greasy-faced villain -
who was ordered to shove me off a cliff into an old quarry."
"How did you escape?"
"Well, the fellow changed his mind. Under persuasion. I suppose that he
reported that he had killed me. So it was wisdom on my part to avoid that
cottage for a while. But I did not conclude my investigations. Instead, I
followed a new lead that brought me here."
"That brought you here?"
"Yes. In quizzing me, one of the two men happened to mention the name
Partridge. After I had escaped, I made inquiries, and learned that you lived in
this vicinity.
"The expression of my captors appeared quite hostile toward you. So I
thought that an interview between us might be to our mutual advantage."

MARQUETTE'S words caused Partridge to conjecture. The old man's thoughts
approached alarm. He had not suspected that Pierre Armagnac had friends here.
The Frenchman's visit had been accepted by Partridge as a bluff; for he
had doubted the statements which Armagnac had made concerning operations in
foreign countries. Now, it appeared that others were associated with Armagnac's
purpose; and they were still free to continue whatever work they contemplated.
For the first time, Lucien Partridge was apprehensive for his gold. He had
detected Armagnac's interest in where the gold was kept; in fact, Partridge had
led Armagnac to that spot so that he might study the Frenchman's reaction. But
he had been fooled when he had believed that Armagnac had come here alone.
Partridge's thoughts turned to Lamont Cranston. He doubted that Cranston
could be connected with Armagnac. Of one thing Partridge felt certain: that he
had managed to keep his affairs segregated. No, Cranston was a menace from
another quarter.
What of this man - Marquette? Unquestionably, he was a secret-service
agent - the same as Fitzroy, who had come here to make cautious inquiries, not
suspecting that Partridge was the brain behind a world-wide plot. Until now,
Partridge had felt security in his ability to pass himself as a friendly,
harmless old man.
A glance at Marquette convinced him that the ruse would still work so far
as this one individual was concerned.
Armagnac, of course, could not have been deceived; but now Armagnac was
dead - one less enemy with whom to contend. Cranston - there was no question
about him. So long as he lived, Cranston would be a menace.
But Partridge was not dealing with Cranston at present. Marquette was the
danger of the moment.
The secret-service man was waiting for Partridge to speak. So far,
Partridge had evidenced no suspicion. Hesitation would produce suspicion.
Partridge realized that as long as his enemies came one by one, they were
playing into his hands. Marquette, though unsuspicious, was an enemy; for he
was seeking to trace the cause that had brought death to Jerry Fitzroy.
Marquette must be lulled. That was Partridge's dominating thought. Quickly
the old man shifted other matters from his mind. He returned to the primitive
plan that he had found so effective in the past. Marquette knew too much. It
would be best to dispose of him before he learned more.
In conformity to his usual practice, Partridge began to prepare his victim
for the slaughter. He adopted a pose that indicated deep concern. When he spoke,
he lowered his crackly voice as though speaking in the strictest confidence.
"Danger has always threatened me," he said. "That is because men have
sought to steal the products of my inventive mind. Sometimes plots have been
made against my life. This house of mine, with its great fence about it - this
is no eccentric idea. It is my protection against those whom I know to be
dangerous."
Vic Marquette listened intently. The old man's speech seemed truthful.
Marquette knew that there were men across the river who were dangerous and
inimical to Lucien Partridge.
He made a mental comparison between his adventure there and his reception
here. On the face of it, Lucien Partridge appeared to be a persecuted man,
apprehensive of the designs of men who were unquestionably villains.
"I am being preyed upon" - Partridge's words were vague and rambling - "by
persons whom I have never seen; by men whose identities I do not know. Only some
good fortune has kept me from disaster."
As the old man talked on in the same vein, Vic wondered if The Shadow
might be the one responsible for the good fortune that had saved Lucien
Partridge from harm. In his wheedling speech, the old man had luckily struck
upon a trend of thought that was producing a strong effect upon Marquette.
"If I were sure" - Partridge's words were tinged with artfully feigned
doubt - "that you were a friend, I would tell you of much that I have suffered.
I must be cautious in what I say, for my enemies will stop at nothing.
"Would it be possible for me to meet you somewhere other than here? Some
place where I am not afraid of spies - where I am not worried about my
inventions?"
"Where would you suggest?"
"I can come to New York. All would be safe here, for I can trust the men
who work for me. But it would not be wise for us to travel there together.
Suppose" - the old man was thoughtful as he proposed the plan - "that you leave
on the early-morning train; then I can come later in the day, bringing only
Vignetti with me."
Marquette controlled a sudden suspicion that arose in his mind. He
formulated a quick plan.
Let Lucien Partridge think that he had left Westbrook Falls. He could
remain here, watching, to make sure that the old man would go to New York as he
promised. Then Vic could follow.

