THE GREEN BOX
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 15, 1934.

A dying convict gasps a last message to his cellmate - a message which
brings about a strange change in the events of a thriving community. The
Shadow, master of crime detection, avenger of justice, watches, follows the
trail which leads to The Green Box and brings about stern justice to clear up
the mystery which clouded this strange story.
What is the treasure concealed in The Green Box?
Why the unusual place of concealment and what purpose is there in bringing
it to light again?

CHAPTER I

CONVICT 9638

THE air seemed thick within the prison cell. Rays of dull-yellow light
from the central cellroom faded on the threshold, as though shrinking from the
confinement of the cell itself.
Bolder was the pallid moonlight that trickled through the window. It
formed a whitish splash across the cell floor - a luminous pool that was marked
with lines of black, as grim reminders of the bars between which the moonlight
came.
Eyes were upon that patch of light. Two men were staring toward it,
fascinated by this token of the outside world. Moonlight was the only privilege
that these prisoners could share with free men in the world beyond the
penitentiary walls.
One man, his dull face rendered overly pale by reason of the moonlight,
was staring from a lower bunk. His clutching hands - trembling talons - were
closed about the side of the iron bedstead.
The other, stationed in the berth above, was gazing toward the floor in
patient fashion. Of the two, he seemed less troubled by his plight.
"Sammy" - the man below was speaking in a wheezy whisper - "Sammy -"
The upper man leaned over the edge of the bunk. His face, crafty as it was
hardened, formed a marked contrast to the peaked countenance of the prisoner
below.
"What is it, Ferris?" came the cautious question.
"I - I'm feeling worse." The wheezy man gasped as he spoke. "I - I can't
hold out - much longer."
"You'll be all right tomorrow." Sammy's tone was encouraging. "Take it
easy, old fellow. They're going to ship you to the hospital tomorrow. You'll
feel like a new man, Ferris."
"Ferris!" The man below gasped his own name. "Ferris - Ferris Legrand.
That's my name, isn't it?"
"Sure it is." The man above laughed. "Ferris Legrand - that's you. Sam
Fulwell - that's me."
"All right, Sammy." Legrand sighed contentedly. "If it wasn't for you, I'd
be done. Done, I tell you! Everything has been taken from me here - even my
name. Ferris Legrand - that's not my name. I'm nine - six - three - eight.
That's it, Sammy. Convict nine - six - three - eight -"
"Forget it," growled the man above. "That doesn't mean anything, Ferris.
It's just like a telephone number or a street address. Forget it."
"I can't forget it! Nine - six -"
A warning hiss from above. The moaning man became silent. His cellmate had
detected a sound. The keenness of his ears was proven a second later.
Click - click - click -
The pacing footsteps of a guard sounded with approaching monotony. A bulky
man appeared outside the cell door. He shot the rays of a flashlight into the
little room. He saw two prisoners lying with closed eyes. He paced on toward
another cell and stopped for a second inspection.
Click - click - click -

THE receding beats announced the guard's departure along his rounds. The
wheezy voice began again from the bunk below. Its tones were scarcely audible.
The man above leaned further over the edge.
"Sammy" - Legrand's words were disjointed. "Don't forget - all that I told
you. You - you know the place. You - you'll be out of here. You'll get - what I
left there -"
"I sure will, Ferris."
"It's - it's all I managed to keep, Sammy. It's - it's worth more than -
than all they took from me. They don't know about it, Sammy! You're the only
person that I ever told -"
"Easy, Ferris. You can count on me."
"Even Mildred doesn't know," gasped Legrand. "My - my poor daughter. I was
- was afraid to tell her. I wouldn't have told you, Sammy - except that I'm
going to die. I - I had to count on you -"
"You'll be all right." The man above was studying Ferris Legrand's pale
face. Tired eyes had closed. Legrand could scarcely mumble. "It won't be long
before you're out. I'll have what you want -"
The man who called himself Sam Fulwell stopped him abruptly. Again he
assumed a listening attitude. His face was grim and tense. His eyes centered on
the moonlight that showed the outline of the cell window. They remained focused
there, staring.
The square of light had changed. Across a corner near the cell door lay a
shrouding edge of blackness that broke the luminous space. The firm-faced man
stared toward the door. Seeing nothing, he gazed at the window. The moonlight
showed in full intensity. There was nothing there to block its path.
Again the keen eyes wandered to the floor. The blackness that obscured a
portion of the moonlight was still in evidence. To the startled gaze that
viewed it, the patch of darkness seemed grotesquely like a human silhouette!
Yet there was no one at the door of the cell - no one that the observant
prisoner could see.
"Sammy!" Legrand's wheezy whisper bore an anxious note. "Sammy! Are you
sure I told - I told you all that you need to know? If you're not sure about -"
"Sh-h!" The whisper was fervent from above.
"What's the matter?" wheezed Legrand. "There's nobody coming, Sammy. This
is the last chance I'll have to talk to you."
"Keep quiet, Ferris." The order was fierce. "I know everything. Don't say
another word."
"But maybe I forgot something. You only know what I've told you. You've
got to listen, Sammy -"
"Sh-h!"
Sammy's eyes were still glued to the unmoving patch of blackness. Despite
its lack of motion, that splotch might indicate a living presence. The man in
the bunk above was anxious to hush his cellmate.
Legrand, in turn, was quite as anxious to proceed. His condition was
delirious. His fevered mind was seeking to deliver its old message through
dried lips. Mumbling words came from the lower bunk. Again, a warning whisper
sounded from above. It would have failed, but for a stroke of fortune.
Click - click - click
The guard was returning to the cellroom.
Legrand, like Sammy, heard the pacing footsteps. With a weary sigh, the
peaked man in the lower bunk rolled over on his side and lay silent. Despite
his fevered brain, he knew the meaning of the clicks and followed the rule that
he had learned - that of silence when the guard approached.

THE guard was slow on this trip. His clicking steps were interrupted as he
stopped at different cells. They came closer; his bulky form blocked out the
feeble light from the central room. His flashlight roamed through the cell
where Ferris Legrand and his fellow prisoner were stationed.
The beams showed the man called Sammy. He was raised upon one elbow. His
eyes had been staring at that motionless patch upon the floor. Now they met the
flashlight's glare, and Sammy's left hand rose.
"What's the matter?" growled the guard.
Sammy pointed to the bunk below.
"Mighty sick," he replied in a low tone. "Maybe he won't last the night
out -"
The guard threw a flash toward Legrand's bunk. He saw the pale face; he
observed closed eyelids. He clicked off the flashlight and lowered his growl as
he spoke to the man in the upper bunk.
"He's asleep now," asserted the guard. "He'll do till morning. They're
coming for him at six o'clock."
The guard paced away. Sammy, still leaning on his elbow, stared hard at
the moonlight on the floor. The guard's form had not obscured it. All the
while, the blackened silhouette had remained. It was still there now!
Sammy peered below. He could barely distinguish the whiteness of Legrand's
face. The sick man was asleep. The guard had told the truth.
The man above dropped his elbow. He continued to stare over the edge of
the upper bunk, watching that patch of moonlight and the strange shadow that
had somehow come across its path.
Long minutes passed. Legrand's breathing was wheezy for a while; then it
faded. The sick man was slumbering quietly. A hard, satisfied smile appeared
upon the face above. The convict who called himself Sam Fulwell closed his own
eyes. Five minutes later, unfaked snores proved that he, too, was asleep.
The watchful prisoner had found no need for further vigil. He knew that
Ferris Legrand would talk no more tonight. The riddle of the blackness in the
moonlight needed no further speculation.
All was quiet in the prison cell. On the morrow, Convict 9638 would be
removed. He, himself, had voiced the seriousness of his plight. His cellmate
had meant it when he had doubted that the man in the lower bunk would last
through the night.
Convict 9638 was dying. His dried lips had made their last utterances. His
end was near; and with his passing would go the secret that he had told only to
his cellmate.
The man called Sam Fulwell was nearing the end of his term. He could sleep
contentedly, for soon he would be free. When the doors of the penitentiary
clanged behind him he would depart, carrying with him the secret of Ferris
Legrand!