THE secret-service man produced a card from his pocket and wrote the name
of a hotel upon it. He handed the card to Lucien Partridge. The old man read
the address.
"Meet me there," said Vic, "at ten o'clock to-morrow evening. I shall
prove conclusively that I am the man I represent myself to be. By cooperating
with me, you will be able to protect yourself against all who wish you harm."
This time, it was Lucien Partridge who was deceived. He saw no subterfuge
in Marquette's statement. He was convinced that his visitor intended to go to
New York on the early train. The old man glanced at the clock.
"It is nearly three," he said. "The Limited arrives in Westbrook Falls at
four thirty. I shall have Vignetti drive you to the station."
Vic knew that he must accept the offer in order to avoid suspicion. That
could work to his advantage. The ticket office would not be open. He would let
Vignetti see him get on the train; then he would get off at the first stop, and
ride back on a westbound local.
"Come," said Lucien Partridge. "I shall summon Vignetti." He led the way
through the hall.
In the silence of that large mansion, Vic Marquette sensed that many men
were present - guards who served Lucien Partridge and were in readiness for any
attack upon this place.
They found Vignetti in the laboratory. Lucien Partridge gave a sign. The
Corsican helped the old man don his smock. As he drew on his gloves, Partridge
was talking in Italian; then he turned to Marquette.
"I am going back to work," he said with a smile. "I have instructed
Vignetti to take you to the station. I shall say good-by."
A clock in the corner of the laboratory was pointing to five minutes of
three. Lucien Partridge extended his gloved hand to bid Marquette good-by. The
secret-service man stepped forward to accept the friendly clasp.
Lucien Partridge was smiling. Vignetti, behind Marquette, was leering. The
secret-service man saw only Partridge - not the other. He sensed no danger in
the old man's amiable parting action.
For Lucien Partridge's smile was lulling and kindly. It was the smile he
always wore when he reached forth to deal the creeping death upon an
unsuspecting victim!
Vic Marquette was ready to grasp the hand of doom!

CHAPTER XIX

THE SHADOW INTERVENES

AS Vic Marquette's hand was about to enter the deadly clutch of Lucien
Partridge's poisoned glove, a startling sound broke the tense silence that
existed in the old man's laboratory.
The strident ringing of a loud alarm came as an unexpected token of
approaching danger. The ringing broke and was repeated; throughout the distant
portions of the house, other bells jingled as in answer.
The effect of this interruption was instantaneous. Lucien Partridge
paused, with hand outstretched, his eyes staring in amazement.
Vic Marquette, startled by the noise, dropped back instinctively, dropping
his arm to his side. A surprised scowl appeared upon Vignetti's face as the
Corsican looked quickly toward the door.
The sudden ringing of the bell had brought salvation to Vic Marquette.
Because of it, he had escaped the handclasp proffered by Lucien Partridge. The
timely intervention had temporarily freed the secret-service man from the
menace of the creeping death.
Heavy footsteps were pounding down the stairs. Partridge's henchmen were
answering the alarm. Their prompt response inspired the old man to action.
Forgetful of Marquette's presence, he uttered a cry that explained all.
"The workhouse!" Partridge shouted. "Some one has entered there! The
alarm! Hurry, every one - there is not a moment to lose!"
He motioned to Vignetti as he passed him in a rush to the door. The
Corsican hesitated momentarily, his eye on Vic Marquette; then, observing that
the secret-service man was heading for the door also, Vignetti joined in the
mad rush.
Flashlights glimmered through the dark as the rescue squad burst from a
side door of the house and dashed across the lawn toward the workhouse. Vic
Marquette was in the center of the mad surge, unquestioned by the scientist's
henchmen, who supposed him to be a friend of the old man.
Marquette let others pass him; at the rear of the crowd, his presence
passed virtually unnoticed.
Lucien Partridge, springing forward with amazing agility, was the first to
reach the goal. He stopped abruptly at the door of the workhouse, only to see
that the steel-clad barrier was closed.
Vignetti arrived at his master's shoulder. The Corsican muttered excited
words. Partridge, suddenly realizing their import, nodded. He tugged at his
gloves, removing them swiftly, but with care. He let them fall upon the ground
and dropped his smock with them.
Not for one moment did the old man take his eyes from the metal-sheathed
door of the workhouse. His men, armed with revolvers, were scattering about the
little building, prowling the edge of the cliff, peering amid the trees. The
vague ringing of alarms, back in the mansion, had ended.