CHAPTER II

THE SHADOW PLANS

BLACKNESS moved in the patch of moonlight. The silhouette, hitherto
motionless, withdrew toward the darkness of the wall. The convict in the upper
bunk did not observe it. Even if he had still been awake, his eyes could not
have distinguished the shape that stood in the darkened corner of the cell.
Nor would his ears have heard the soft swish that came from that darkness.
A figure was moving there; so quietly that neither sight nor hearing would have
detected it. Blackness edged the moonlight and moved beyond. A firm hand
gripped the central bar of the cell door.
The light from the central room was blocked by a spectral shape. Gloved
fingers silently opened the barred door without a clang. A figure slipped
softly into the gloomy light beyond. A door closed and locked as quietly as it
had opened.
A phantom shape was gliding across the floor of the central room, moving
steadily toward a corridor beyond. Drowsy convicts, lying in their bunks,
neither heard nor saw the passing shade. Eyes would have bulged had they
observed this creature of the night. The weird being that had entered Ferris
Legrand's cell to station himself unseen was one whom all men of crime regarded
with terrified awe. Coming into the empty, lighted corridor, this personage was
revealed in full.
A tall figure clad entirely in black. Body shrouded beneath the folds of a
flowing cloak; visage hidden between upturned collar and the brim of a slouch
hat. Keen, blazing eyes alone in view. These were the characteristics of the
secret visitor who had entered the penitentiary and found his way within a
locked cell.
This being was The Shadow!
Master hand who battled crime, The Shadow traveled everywhere. Clews to
evils of the past; inklings of impending wrongs - these were the traces that he
sought with unerring skill. No barrier could balk The Shadow. He had proven that
fact tonight.
Click - click - click -
A guard was coming from a side passage.
With a quick glide, The Shadow merged with a patch of darkness beside a
fire-hose. The space was not sufficient to conceal a human form, but this
chameleon of the dark required no more than a background.
The Shadow's tall form blended with the darkness and caused the shaded
patch to appear no different except in size. So effective was the ruse that the
pacing guard marched by without a momentary thought that eyes were watching him.
While the clicking footsteps still resounded in the long main corridor,
The Shadow emerged from his temporary spot of hiding and glided swiftly to the
side passage from which the guard had come. He reached a door, unlocked it
softly, and entered a small room, closing the door behind him.

A LIGHT switch clicked against the wall. A single incandescent revealed a
plainly furnished room. It was evidently a guard's quarters.
The Shadow crossed the room and faced a mirror. His hat dropped from his
head; his black cloak dropped to the floor.
Beneath his sable-hued garb, The Shadow was dressed in the uniform of a
penitentiary guard. His features, dull and heavy-jowled, were those of a man of
middle age. Brightly reflected in the mirror, they seemed masklike.
Peeling off his black gloves, The Shadow pressed finger tips against
cheeks and chin. His false features changed a trifle as the fingers molded them.
A suitcase lay to one side of the stand on which the mirror was attached.
Into this, The Shadow dropped the black cloak and hat. In his false guise of a
prison guard, he turned toward the door of the room. A rap greeted him.
"Come in." The Shadow's voice was surly.
The door opened. In stepped the guard who had recently made the rounds
through the cellroom.
"Hello, Mike," growled the newcomer. "I thought you'd gone off duty. Just
saw the light under the door, and wondered if you were still here."
"I did go out," retorted the false Mike. "Had to come back though. Forgot
my suitcase."
"I thought you always changed duds down at Caffrey's place."
"I generally do. I left a new suit up here though, and forgot to take it
out with me. Had to come back with this bag."
The false Mike had turned from the mirror. The single light was behind his
head. His face, though its features were discernible, remained slightly shaded.
The genuine guard had no suspicion that his companion was an impostor.
Picking up the suitcase, The Shadow strode through the door. He uttered a
gruff good night and continued on his way. He reached an open courtyard, where
a bright searchlight was revolving, sending its huge beam against interior
walls.
As The Shadow crossed the court, his tall, slightly stooped form was
revealed. The glare showed the guard's uniform and the face above it. No
challenge was given. The passer had been recognized.
The Shadow reached a wicket. He showed a pass card. The guard behind the
gate scarcely noticed it. He grinned as he waved.
"Good night, Mike. Next time, don't forget your new suit."
The watcher pressed a button. The Shadow walked ahead. A man in a tower
pulled a release in response to the signal. A huge gate swung open. The false
guard made his exit.
Still playing the part of Mike, The Shadow trudged along a road that led
from the huge walls of the penitentiary. He reached the end of a trolley line.
A car was waiting there; but The Shadow did not enter it. instead, he took a
side road, cut along a path, and reached a parked coupe.
Long fingers opened the suitcase. Out came the black garments. A soft
laugh echoed from The Shadow's lips as the tall form entered the coupe. The
motor started. The car pulled away.

THE SHADOW had played a simple but effective game. Less than two hours
ago, Mike, the guard, had left the prison. He had gone downtown, changed his
uniform to civilian clothes at Caffrey's boarding house, and had continued on
his way.
Twenty minutes after Mike's departure, The Shadow had arrived disguised as
Mike. He had entered the penitentiary; had remained there long enough to make
his observations. Like the man whose part he had played, The Shadow had left
for the night. His ruse had succeeded to perfection.
Why had The Shadow paid this visit? Why had he risked the trip through
guarded gates and walls into a cell buried deep in the formidable prison?
The answer came hours later, when a light clicked in a pitch-black room.
White hands appeared beneath the glow of a bluish lamp. A rare stone, The
Shadow's girasol, sparkled upon a finger. The Shadow was in his sanctum.
Two folders appeared upon the table. These were records which The Shadow
had obtained from his secret archives. One bore the name of Ferris Legrand. The
Shadow opened it. Clippings and other papers came to view. The Shadow studied
them.
In his vast accumulations of crime data, The Shadow kept records of
thousands of cases. Crooks galore were labeled more thoroughly in his files
than they were by the police. Through extensive memoranda, The Shadow kept
track of criminals and their associates. He was always ready when new
developments of old crimes threatened to occur.
The study of the first folder ended, The Shadow turned to the second. This
bore the name of Slade Farrow. The first object that showed when the file opened
was a photograph of the man who occupied the cell with Ferris Legrand.
Sam Fulwell - Slade Farrow. The initials were the same. The latter name
was the correct one. Clippings were lacking in this folder. Letters, however,
appeared with differing dates. The Shadow's laugh came softly through the
sanctum.
These facts that concerned Slade Farrow were known only to The Shadow.
They gave all the details of the man's association with crime. They reached the
point where he had gone to jail, preserving his alias of Sam Fulwell.
The Shadow closed the second folder. His hands produced a map. A long
finger followed a thin, curving line that represented a railway on the
large-scale chart. The finger stopped upon a small city: Southfield.