SOME one had tampered with that door - but where was the intruder? In a
space of less than five minutes, the guards had swept through the area
surrounding the shack. They were coming up now to report that they had
discovered nothing.
Partridge was glaring at his men. Vignetti was close beside the old man.
Marquette was standing a short distance in the background.
The situation was indeed an odd one. Whoever had tampered with the door of
the workhouse had somehow managed to approach the little building without
entering the grounds by way of the iron fence. That surrounding barrier was
also protected by an alarm, which, through some mysterious cause, had not
sounded.
The door of the workhouse was closed; its strong lock indicated that the
intruder had been frightened away. He could not have escaped by way of the
fence, with its electric wiring. He could not have descended the cliff. He
could not have sought refuge in the big mansion, a hundred yards away, for the
surging rescuers had come from there with remarkable promptness.
Lucien Partridge was dumfounded. He stood amid his men, wondering what
orders to give them. In the midst of his dilemma, he chanced to spy Vic
Marquette. The secret-service man was endeavoring to be inconspicuous.
Vignetti saw Partridge glance in the direction of the secret-service man.
The Corsican's hand stole within his jacket. As Vignetti drew the gleaming
blade of his knife into view, Partridge saw the action and uttered approving
words in Italian.
Vic Marquette must die; and in the midst of this incredible situation,
Lucien Partridge thought no more of artistry in dealing death. The old man had
betrayed the location of his treasure vault. Marquette had heard his cry that
had ended with the words: "The gold!" Now, the secret-service man had learned
too much.
The thought was flashing through Partridge's mind that some one must have
entered the grounds unseen when Marquette had been admitted. The secret-service
man must surely have subordinates!
Now was no time for diplomacy. Marquette must die swiftly, by the knife.
Such was Partridge's decision, and it conformed with Vignetti's intent. Kill
the leader first. Then find the others and slay them!

VIGNETTI, crafty in his manner, turned his body so that the knife was
hidden from Marquette. He sidled toward the secret-service man.
Marquette observed the action, and began to move away. This was
exasperating to Lucien Partridge. With a cry of rage, the old man waved his arm
toward Marquette, and shouted orders to his armed men.
"Get him! Kill -"
The command ended abruptly. Partridge stood like a statue. The other men,
startled, gazed in surprise. Even Vignetti paused, while Vic Marquette, his
hand drawing an automatic from his pocket, budged no farther.
From across the river had come the deep boom of a muffled cannon shot. The
echoes of its dull blast seemed to reverberate through the air, commanding
instant silence. Like the first shot in the beginning of a mighty bombardment,
that report inspired awe among the men who heard it.
Something whistled in the air overhead as a huge projectile completed its
tall arc above the listening men. Eyes looked aloft and instinctively turned
toward the mansion, a hundred yards away. Time slowed to split-seconds as the
missile completed its course toward destruction.
Then came the climax. With a crash, a huge bomb dropped from the night and
landed squarely upon the doomed mansion.
A terrific explosion rocked the walls of the old frame structure. The
entire roof of the doomed building was hurled high into the air. The walls
spread outward, and seemed to scatter as though impelled by the mighty burst of
flame that accompanied them.
Men staggered as the reverberation shook the ground. They fell helplessly.
Chunks of hurtling debris were cast almost to the spot where these men had
fallen.
Partridge - Vignetti - Marquette - all had lost thought of human enmity in
this tremendous moment of amazement.
They and the others about them clutched the ground as though fearing it
would cave in beneath them. Like a thunderbolt from the blue, the arrival of
the bomb had stunned the entire group. All eyes were focused only on the
wreckage of the mansion.
Alfredo Morales had planned well. His calculations had been correct. The
bomb had struck the big house perfectly. Its effect had been instantaneous. No
person within that building could possibly have survived.
The wreckage was a holocaust. Fire had broken out immediately. Long
tongues of flame threw a gruesome light across the lawn, and showed the pallid
faces of the men who still lay helpless.
Alfredo Morales had planned to deal destruction and death. That bomb,
discharged from the mortar by Manuel, had done its work. But it had
accomplished only one half of its purpose.
Destruction was complete; but death had not followed. Those whom Morales
had doomed were not entrapped as he had designed. All those within the mansion
had been drawn from the danger spot by the intervention of The Shadow.
He had used the alarm to bring them forth five minutes before the bomb had
been sent on its way. Morales and his men were coming. Partridge and his men
were here.
A loud, mocking laugh came from the door of the workhouse where the gold
was kept. It was a laugh of triumph, yet its sinister tones were forbidding.
That laugh was more terrible than the crash of the devastating bomb. It
inspired more awe than did the sight of the flaming mansion.
It was the laugh of The Shadow.

CHAPTER XX

ENEMIES BATTLE

LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was the first to stare in the direction of the workhouse.
His action was copied by the others. Even Vignetti forgot his urge to slay Vic
Marquette in his desire to see the source of that taunting laugh.
The door of the workhouse was open. Framed within it stood The Shadow. His
tall, cloak-clad form was clearly revealed by the brightness from the burning
mansion. To the startled eyes that saw him, The Shadow was a superbeing whose
workmanship had brought these strange events to the domain of Lucien Partridge.
Silence gripped the men who watched. They knew that eyes were gazing at
them from the cover of the broad-brimmed hat. They saw two black-gloved hands,
each holding a powerful automatic.
They were twelve opposed to one - Partridge and his men - yet none dared
move to attack this weird personage who had come to awe them.
The Shadow spoke. His words carried an eerie mockery. Those words, like
the presence of The Shadow, caused men to quail. The Shadow's tones were
addressed to Lucien Partridge.
"Murderer" - The Shadow's words were cold - "your doom has arrived. Your
vile schemes are ended. Slayer of Fitzroy" - Marquette gasped as he heard the
name - "of Forster - of Guthrie - of Armagnac - you failed to-night!
"Your failure spelled your doom. No more will you give the fatal handshake
that lies upon the gloves beside you. The poisoned powder of the Orient will
never again deliver the creeping death!
"Your laboratory is demolished. Your furnaces are ruined. Your plan to
flood the world with synthetic gold will go no further. To you will not even
belong the vast stores of real gold that lie in the vault beneath me. That gold
is guarded - by - The Shadow!"
The voice ended its impressive tones. Not a man had moved while The Shadow
had been speaking. The climax of the revealing words was the announcement of
identity that brought chills of fear to those who listened.
To Vic Marquette, The Shadow's statement was of the utmost moment. It
cleared the cloud of mystery that had befogged the secret-service man in his
investigation. It brought a flood of understanding thoughts to Vic's brain.
This was the source of the synthetic gold that had entered the coinage of
the world! This was where Fitzroy had come to investigate! Lucien Partridge was
the man who dealt the creeping death!
Vic saw the gloves upon the ground. He realized that he, too, was to have
been a victim!
Forster and Guthrie - Vic had read of them in the newspapers. He did not
know the details of their connection with old Partridge; but he realized that
all could soon be learned.

LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was on his feet. The old man was shaking his clenched
fist at the figure in black. He cursed The Shadow with venom; then cried out
the threat which was in his evil brain.
"You have spoken too much!" he shouted. "You shall die - you who call
yourself The Shadow! You shall never leave the spot where you are standing!"
Choking with rage, the old man was about to order his men to the attack.
He was sure that with their superior numbers they could conquer this menacing
foe. Before Partridge could speak, The Shadow laughed again.
"You do not menace me," said the gibing voice of the black-clad being. "It
is you who are menaced. Your enemies approach you at this very moment!"
With a taunting peal of mirth, The Shadow stepped back into the gloom of
the little workhouse. The steel-clad door clanged shut.
A cry of triumph burst from Partridge's lips. The Shadow was retreating!
There, in the little house, he was trapped! Now was the opportunity to blast
The Shadow's refuge place!
Turning, Partridge waved his men on. His plan was to surround the little
building; to riddle its wooden walls with bullets; to burn the shack with the
doomed man within it. But before Partridge could speak, a shot rang out from
across the lawn. A bullet whistled by the startled group of men.
Alfredo Morales and his crew had entered by breaking down the gate. They
were coming for the gold. They had seen the group of men beside the work-house
and they were opening an attack!

IT needed no command for Partridge's men to respond. They did not know the
identity of these attackers. They did not care. They must fight to live.
Scattering for cover, they returned the fire.
The lurid glare from the flaming mansion made a mighty spectacle of the
startling skirmish that broke loose upon the lawn. Morales, though dumfounded
to find men alive here, did not dare to hesitate. Partridge, his rage a fury,
was determined to resist at all cost.
One of Partridge's henchmen fell dead at the old man's feet. Partridge
seized his gun and leaped for cover. Behind a protecting tree, he joined in the
gunfire that was crackling from all sides.
Partridge's force numbered a dozen men. Morales had brought approximately
the same number. It was an equal conflict between two evil forces.
For once, The Shadow disdained to play a part in a hectic fray. He had
brought about this situation. He had matched the opposing forces. It was not
through pity that he had saved Lucien Partridge and his henchmen from the doom
that Alfredo Morales had planned.
Instead, The Shadow had drawn them from the marked mansion so that they
might oppose Morales. Craftily, The Shadow had brought trouble to both forces.
He had done nothing to prevent the firing of the bomb from the mortar.
Thus destruction had come to Partridge's great house where crime was fostered.
The Shadow had lured Morales into the conflict which now raged; thus had he
ruined the Argentinian's plans.
The fray was becoming a fight to death. Those who were engaged deserved
death. They showed no mercy in their actions. Every time a man fell wounded,
his enemies used his body as a target. No quarter was asked, and none was
given. Both sides knew that death awaited them either way.
The conflict, equal at the start, suddenly changed. The tide was turning
to favor Lucien Partridge. He and his men, although surprised at the outset,
knew the terrain. The circumstances that had forced them to cover proved to
their advantage.
The open space of the lawn was covered with the fallen forms of the men
who had come with Morales. Shots were resounding from trees and bushes,
discharged by Partridge's men. They were targets only when they fired. Between
shots, they were difficult marks to reach.
The battle ended suddenly. Only Morales and three of his men remained,
with bullets harassing them from every quarter. Jose was beside his master. A
bullet laid him low.
Seeing Jose fall, Morales realized that disaster was upon him. With a cry
to his men, he fled across the lawn, his companions close behind him.
The way had been closed by three of Partridge's men who had moved in that
direction. They sprang out of hiding and leaped upon the fleeing men.
Morales shot one of his enemies dead; then he staggered and fell face
foremost. His companions dropped a moment later. The men who had killed them
riddled their bodies with bullets.