WHITE paper appeared with blue ink. The Shadow's hand began to write. It
inscribed a letter in odd characters, a simple but effective code. The ink
dried; The Shadow folded the paper carefully and quickly inserted it in an
envelope.
With another pen, one that contained a darker ink, The Shadow wrote the
address:

Rutledge Mann
Badger Building
New York City.

Tomorrow, Rutledge Mann would receive that note from The Shadow. A
complacent, chubby-faced investment broker, Mann served as The Shadow's contact
agent. High in his office in the towering Badger Building, Mann would read the
coded message.
The writing would fade immediately afterward. Such was the way with the
ink that The Shadow used in communicating with his agents. But Mann would
remember what he had read. He would summon one of The Shadow's active
operatives and would dispatch that man upon the quest which awaited in the city
of Southfield.
Crime long forgotten! Its aftermath was to come. As Convict 9638, Ferris
Legrand had languished in a State prison, hoping for the day when he would be
free to return to his old life in Southfield.
That day would never come. Ferris Legrand was dying even as The Shadow
studied the facts that concerned his past. But another would step in to take
his place - one craftier than Ferris Legrand.
Slade Farrow, alias Sam Fulwell, had learned a secret from Legrand's dying
lips. Its import was something that only Farrow knew. The existence of the
secret, so Farrow thought, was also a fact unknown.
But Slade Farrow had not reckoned with The Shadow. Suspecting some such
secret, the black-gabbed master had made his strange visit within prison walls.
There The Shadow had learned that Slade Farrow had taken on a mission for the
future.
Days alone remained until the clever, hard-faced convict would be at
liberty. Then his action would commence. Secure and confident, Slade Farrow
would step forth to begin a new and startling career.
The Shadow's plans were made. Crime was impending in Southfield.
Mysterious events, linked with hidden secrets of the past, were already in the
making. Slow, cautious moves would lead to rapid action.
The Shadow was preparing for the events that were to come!

CHAPTER III

THE SHADOW TRAILS

THE upper concourse of the Grand Central Station was thronged with holiday
travelers. A tall man, standing near a train gate, was watching the passers in
leisurely fashion. To all appearances, he was merely a chance waiter amid the
throng.
There was something in this personage's appearance that marked him as
distinctive. Hastening train takers were too busy about their own affairs to
give more than a passing glance toward the waiting man's unusual countenance.
Hence he remained an unnoticed sentinel at his post.
Keen eyes gazed from beside a hawklike nose. Thin lips remained
inflexible. A living statue, this personage watched the throngs so closely that
not a passing face escaped him.
Thirty-odd feet away, a square-shouldered man was pacing back and forth
near the same train gate. He was waiting for the barrier to be flung open,
hence he did not observe the hawk-faced watcher who was observing him as well
as the gate. Two sentinels: one's purpose concealed; the other's was apparent.
The tall observer who had rendered himself so inconspicuous was none other
than The Shadow. The square-shouldered man was a representative of the law:
Detective Joe Cardona from police headquarters.
Swarthy of visage, steady-faced in expression, Joe Cardona was a sleuth
who prided himself upon his keenness of observation. His confidence would have
experienced a drop had he known that The Shadow, attired in ordinary garb, was
within his view.
Had Cardona been thinking of those about him, he might have observed that
watching face with its sharp eyes and aquiline nose. But Cardona, on this late
afternoon, was concerned only with one purpose - the close observation of a
passenger who was expected on the arriving train.
The gate swung open. A flurry of persons began to come through the exit;
then came teeming crowds. A plainly dressed man, his face drooping and
discouraged, came along in the wake of the throng. Following him was a sturdy
stroller who glanced in Joe Cardona's direction. The waiting detective nodded.
He sauntered off on the first man's trail.

THE SHADOW, ever vigilant, had recognized the droop-faced arrival on the
instant. The man was the one whom The Shadow had seen in the cell at the
penitentiary - the one who had learned Ferris Legrand's secret. Slade Farrow,
alias Sam Fulwell, had arrived in New York.
Joe Cardona, as he started after the arrival, did not notice the
hawk-faced personage who also took up the trail. Together, the detective and
The Shadow were taking up the pursuit of one man. Joe Cardona was checking up
on an ex-convict whom he knew as Sam Fulwell. The Shadow was taking the path of
Slade Farrow.
The trio passed unnoticed amid the crowds that were spread beneath the
star-studded ceiling of the huge-domed concourse. Farrow was leading the way
toward the subway.
The express platform was crowded; nevertheless, Joe Cardona did not lose
sight of his man. Farrow took a downtown train. Cardona and The Shadow
followed. At Fourteenth Street, Farrow alighted.
As he followed the shambling ex-convict up the steps, Joe Cardona felt
that a hunch was working. The swarthy detective expected to trail his quarry to
the badlands. He was sure that Farrow was headed in that direction.
On the street, however, the jailbird pulled the unexpected. He stepped
directly into a taxicab, gave a growled order to the driver, and rolled away.
Cardona, close behind, duplicated the order. He leaped into a second cab,
flashed his badge to the driver, and pointed to the taxi ahead just as it was
jamming into traffic.
"Follow that cab!" ordered the detective.
Cardona's promptness was not followed by the last of the three. The tall,
keen-eyed personage who had come from the subway stood staring through the dusk
as he saw Cardona's cab pull away in pursuit. A thin smile appeared upon The
Shadow's firm-set lips as he waited.
Farrow's cab shot off through traffic. Cardona's taxi sped after it.
Traffic, coming the other way, was beginning to move out of the jam. From
between two cars, a furtive man stepped forth, hurried to a cab that was just
about to move, and entered.
The man was Slade Farrow. The ex-convict's manner had changed. From a
beaten, shambling individual, he had become a quick-footed traveler. He had
sent Joe Cardona off along a blind trail.
Farrow, however, had not deceived The Shadow. The tall watcher, stepping
out into the street from which traffic had just moved, reached a spot beside
Farrow's new cab just as the ex-convict barked a destination to the driver.
Picking his way to the far curb, The Shadow walked swiftly to the nearest
avenue and took a passing cab uptown.
The Shadow's cab pulled up at the exclusive Cobalt Club. Its tall occupant
alighted. The doorman saluted.
"Good evening, Mr. Cranston," he said. "Are you going in the club, sir, or
do you want your car -"
"Call my car, please."
The doorman signaled. A big limousine pulled over from across the street.
The chauffeur raised fingers to the visor of his cap as the doorman opened the
door to allow Mr. Cranston to enter.
"Uptown, Stanley." The Shadow uttered this order in a quiet tone, through
the speaking tube to the driver. Then, as the limousine pulled from the curb,
he added: "Take me to the Aristides Apartments on West Ninety-third Street.
Park near there."

AS the limousine swept up Park Avenue, its calm-faced occupant settled
back in the cushions and lighted a cigarette. The glow from the tip showed
brightly in the gathered gloom. As Lamont Cranston, multimillionaire, The
Shadow was playing one of the roles that he most frequently chose when in
Manhattan.
The real Lamont Cranston was a globe-trotter. He seldom visited his
magnificent estate in New Jersey, although he maintained servants there during
his absence. During these long periods while Cranston was away, The Shadow,
master of impersonation, posed as Lamont Cranston whenever he so desired.
The Shadow had finished his cigarette long before the limousine reached
Ninety-third Street. Darkness had gathered. The form in the rear of the
limousine was practically invisible. Something clicked in the darkness as The
Shadow opened a bag that lay on the seat beside him. A mass of blackened cloth
slipped like a shroud over the shoulders of the pretended millionaire.
Stanley pulled up at the Aristides Apartments. He had made the trip in
rapid time. The Shadow had experienced no delay. The door of the limousine
opened. It was by a darkened portion of the sidewalk. Stanley, sitting stolidly
at the driver's seat, neither heard nor saw the phantom shape that glided forth.
The Shadow followed the darkened front of an old building as he approached
the glittering marquee of the Aristides Apartments. He reached a narrow alleyway
and paused there. His keen eyes saw a cab pull up in front of the apartment
house. Slade Farrow stepped out. The Shadow had beaten the ex-convict to his
destination.
As Farrow walked into the lobby of the apartment house, The Shadow took to
the blackness of the alley. He found a side delivery door and entered it. He
reached the edge of the lobby just as Farrow approached the desk, which was
located near this corner.
"Apartment A-3," informed the ex-convict. "Mr. Farrow is here."
The clerk made a call. He nodded.
"Go right up," he said.
Farrow turned and strolled into a waiting elevator. The door clanged. The
clerk, taking his chair, picked up a copy of The Shadow Magazine and resumed
his reading. Little did he realize that The Shadow himself was here!

WHILE the clerk's eyes were fixed upon the printed pages, the tall,
black-clad shape passed directly in front of the marble desk. Across the
deserted lobby to the stairway; such was The Shadow's course. He was on his way
to the third floor, to find the apartment where Slade Farrow had gone.
The ex-convict, meanwhile, had reached his goal. The door marked A-3 was
open. Farrow entered it and closed it behind him. He passed through a tiny,
darkened anteroom past a telephone table and walked in to meet a big,
bluff-faced fellow who was standing in the center of the living room.
"Hello, Dave," greeted Farrow, with a wan smile.
"Hello!" gasped the big fellow. "Say, boss - it didn't do you no good to
be in stir -"
"Forget it, Dave," laughed Farrow. "That was just a vacation. I had the
time of my life."
Dave shrugged his shoulders. His beefy face showed a lack of
comprehension. Slade Farrow was smiling as his steady eyes studied the other
man's countenance. Then, spying an open door at the side of the living room,
Farrow stepped through the opening into another room of the apartment.
Busied with their greetings, neither Farrow nor Dave had heard a slight
sound at the outer door of the apartment. That door had slowly opened inward. A
figure had entered from the gloom of the hallway.
Shrouded in the semidarkness of the little anteroom, The Shadow was
watching and listening. He had arrived in time to see Slade Farrow enter the
doorway at the side of the living room. Now he could hear the ex-convict's
chuckles as Farrow called to Dave.
"Very good, Dave," was Farrow's commendation. "You've kept everything the
way I wanted it. My new suits - these traveling bags - well, well! It certainly
seems like home."
"I followed instructions, boss." Dave was seated in an armchair, lighting
a cigar. "That's the last thing you told me. Stick here and be good until you
showed up. I had a long wait, though."
"You're a good fellow, Dave," came Farrow's chuckle. "Nothing better than
a crook gone straight. I knew I could rely on you. I counted on coming here
after I left the pen."
"You mean -"
"I mean that I was followed. I told the warden I was coming to New York. I
figured some detectives would be on the lockout for me. My past record isn't so
good - according to their books."
"Where did they start to trail you, boss?"
"Coming in on the Central. There was a dick on the train. Another picked
up the trail in the terminal. Short, stocky fellow -"
"Joe Cardona!"
"I guess so. I gave him the slip at Fourteenth Street. Then I came here.
He's still looking for a fellow named Sam Fulwell. He'll never find him."
A pause followed. Farrow was dressing. Dave continued to puff his cigar.
The Shadow waited. Then came Farrow's voice again:
"I'm going to pack the suitcases, Dave. I'm leaving town at midnight."
"Going away again, boss?" Dave's tone was incredulous. "I thought you
might be going to locate here in New York."
"I have other plans, Dave. You may hear about them later. I want you to
stay here and wait until you get word from me. Perhaps I'll be back within a
few days; if not - well, that will take care of itself."
"All right, boss."
A long pause. Suddenly, Farrow came from the inner room. He was carrying
two large suitcases, which he placed on the floor. A grin appeared upon Dave's
lips.

SLADE FARROW was different from the furtive-faced man who had so recently
arrived at this apartment. His features were the same, but they had lost their
hangdog expression. His expensive attire was a marked contrast to the cheap
clothing which he had worn from prison.
Shoulders erect, eyes clear and bearing one of dignity, Slade Farrow
belied the statement that clothes do not make the man. From a sheepish
jailbird, he had become a gentleman. Joe Cardona, had he seen Slade Farrow now,
would not have suspected that this was the man he had trailed.
"Say, boss!" Dave's tone was one of keen admiration. "You spoke plenty
when you said that it didn't do no harm to be in stir. Say - I didn't half
recognize you when you came in. Now, though, you look better than ever."
"I wouldn't mind dropping in on the warden," laughed Farrow. "He would get
quite a surprise to see the sudden improvement of one of his latest graduates."
"You're not going back there -"
"Of course not." Farrow laughed. "I'm leaving on a midnight train, Dave -
from the Grand Central. I'm not going back to the pen, but I'm picking a city
not so very far from there. That's all I want to tell you now. Do you
understand?"
Dave nodded.
Farrow pulled a check book from his pocket. He brought out a fountain pen
and wrote a check, which he handed to his companion.
"Two hundred, Dave," announced the ex-convict. "I have plenty in this New
York bank. I can establish credit when I arrive where I'm going."
Dave fished out a roll of bills, extracted the amount that his chief
required, and gave it to Farrow in exchange for the check.
"Say, boss" - Dave's tone was one of wonder - "the way you work beats me.
You keep fellows like me out of the jug - then you go and get shoved in stir
yourself. As soon as you're out, you start away on something else -"
"That's my business, Dave," snapped Farrow. "In the meantime, stay here
and await instructions - unless I return. There's work to be done here in New
York, but I've always preferred the smaller cities."
Dave nodded soberly. There was approval in his manner. Despite the
hardness of his countenance, Dave had an honest air which Farrow seemed to
note. The ex-convict laughed. He thrust out his hand for a parting shake.
"I'm going aboard the train, Dave," he said. "The sleeper opens at ten
o'clock, and I'll be leaving it early in the morning. Thanks for the way you've
handled matters here."
"That's all right, boss."
The Shadow was moving from the anteroom. The door had closed behind him
before Dave, picking up one of the suitcases, was leading the way toward the
hall. The two men went down in the elevator while The Shadow watched from the
obscurity of a side passage. A few minutes later, Dave returned. The Shadow saw
him enter his apartment.
A soft laugh sounded as The Shadow glided toward the stairs. The Shadow
had trailed; he had heard. That was sufficient. So far as The Shadow was
concerned, Slade Farrow had announced his exact destination.
The midnight train - the necessity of leaving the sleeper early in the
morning - these were all the facts that The Shadow required. Six hours out of
New York, that midnight train connected with the D & O Limited, a flyer that
reached Southfield early in the afternoon.
Slade Farrow was on his way to make use of the secret that he had gained
from Ferris Legrand!