THE attackers were annihilated. Yet Lucien Partridge's forces had suffered
heavily. Only a few remained unwounded, among them the old man and Vignetti.
They were under cover, away from the territory close beside the workhouse.
One man had lain safe through the entire fray. He was Vic Marquette. The
secret-service man had leaped for shelter beside the workhouse. He had fired no
shots; hence his presence had passed unnoticed.
The flames of the mansion died suddenly, as though they were no longer
needed. In the gloom, Vic Marquette emerged slowly from his hiding place. His
plan was to reach the gloves and smock that Lucien Partridge had cast aside; to
carry the gloves within the smock and escape with them as evidence.
But as Marquette moved forward, another man spied him. It was Vignetti.
The Corsican, unwounded, crept out from the shelter of a bush to intercept the
secret-service man.
Vignetti was not sure that it was Marquette he saw. Hence the Corsican did
not fire. Instead, he carried his sharp knife.
A burst of flame from the dying embers of the old mansion threw a new glow
upon the scene. Lucien Partridge spied Marquette. The old man fired. His bullet
wounded the secret-service man. Partridge pressed the trigger again. There was
no response. The last cartridge had been discharged.
Now Vignetti was leaping forward to finish the work that Partridge had
begun. Marquette saw the menacing foeman. He raised his gun, but his hand
trembled from a pain that gripped his shoulder. Vignetti knocked the automatic
from Marquette's hand.
Down went Vic Marquette, with Vignetti above him. The Corsican's face was
aflame with reflected light. It was the hideous face of a fiend.
Up went the gleaming knife. Vic Marquette was helpless. He closed his eyes
as he saw the wicked blade ready to descend. Vignetti was poised for the fatal
stroke!

CHAPTER XXI

THE SHADOW FIGHTS

BEFORE Vignetti's upraised hand could drive the knife blade down into the
heart of Vic Marquette, a shot blazed forth from an unexpected place.
The door of the workhouse had opened. The Shadow's aim was trained upon
the murderous Corsican.
The unerring hand did not fail. The bullet from The Shadow's automatic
struck Vignetti's right arm. The wounded limb collapsed; the knife fell
harmlessly upon the ground beside Marquette's body.
With staring eyes, Marquette saw what had happened. The timely rescue gave
him his opportunity. It was one wounded man against another.
With a mighty heave, the secret-service man threw the Corsican from him.
Vignetti's left hand made a desperate clutch. The two men locked in a struggle.
Marquette's plight was apparent. Despite the fact that he had gained a
temporary advantage over Vignetti, the outcome still was hopeless.
At the door of the workhouse, safely away from gunfire, The Shadow could
pick off Vignetti at the first opportunity. On the other hand, Lucien Partridge
and his few remaining men, hidden in darkness, could direct their fire upon
Marquette.
Tense moments followed. Whichever won the struggle, Vignetti or Marquette,
the other would be prey to an avenging shot. Seemingly, both were doomed.
Partridge and his men were afraid to shoot at the writhing forms for fear
of striking Vignetti. The Shadow, who could easily have clipped the Corsican,
desisted because Vignetti's death would mean the end of Vic Marquette!
The struggling men kept on their weakened battle. Neither one seemed
capable of gaining an advantage. Both had reached a defensive stage.
Figures were slinking through the dark, keeping away from the workhouse
door where they knew death lurked. Partridge and the others were wary; and they
were taking sure positions from which they could slay Vic Marquette, should he
overpower Vignetti.
The gleaming eyes of The Shadow pierced the darkness. They seemed to sense
the logical spots where the foemen were located. Then, as the situation reached
its most crucial stage, The Shadow acted!
He chose a moment when the flaring mansion dulled spasmodically. Like a
weird phantom, he swept silently from his place of safety. So perfectly did The
Shadow choose his time that he had virtually reached the fighting men before
Partridge and his minions saw him.
A chance burst of flame from the mansion revealed the tall, advancing
figure. A being of black - a stalking form - with a long, grotesque shadow
stretched across the lawn. That was the sight that the watchers saw!
Marquette and Vignetti were struggling side by side. Each was working
desperately. The Corsican had clutched his knife again, holding it in his left
hand. The secret-service man, likewise utilizing his left hand, was vainly
endeavoring to bring his automatic into play.