CHAPTER IV

IN SOUTHFIELD

AT one thirty the next afternoon, the D & O Limited was pounding its
course along a one-track line that wound upward through steep hills. Slade
Farrow, immaculately dressed, was seated in a Pullman car, staring from the
window.
Up ahead, he could see the locomotive as it swung a sharp curve to the
left. He heard the shrill blasts from the whistle that signified the train was
approaching a grade crossing. Farrow stared with interest, for he could see
nothing but woods upon the left side of the roadbed.
Then, with surprising suddenness, the locomotive reached an iron trestle
that crossed a precipitous gorge. As the train straightened, Slade Farrow
looked straight downward. Slowly, the cars of the limited crossed the
structural bridge. Two hundred feet below were huge rocks that marked the sides
of a tiny, winding stream.
As Farrow's car passed the trestle, the watching man saw the grade
crossing. A paved road came on a curve from the thick woods at the left.
Evidently this highway paralleled the railroad until it neared the gorge;
then it crossed and kept along the side of the deep abyss.
Farrow's assumption was correct. The road came in view later. The train
increased speed with curves and grade behind it. The road stayed parallel for a
few miles, then dipped down into a smaller depression and passed beneath a
bridge over which the train was rolling.
"Southfield, sah!"
Farrow arose at the porter's statement. He went to the front of the car,
where he found his grips waiting in the vestibule. The train was clicking into
station yards. It was rolling past grade crossings in the little city which
nestled among surrounding hills.
Farrow was one of the few passengers who alighted. He found himself on the
platform of a well-built station where a main street crossed the tracks of the D
& O Railway. Traffic was waiting for the limited to leave. A cabby sauntered up
as he saw Farrow with the bags.
"Cab, sir?"
"All right. Drive me to the Southfield House."

THE hotel was but a few blocks from the station. Slade Farrow arrived
there. His bags were carried in, and he went up to the desk to register.
As the clerk was assigning a room to the new guest, a clean-cut young man
strolled into the lobby. Slade Farrow did not see him. The same young chap had
been at the station. He had walked in this direction while Farrow was entering
the cab.
Passing the desk, the young man glanced at the register. He saw Farrow's
name; also the room number - 309. The young man smiled. The single elevator had
gone up. When it came down, the young chap entered it and rode up to the third
floor. He entered Room 301.
This keen observer was Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow. He had come to
Southfield for the express purpose of awaiting Slade Farrow's arrival. Informed
by telegraph that Farrow was due on the D & O Limited, Harry had been at the
depot to spot the ex-convict.
Leaving his door a trifle ajar, Harry Vincent sat down in a chair. From
his vantage point, he could see the door of Farrow's room.
About fifteen minutes after Harry had stationed himself, the door of Room
309 opened and Slade Farrow came out. Harry arose and also made his exit.
The two went down on the elevator. Farrow walked from the lobby. Harry
lounged about for a few minutes, then strolled out. He saw Farrow crossing the
street half a block away. Keeping the man in view, Harry followed. He watched
Farrow stop at an old brick house which had been converted into an office
building. He saw the man enter.
Harry Vincent smiled. It was not difficult to guess where Farrow had gone.
The door through which the man had entered opened on a flight of steps. The
second story offices - the only ones which were occupied - were those of Norton
Granger, a prominent young Southfield attorney. Satisfied, Harry went back to
the hotel to await Farrow's return.

ON the second floor of the office building, Slade Farrow had entered a
large room where a stenographer was seated at a desk. In a pleasant tone, the
ex-convict inquired for Mr. Granger. The girl took his card, entered the front
office, and returned.
"You may go in," she said.
Slade Farrow entered. He found himself facing a young, quiet-faced man who
sat at the opposite side of a large desk. Norton Granger was serious of
demeanor. Despite his youth, he had the appearance of a capable attorney.
Granger's eyes were keen as he observed his visitor. In Slade Farrow, he
saw a man who appeared both respectable and wealthy. There was nothing of the
crook in Farrow's expression. That had left him when he had dropped the part of
Sam Fulwell.
"Mr. Farrow?" inquired Granger.
"Yes," rejoined the visitor. "From New York. I have arrived in town today,
and I have business here in which you may be able to aid me."
Norton Granger folded his hands and waited.
"I am in the clothing business," stated Farrow. "Wholesale and retail. I
have money, and it is my desire to open an enterprise of my own. I have decided
that it would be best to locate in a territory served by a single city."
"Such as Southfield."
"Exactly. I believe that I could do well here, provided that I could begin
by buying out some small but established business. Inasmuch as this will involve
legal matters, I decided that my first step should be to retain an attorney."
"I can serve you in that capacity, Mr. Farrow."
"Excellent. I have an account in a New York bank which I shall transfer
here to Southfield. I want to establish myself as soon as possible; and also I
intend to open a few branch stores in some of the smaller towns in this
locality."
"I can see," stated Norton Granger, with a slow smile, "that you are
seeking advice on questions other than those which are purely legal, Mr.
Farrow."
"Why not?" Farrow chuckled. "I am willing to pay for all services
rendered. I've figured it this way, Mr. Granger. In a town like Southfield, any
prominent man should know a lot about conditions. Go to the right man - get his
opinion."
"That is sound judgment."
"Who is the right man?" Farrow's question was canny. "I decided that I
wanted a lawyer. Business men, realtors, fellows like that - they all have
something to sell to a stranger. A lawyer hasn't; but he knows conditions.
That's why I've come to you."
Norton Granger pondered. Slade Farrow watched him expectantly, but so
carefully that the attorney did not realize the keen observance. At last,
Granger spoke:
"This clothing business, Mr. Farrow. Are you anxious to buy out one that
is doing well? Do you want a business that is already large?"
"No." Farrow was emphatic. "I want a small business, and I would prefer
one that is not going strong. That would mean a better purchase. I can attend
to the expansion myself. Understand, though, I want to take over a concern that
has been going for five or ten years at the least. I'm a stranger here in
Southfield. I've got to depend upon the fact that the store is known."
"I think," said Granger, slowly, "that I can arrange the very purchase
that you want to make. You have done well, Mr. Farrow, to come to see me. This
may prove to be a fortunate coincidence.
"Let me take care of this matter for the time. Perhaps I can make some
arrangements this afternoon. I shall be at home in the evening. Could you come
there at eight o'clock?"
"Certainly."
"Very well. We will have more time to discuss the matter, and by that time
I may have broken the ice. As I understand it, you are prepared to pay now -"
"Yes. A good price if it seems fair. You can count on me for that, Mr.
Granger."
The young lawyer arose and extended his hand. The appointment was
arranged. Farrow detected a pleased gleam in Granger's face. He did not show
his observance of the discovery, however, until he had reached the street.
It was then that Slade Farrow chuckled. He was smiling as he reached the
Southfield House and entered. Harry Vincent, seated in the lobby, noted
Farrow's pleased expression. He decided that Slade Farrow's mission to
Southfield was already meeting with success.
In this assumption, Harry Vincent was correct.