THEN The Shadow was upon them. With one swift motion, he propelled
Vignetti clear of Marquette's body. Vic saw only the rolling form of the
helpless Corsican. He fired his gun point-blank, his elbow resting on the
ground. Three shots resounded in quick succession. Vignetti lay still.
Marquette was rising to his knees when he heard a voice hissing in his
ear. The words were plain. The Shadow was ordering him to the shelter of the
workhouse. With hands of steel, The Shadow gripped Marquette and plunged him on
his way to safety.
The act was none too soon. A fusillade of shots burst forth from
encircling spots. Partridge's men were blazing at the spot where two targets
had been, but only one remained, now that The Shadow had hurled Marquette from
the danger zone.
The Shadow staggered, but did not fall. Instead, he swerved in his course
and zigzagged across the lawn, forming an eccentric course that defied accurate
fire.
He was wounded; that was plain, for he had been unable to protect himself
while aiding Vic Marquette. But now he was possessed of an uncanny faculty that
enabled him to elude new bullets.
A wild shot was aimed at Vic Marquette, who was scrambling to the
workhouse. That shot was answered - by The Shadow!
Turning, his body merging with the ground, The Shadow had raised his left
hand. With eagle eye he had spotted the exact place from which the shot had
flashed. His perfect aim sought out the man who had delivered the shot. That
marksman was felled by The Shadow's bullet.
Again, the black-clad hand pressed the trigger. This time a bullet sped
toward a foeman who was dimly outlined in a fringe of dull light. The second
enemy fell.
Now The Shadow's course had changed. He was invisible as he skirted the
lawn, lost in the dying rays of flickering light. Men fired wildly. Each flash
received a prompt response.
With his right hand useless, The Shadow was working with his left alone.
Both hands were trained to perfect accuracy.
When this strange contest had begun, Lucien Partridge and five henchmen
were still capable of battle. Five marksmen were aiming for The Shadow.
Partridge, alone, was not firing.
Now, in reply to wildly directed shots, The Shadow had fired five times.
Every bullet had found a mark. There was a pause. The form of The Shadow was
momentarily revealed. Two spasmodic shots came from the only henchman of the
five who had not been incapacitated or killed. One man alone had suffered only
a minor wound.
Those shots were futile. They were also fatal to the man who delivered
them. Deliberately, The Shadow aimed and his unerring finger dispatched a
leaden messenger that found its resting place in the heart of the skulking
foeman.
Silence followed, while Vic Marquette, now sprawled upon the floor of the
workhouse, stared forth upon the field of battle. He caught one flash of The
Shadow's form as it glided into darkness and seemed to sway uncertainly.

SINCE the beginning of the conflict, The Shadow had received no wounds
other than those which had first been inflicted on him. In retaliation, he had
fought one-handed against the surrounding odds. His strategy, his marksmanship;
both had been unfailing.
His twisting course had taken him toward the edge of the cliff. As
Marquette gazed, he fancied that he saw the blackened form loom uncertainly
against the dawn-flushed sky. For early day was breaking upon the scene of
carnage.
Marquette's vision was not at fault. The Shadow had neared the cliff. Now,
from the last bush in a clump of shrubbery, Marquette saw another form emerging
- a form that crouched as it was silhouetted in the early light.
Vic shouted a warning. It was unnecessary.
The Shadow, too, had seen that lone form threatening him. With uncanny
precision, he had directed his course toward the only spot where danger still
lingered. The one man who had kept wise silence in the battle was waiting the
close approach of The Shadow.
That man was Lucien Partridge.
Marquette saw the old man's hand swing upward. Then The Shadow was upon
Lucien Partridge. With time too short to beat the old man's aim, The Shadow had
leaped with a mighty spring.
Partridge's gun was discharged upward as The Shadow's left hand struck the
old man's arm. Then the two were locked in grim embrace.
The Shadow and the fiend had met!

CHAPTER XXII

ON THE BRINK

THE verge of the cliff was clothed in dawning light. There, two figures
had united in a struggle that would mean death to one or both. One hundred feet
beneath, the river foamed its way through the gorge, between rock-studded banks.
The Shadow, strong and indomitable, was fighting with a man who was no
longer young. Yet Lucien Partridge possessed surprising strength. More than
that, he owned the fury of a fiend.
Crippled by wounds, The Shadow possessed but a fraction of his normal
strength. Spurred by mad desire for revenge, Lucien Partridge was a demon in
human form.
The bodies swayed backward and forward. At times they seemed to sidle
toward the edge of the cliff. First one would urge the other backward; then the
situation would change completely.
If Vic Marquette could aid The Shadow, the struggle would be ended. This
equal fight could not persist; for The Shadow's strength was waning more
rapidly than that of Lucien Partridge.
Despite his wounds, Vic tried to come to The Shadow's rescue. He managed
to raise himself to his knees with the help of his one good hand. His gun was
absent. He had dropped the automatic in his wild scramble for the workhouse.
Gaining his feet, Vic plunged forward through the doorway. His haste was
his undoing. He lost his footing and sprawled crazily upon the ground. When he
tried to rise again, his left wrist failed him. He could do no more than writhe
painfully forward, in snakelike course along the ground.
The contestants were not aware of his approach. Their struggle was
slow-moving. The Shadow was yielding. Slowly, inch by inch, Partridge was
forcing him to the edge of the cliff.
Vic's strength failed him as he arrived close by. Gasping, the
secret-service man lay helpless on the ground, vainly striving to regain lost
strength. He could see the profile of Lucien Partridge, white against the
blackness of The Shadow's cloak.
The old man was possessed with a mighty fury. His breath was coming in
fierce spasms. Hideous curses were writhing from his livid lips.
Beneath the black slouch hat, Vic could see the glow of two burning eyes.
He knew that The Shadow was striving desperately to overcome the old man's
amazing power. But still the two moved closer and closer to that threatening
brink that towered above sickening depths!

WITH the edge of destruction scarcely more than a foot away, The Shadow
gained new vigor. The last vestiges of his waning strength asserted themselves
as he held his fierce adversary at bay.
While the two were locked in motionless pose, Vic Marquette urged himself
nearer and nearer, staring weakly at the forms that were bathed in the
reflected rays of the rising sun.
If The Shadow could only hold out! That was Marquette's impelling thought.
He knew that he was feeble; yet his slight strength might prove the weight that
would swing the balance.
A few feet more! Vic Marquette collapsed with a hopeless gasp. He had
arrived too late. Before his staring eyes, the struggle had come to a terrible
conclusion.
The Shadow, yielding under the terrific strain, sank backward, and his
tall form bent as Partridge sprang to the attack. The black-clad figure
dwindled to dwarfish size as it slipped over the very edge, impelled by
Partridge's swift, triumphant thrust.
The Shadow was gone!
All that Vic Marquette could see was the figure of Lucien Partridge,
momentarily stooped headforemost, bending clear over the edge of the cliff. The
old man's pose made it appear that he was watching the course of a body plunging
into the depths.
His hands were just above the abyss; and as Marquette heard the gloating
cackle that the old man uttered, he saw the hands swing wildly. They were
clutching in the air as though endeavoring to grasp some solid substance for
support.
The cackle turned to a frenzied cry as Partridge failed to regain his
balance. The old man's head toppled forward. Vic saw his hands make a wild
grasp at the edge of the smooth precipice. Then, with a long scream, Lucien
Partridge plunged headforemost to destruction!
The scream died in the distance. Vic could not hear the fall of the body.
The end of the struggle had sickened him. He could not feel enthusiasm because
of Lucien Partridge's fate. The fact that The Shadow had first gone over that
terrible brow was appalling.
Vic Marquette lay helpless and miserable, knowing that the futility of his
own effort had abetted this result. Had he been able to come to the rescue; had
he not weakened and fallen through the doorway of the workhouse, he could
surely have saved the man who had saved him.
To Vic Marquette, hours of misery were packed into that one unending
moment that followed the death plunge of Lucien Partridge. With eyes still
staring, the secret-service man gazed toward the brink of the precipice, trying
to visualize the last moments of that now ended struggle.
A groan escaped Vic Marquette's lips. It was a groan of despondency. The
secret-service man closed his eyes; then opened them to meet the increasing
light of dawn.
Again Marquette groaned while he gazed with hypnotic stare toward the edge
of the cliff. Then, unconsciously, the groan became a gasp.
Unbelieving, like a person who is witnessing the seemingly impossible, Vic
Marquette stared in amazement at the very brink of the death cliff.
He was stupefied by what he saw.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SHADOW TRIUMPHANT