CHAPTER V

THE DEAL

AT eight o'clock that evening, one of the trim Southfield taxicabs pulled
up in front of a brick mansion on the outskirts of the city. Slade Farrow
alighted, and the cab pulled away.
A few moments later, a coupe rolled up and parked beneath a clump of trees
not far distant. Harry Vincent, seated in the darkness of the car, watched
Farrow enter the house.
This was the home of Norton Granger. Slade Farrow, entering, was met by an
elderly servant who solemnly ushered him into a small room which appeared to be
a study. Two persons were there: one was Norton Granger; the other was a young
woman whose attractive features made an immediate impression upon Slade Farrow.
"Good evening, Mr. Farrow," exclaimed Granger, rising as he gave the
greeting. "I should like you to meet Miss Mildred Legrand."
Slade Farrow bowed. He took the chair which Norton Granger offered him.
Seating himself behind a desk, Granger produced a stack of papers.
"The Southfield Clothing Shop," explained the young lawyer, "is owned by
Miss Legrand. She has had charge of it since her father's illness, which
terminated, unfortunately, in his death.
"I have informed Miss Legrand of your desire to purchase such an
establishment, and she has agreed to the sale. These papers" - Granger was
unfolding the packet - "contain full data concerning the present stock and
assets of the Southfield Clothing Shop, Mr. Farrow."
Nodding, Slade Farrow drew his chair beside the desk. He began to go over
the documents, while Norton Granger added comments. At times the lawyer paused
to ask questions of Mildred Granger. On these occasions, Slade Farrow's gaze
was keen.

THE ex-convict noted a listlessness to Mildred Legrand's tone. He also
detected a kindliness on the part of Norton Granger. These were facts which
Farrow kept in mind. Although his entire attention seemed concerned with the
matter of the business deal.
Half an hour passed. Slade Farrow settled back in his chair and folded his
hands. He seemed to be quite pleased with the affairs of the Southfield Clothing
Shop.
"I am ready to make an offer," he declared. "This, of course, is subject
to my inspection of the establishment. The information which you have here
seems to be quite complete, so I have no reason to suppose that any proviso
will be required."
"You mean a cash offer," interposed Granger.
"Yes," rejoined Farrow. "For all stock, fixtures and good-will; immediate
occupation of the premises; and I am to assume the lease. Fourteen thousand
dollars."
A slight gasp came from Mildred Legrand. Norton Granger covered it by
turning immediately to Slade Farrow.
"I believe," asserted the lawyer, "that your offer will be acceptable to
Miss Legrand. I am acting as her attorney as well as yours, Mr. Farrow. I have
taken the liberty to draw up the bill of sale, leaving spaces only for the
amount and the signature."
He produced the document in question, wrote in the sum of fourteen
thousand dollars, and passed pens to Slade Farrow and Mildred Legrand. The
signatures were made. Farrow drew a check book from his pocket and wrote out a
check for the stipulated amount.
"You can deposit this tomorrow," he told Granger. "If there is any change
in the amount, we can settle that among ourselves."
Mildred Legrand's face had brightened. Slade Farrow noted it, but made no
comment. Norton Granger began to speak in a friendly tone to Farrow when the
old servant appeared at the door of the study.
"Doctor Broomfield is here, sir."
Granger's face clouded. The lawyer arose to his feet. Mildred Legrand
placed a hand upon his arm.
"Doctor Broomfield has come to take me home, Norton," she explained. "He -
he promised to stop for me after he brought me here."
"I thought," returned Granger, solemnly, "that you might stay a while
longer, Mildred. I wanted to take you home myself."
"My business here is finished," insisted Mildred, rising. "I - I think
that it would be best for me to leave. I want to thank you, Norton, for doing
so much in my behalf. I am pleased to have met you, Mr. Farrow."
A protest was on Norton Granger's lips. It was too late. The girl had
reached the door. Granger, following, stopped on the threshold and watched
Mildred join a tall, dignified gentleman at the outer door. He turned back into
the study, his face morose.

GRANGER said nothing for a few moments after he had taken his seat behind
the desk. He chanced to glance in Farrow's direction, and saw that the visitor
was eyeing him intently. The lawyer shifted uneasily as he gathered the papers,
then turned to face Farrow squarely.
"I believe it right," declared Granger, "that I should be frank with you,
Mr. Farrow. Your purchase of this business has been a fair one. Yet I must
admit that the price is higher than either Miss Legrand or myself had
anticipated. That was the reason for Miss Legrand's surprise."
"I observed it," returned Farrow, quietly.
"You are buying a business," asserted Granger, "which is worth
considerably more than the price that you are paying. At the same time, had you
not entered the picture, the Southfield Clothing Shop would soon have reached
the point where it would be worth absolutely nothing."
"I see." Farrow smiled. "Miss Legrand is benefiting to the extent of
exactly fourteen thousand dollars."
"Yes."
"It is quite all right with me. At the same time, Granger, you are my
attorney as well as Miss Legrand's. I am a stranger here in Southfield. She is
evidently a person whom you have known for a very long while."
"That is true." Norton Granger nodded solemnly as he caught the mild
innuendo. "I knew that you might bring up that fact. That is why I intend to
explain matters to your satisfaction."
Farrow waited until Granger thoughtfully resumed.
"Miss Legrand," stated the young lawyer, "is the victim of unfortunate
circumstances. If you remain long in Southfield, Mr. Farrow, you will
undoubtedly hear mention of them. Therefore, I may as well discuss them with
you now.
"Her father, Ferris Legrand, was a man who had once had a rather doubtful
reputation, but who had settled down to business. Ferris Legrand, five years
ago, was making a success with the Southfield Clothing Shop. He owed some of
this success to the aid which he had been given by my father, Wilbur Granger."
The young attorney's eyes wandered to a photograph which hung upon the
wall. Farrow's gaze followed the same direction. The ex-convict studied the
pictured features of an elderly, stern-faced man.
"Your father," he questioned, "was an attorney also?"
"Yes," replied Norton Granger. "He handled the affairs of the most
important men in Southfield. He was attorney for Rutherford Blogg, the
manufacturer; for Hiram Marker, who owns the waterworks and the electric plant;
for Townsend Rowling, the real-estate owner who controls the Southfield Bank."
"Big men, eh?"
"Very big. My father was prominent because of his association with them.
He was wealthy and influential. Then came tragedy."
Farrow listened as the young lawyer lowered his tone to deal in solemn
reminiscence.