A BLOTCH of blackness lay upon the edge of the cliff. Unmoving, it had
escaped the notice of Vic Marquette. It had appeared to be nothing more than a
shade cast by the angled light of early day.
But now that patch of black was moving. Long, thin, and straight, it
developed as an arm! Fingers moved; fingers that were digging into the
roughened granite that lined the verge of the precipice.
With a cry of restored hope, Vic tried to wriggle forward. But that moving
hand needed no aid. With incredible skill, it was working its way upward. Now a
black object showed over the edge. Vic saw the head of The Shadow!
The body followed. Soon the form in black was back to safety. The head was
bowed as the tall figure arose and swayed forward.
Vic Marquette blinked as though witnessing a vision. The tall form moved
slowly away. Vic tried to follow it as it approached the lawn; then, before he
could turn, he realized that The Shadow was gone.
Impelled by strange curiosity, Vic urged himself closer to the edge of the
cliff. There, the explanation of the marvel came to him.
The entire edge of the precipice formed an overhanging curve, beginning
with a rapidly sloping angle that formed itself into a dizzy, vertical drop:
When Lucien Partridge had thrust The Shadow downward, the black-clad
fighter had taken the only advantage that he still possessed. He had yielded
momentarily, to lie, terribly close to danger, against the last possible
surface that afforded safety.
The Shadow's collapse had been by shrewd design. It had turned Partridge's
fierce impetus into a force that had proven to be the old man's undoing.
Thrusting The Shadow downward with all his vigor, Partridge had given no
thought to his own safety. By releasing pressure suddenly; by shifting his body
precariously to one side, The Shadow had opened the way for the old man's death
plunge.
Had The Shadow been unwounded, the task of regaining the security of the
flattened brink would have been a matter of comparative ease. But with only his
left arm serving him, The Shadow had chosen to rest, unmoving, with his body
just on the verge of temporary safety.
Thus had The Shadow returned to life. In the triumph of justice, he had
won all. The work of The Shadow would continue. There would be other fiends for
him to conquer, now that Lucien Partridge was no more.

INCREASING dawn, the knowledge that The Shadow was alive - these factors
seemed to bring a new strength to Vic Marquette. He managed to rise to his
knees, and with foolhardy boldness he approached the edge of the cliff as
closely as he dared.
Far below, spread-eagled upon the rocks of the bank beside the foaming
stream, Vic saw the vague form of what had once been a human being, even though
it had possessed the heart of a vile fiend.
That was all that remained of Lucien Partridge, the shrewd, evil old man
who had visioned himself the dictator of all the world. Now his dreams of
wealth were ended forever.
Partridge's false gold would be made no more. The vast wealth that he had
accumulated would be restored to the world from which it had been taken - a
gift of The Shadow's genius.
Vic Marquette rested wearily. He thought of Fitzroy - of the poisoned
gloves - of these enemies who had attacked Lucien Partridge to-night. All these
details would be reconstructed. He, Vic Marquette, could solve them now, with
the aid that had been afforded by The Shadow.
Vic knew from past experience that after The Shadow had triumphed, hidden
matters always came to light. His mind was in a presaging mood - and his
surmises were correct.
Although Vic did not know it, the documents that The Shadow had taken from
Clifford Forster's desk were already on their way to Marquette's headquarters.
The Shadow had anticipated the events that had transpired here.
Thoughtfully, the secret-service man stared in the direction which The
Shadow had taken. He saw no sign of the black-clad form.
He knew that The Shadow's wounds could not be sufficiently serious to
prevent his safe departure. Yet Vic still sought to pierce the shadowy portions
of the terrain that surrounded the edge of the battle-scarred lawn.
Bodies of dead men were scattered everywhere. These men had died because
they had deserved death. Creatures of evil who had served against justice,
their futile conflict had been designed by The Shadow's desire for retribution.
Vic thought of Lucien Partridge lying far below. To the most terrible of
all these evil men had come the most horrible death that any of the crew had
suffered.

APPROACHING sounds came vaguely to Vic's ears. He heard the siren of a
distant automobile. For a moment he did not understand. Then his mind cleared.
The terrific explosion had been heard throughout the countryside. Rescuers
were on their way, hurrying to see what tragedy had occurred at Lucien
Partridge's.
The State police were coming. They would take charge. Vic would receive
help, even though that aid might be belated.
Looking across the lawn, Vic saw the ruins of the smoldering mansion. The
lawn was clear now, and a white object caught the secret-service man's
attention. Partridge's laboratory smock, with the gloves beside it!
He must warn the rescuers not to touch them. They must be kept as evidence
- the gloves to be analyzed for the poison that they contained.
The creeping death! No more would the insidious malady run rampant,
striking down helpless, unsuspecting victims at the desire of an archfiend.
Deaths had been avenged here, upon this body-strewn lawn. But Vic realized
that those deaths were but few compared to the ones that had been averted by The
Shadow's might!
How many more would Lucien Partridge have slain? Vic Marquette could not
surmise. He knew only that he had been saved thrice by The Shadow: once, by the
quarry across the river; a second time, when the alarm had sounded; last, when
The Shadow had boldly risked death that Vic might reach safety.
The siren was shrill now. The police were nearly here. The task was ended.
Vic Marquette listened gladly to the welcome sound. Then, as the noise lulled
momentarily, he heard another sound.
A weird, uncanny echo seemed to come from somewhere not far away -
somewhere off beyond the lawn. Vic Marquette recognized that sound. It brought
proof that The Shadow had still remained nearby until he was sure that help had
come for Vic Marquette.
For that sound, with its tones of eerie mirth, could have come from no
lips other than those of the strange phantom in black.
It was the triumph laugh of The Shadow!

THE END