"FOUR years ago," declared Norton Granger, "I was away at law school, in
my senior year. Father was living alone in this home. Banks, our old retainer,
left one afternoon. Father was here when Banks went out.
"That night, a motorist from out of town happened to cut through an
abandoned road which no one used. He saw a body lying in a ditch. It was my
father. He had been murdered. The motorist hurried into town. The police came
here to the house.
"They surprised a man who was leaving by the back door. They trailed him
and the path led to Ferris Legrand's store. They entered and discovered
Legrand. He was hiding money and documents which he had taken from this house."
"A burglar!"
"So the evidence showed. The prosecutor set out to prove that Legrand had
murdered my father, also. Legrand had no alibi to show where he had been that
evening. Nevertheless, the murder charge was dropped for lack of evidence.
Ferris Legrand was sent to the State penitentiary for ten years, convicted of
burglary."
"You mentioned that he had died just -"
"He is dead. He passed away in prison one week ago. His daughter, Mildred,
had been carrying on the business while he was in prison. She had hoped that he
would be paroled. Her hopes are now ended."
"I understand." Farrow's voice seemed sympathetic. "Now that her father is
dead, her interest in the store has ended."
"Precisely. Time and again, she had balked at selling her father's
business. She knew that it must inevitably fail if she tried to conduct it.
Nevertheless, she bravely kept it above water, so that her father could resume
when his prison term was ended."
Norton Granger paused. He sat with chin in hand, his elbow on the table,
staring solemnly at his father's portrait. Farrow intervened with a subtle
question.
"You are Miss Legrand's lawyer," he asked, "in spite of the crime that her
father committed?"
"Yes!" challenged Granger, angrily. "I took over my father's work. I
represent the men whom he represented. Ferris Legrand, though not a man of
importance, was one of my father's clients. I took it upon myself to offer my
services to Ferris Legrand's daughter."
"Commendable," declared Farrow. Granger softened at the tone. "That is a
fine bit of sentiment, Granger. If I may speak from my brief meeting with Miss
Legrand, I can say that she apparently appreciates what you have done for her."
"I know she has," returned the young lawyer. "But the past still
intervenes." His tone saddened. "No matter what I do, Mildred still remembers
that her father was convicted for a crime committed against my father. She
seems to feel that that constitutes a permanent barrier between us."
"Unfortunate."
"It is. I have tried to argue that her father might be innocent - even
though the evidence was complete against him. That makes no difference to her
way of thinking. Until her father's name is cleared, she will never feel free
to marry me."
Slade Farrow nodded knowingly. The truth was out. Norton Granger was in
love with Mildred Legrand. The young lawyer's disappointment at the arrival of
Doctor Broomfield to take the girl downtown was merely another proof of
Granger's interest in Mildred.
"It is too bad," commented Farrow, as he arose to leave the study. "I am
glad, Granger, that I have been able to do a good turn through my purchase. Let
me express the hope that it may be a step toward bringing understanding between
yourself and Miss Legrand."

THE new owner of the Southfield Clothing Shop extended his hand. Norton
Granger accepted it warmly. He telephoned for a cab; then accompanied Slade
Farrow to the door. While they waited for the taxi, they arranged a meeting on
the morrow to visit the store which Farrow had purchased.
When Slade Farrow entered the cab which arrived for him, he indulged in a
broad smile. He was thinking of the past - of his long sojourn in the prison
cell with Ferris Legrand, former owner of the business which Farrow had just
purchased.
The present, so far as Slade Farrow was concerned, was linked with the
past. The future that the ex-convict planned would be built upon this present.
A coupe trailed the taxi to the Southfield Home. Harry Vincent, agent of
The Shadow, had watched the house until Slade Farrow had come out.
Tonight, The Shadow's agent intended to dispatch a report through Rutledge
Mann. The Shadow would learn all that Harry Vincent had observed in Southfield.

CHAPTER VI

THE LOST TRAIL

SLADE FARROW stepped from the front door of the Southfield Clothing Shop.
He locked the door behind him. A package tucked under his arm, he strolled
along the main street toward the Southfield House.
Twenty-four hours had elapsed since the ex-convict had visited the home of
Norton Granger. Slade Farrow was now sole proprietor of the Southfield Clothing
Shop. He had gone over stock. He had arranged to keep the old staff of clerks.
He had also made arrangements to occupy small quarters above the store.
The main street of Southfield was peculiarly free of idlers. Young men
were in evidence, but most of them seemed well dressed and bound on business.
At one spot, Farrow passed a lighted building which bore the title above its
doorway:

SOUTHFIELD ATHLETIC CLUB

Observant eyes were upon Farrow as he passed. He had gone scarcely a dozen
yards when two young men came down the steps and entered a roadster that was
parked by the curb.
They watched Farrow, saw him cross the street and observed him enter the
Southfield House. The starter buzzed. The roadster rolled along the street and
stopped across from the hotel.
These new observers were not the only ones who were keeping track of Slade
Farrow. Harry Vincent, lounging in the hotel lobby, watched Farrow go upstairs.
The Shadow's agent waited.
Up in Room 309, Slade Farrow unwrapped his package. He took out a light
overcoat - one that he had taken from the stock in the store - and hung it in
the closet. He folded the wrapping paper and placed it in his pocket. He
lighted a cigar. Just then the telephone rang.
"Hello." Farrow was gruff as he lifted the receiver. "Oh, yes... The
garage, eh?... Sure. I ordered a car for tonight... Yes. I'm going to drive
over to Gwynnesborough... All right. Yes, half an hour will be soon enough..."
Twenty minutes later, Slade Farrow reappeared in the lobby. He sat beside
the window and watched until a sedan pulled up in front. A garage attendant
entered the hotel. Farrow stopped him.
"Give me the receipt," he ordered. "I'm Mr. Farrow. That car is for me."
The attendant obeyed. Farrow walked out, stepped in the car, and noted
that the motor was still running. He shot it into gear and rolled along the
main street in the direction of the railway depot.
Immediately the starter buzzed in the roadster across the street. The
light car moved away, following the course that Farrow had taken. Harry
Vincent, standing in the lobby, strolled out to the street. He entered his
coupe and joined the procession.

CROSSING the railway, with its station tracks and sidings, Slade Farrow
opened up the motor. He smiled as he found the sedan's speed. He swung along
the open road that twisted until it neared the railway. At a sixty-mile-an-hour
clip, he paralleled the tracks, going back beside the route on which he had
arrived by train.
Farrow applied the brakes as the road dipped. He took the curve that went
beneath the low railway bridge just outside of town, then came up alongside the
tracks and resumed his previous speed. The sedan responded perfectly. Slade
Farrow chuckled.
A man of photographic impressions, the ex-convict knew the terrain. His
idle watching from the Pullman window had familiarized him with the contour of
this road. The blazing path before the headlights came streaming toward the
car. Slade Farrow, by the prompt swiftness that he had shown, was far ahead of
pursuers.
The road swerved to the right as it approached a clump of woods. Farrow
knew this turn. It was the spot where the highway took an easy, sweeping arc to
make the grade crossing at the near side of the high trestle. Farrow pressed the
brake pedal. The big car lurched.
With keen eyes, the driver had spied an opening in the trees. An old,
rocky road, coming along the fringe of the gulch, had joined the highway. This
was something that Farrow had not observed from the train, due to the presence
of the trees. He made prompt use of his discovery.
The shrieking brakes brought the sedan to a stop forty feet beyond the
entering road. Shoving the lever into reverse, Farrow shot the car backward.
The rear tires jounced upon the rocks. Farrow did not desist. He ran the sedan
a full eighty feet back into the rocky road. He extinguished the lights.
Farrow stopped just as he was about to step from the car. He could hear
the hum of a motor coming through the trees, along the road which he had used.
The ex-convict waited.
Watching toward the opening at the end of the rocky road, he saw a
roadster hit the curve at rapid pace. The little car kept sweeping ahead,
toward the grade crossing a hundred yards away.
Farrow chuckled as he alighted from the car. Again, he stood in silence as
he caught another thrum. This time a coupe shot by, also at high speed. When its
tail light, like that of the roadster, had twinkled away beyond the bend, Slade
Farrow moved stealthily from his sedan.

THE ex-convict seemed well satisfied with the spot that he had chosen for
his car. Even though it was openly upon the rocky road, it was safe from
observation at night. The two cars that had passed were going away from the
hiding spot. Should cars come from the opposite direction, they also would fail
to spy the sedan.
The peculiar curve of the highway took care of that. The rocky road came
in at such an angle that any headlights would sweep to the right of it. They
would do no more than blaze the entrance to the abandoned road. They would miss
this sedan, parked deep in the woods.
A flashlight glimmered as Slade Farrow picked his way through scraggly
underbrush. The man was making his way through the trees, toward the very edge
of the ravine. At the same time, he was making forward progress. He was picking
a course between the highway and the gorge itself.
A narrow space - scarcely thirty yards in width - yet Farrow made
excellent headway with his flickering light. At last he reached the spot he
sought. He stood at the very edge of the precipitous gulch, with the huge steel
trestle a dozen yards ahead.
Here it was that Farrow changed his course. His flashlight picked among
the rocks. The glimmer showed an angled patch of dirt that descended between
two pinnacles. Gripping one rock, Farrow used his light to find the way down to
a flat rock that projected from the side of the gorge. He followed this narrow
shelf toward the trestle, then found another dangerous drop.
Half sliding as he clung to the shelf, Farrow reached a big boulder. From
there, he managed to ease down a short slant of clay that served as a path. The
flashlight showed the dull, painted metal of a trestle post. Farrow arrived at
that spot. He chuckled as he swung the flashlight upward.
This post had been set in the side of the gorge. It towered fifty feet
upward. It had criss-crossed bars. It was connected with the next post by heavy
iron beams, reinforced with x-shaped wires.
Farrow extinguished the light and pocketed it. Gripping the post in the
dark, he climbed it in ladder fashion. His breath came heavily and tensely; on
those occasions when he eased it, he could hear the babble of the trickling
stream from the bottom of the gorge.
The climbing man had passed the first cross-beam. He had neared the
second, about fifteen feet below the top structure of the trestle when the
blare of a locomotive whistle caused him to pause. The rails of the trestle
began to sing. Farrow laughed and clung tight to his post.

RAILS whined. The roar of the train came closer. The trestle trembled as a
heavy locomotive thundered upon it. A freight train ploughed overhead. Farrow
could feel the heat from the fire-box; then he listened and clung tight while
clicking wheels rattled above in clattering succession.
The vibration eased. A light, dying click marked the passage of the
caboose.
Farrow was proceeding upward before the last car had left the trestle.
Reaching the cross-beam, the climber clung there, with his left hand. His right
used the flashlight to probe the join of beam and post.
A hoarse expression of satisfaction came from Farrow's throat. His
flashlight, wedged between the x-slats of the post, had picked out a greenish
color.
Adjusting his position, Farrow thrust his left arm inward. His hand
gripped cold metal. Twisting, his fingers pried an object loose from its hiding
place - the depressed end of the huge iron girder that extended from the post.
The object was a metal box. Its top was locked. Less than twelve inches in
width, its other dimensions smaller, this article formed no troublesome burden.
Moreover, it was fairly light.
Farrow's flashlight dropped into his pocket. Clinging to the box that he
had found, he began the descent. His find was under his arm. It did not
handicap him. He reached the ground. He used his flashlight to pick his way
upward.
The box went ahead. Farrow set it on the ledge above, then climbed to get
it. He did the same with the pinnacles. When he reached the top of the gorge,
he started back among the trees to reach the hidden sedan.
In the car, Farrow wrapped the box in the paper that he had brought with
him. He listened to make sure that no automobiles were approaching. He started
the motor, edged the sedan forward and turned on the headlights as he thumped
toward the highway.
Here Farrow made a sharp U-turn. He swung the big car back in the
direction of Southfield. The motor purred as the sedan emerged from the woods
and sped along the straight highway beside the railway tracks.

FARROW'S return was none too soon. Five minutes after his start on the
homeward journey, the roadster came sweeping back through the wooded highway.
Its occupants had gone as far as Gwynnesborough. Losing Farrow's trail, they,
too, were coming back to Southfield.
A few minutes after the sedan had swept by the opening of the rocky road,
Harry Vincent's coupe came along at a rapid clip. The Shadow's agent, too, had
lost the trail. He had new business back in Southfield.
The garage man was taking away the sedan when Harry Vincent pulled up in
front of the Southfield House. The roadster had idled along the street to the
Southfield Athletic Club. Its occupants had left it.
As Harry walked across the sidewalk toward the hotel, he heard, far away,
the distant blare of a locomotive whistle. The Night Express was coming into
Southfield. Harry's face became grim. He sensed action in the offing.
Strange events had brewed tonight. Slade Farrow's odd trip from town; the
young men trailing him by roadster; Harry Vincent also in pursuit. These were
just the beginning.
Harry Vincent, as he stepped into Room 301, still wore his steady look as
he plucked a yellow telegram from his pocket. The message was a simple one that
had come from Rutledge Mann this evening. It gave instructions to leave by the
Night Express unless business could be done in Southfield.
Harry Vincent intended to stay; not because there was business in
Southfield. The message had a significance that only Harry understood. The
reference to the Night Express meant an arrival, not a departure.
It was the secret statement that the Night Express would bring another
personage to take up the work that Vincent had commenced.
Within the next quarter hour, The Shadow would be in Southfield!

CHAPTER VII

THE SHADOW ARRIVES

HARRY VINCENT had closed the door to Room 301. He was satisfied that Slade
Farrow was in Room 309. The man would keep until The Shadow appeared. Harry felt
that the best plan was to lay low for the present.
Hence Harry had no track of events in the other room; nor did he have an
eye out for activities in the hall. These factors were to prove important in
the consequences which were coming.
In Room 309, Slade Farrow was standing by a bureau. He had unwrapped the
package. The metal box showed dull green against the oak woodwork. Rusted
hinges of unpainted metal showed that the container must have rested in its
hiding place for a long time.
A crafty smile showed on Slade Farrow's firm face. That smile was a
flicker of the past. The ex-convict looked like his former self. He was Sam
Fulwell, living over that night in the penitentiary when Ferris Legrand had
lain dying in the bunk below.
A shaft of moonlight came through the opened window. The dark, clouded
night had changed. The silvery beams cast a glow upon the floor beside the
window - a recollection of that same illumination which had shone upon
Legrand's last night of life.
Ferris Legrand!
Slade Farrow's visage hardened. His expression might have meant that he
felt remorse because his cellmate was not here to share in the recovery of this
box. On the other hand, it might have indicated a secret satisfaction that
Legrand was dead. Emotions were hard to trace upon Farrow's steadied
countenance.
Whatever Farrow's feelings, one point was obvious. The ex-convict had made
use of the secret that Legrand had revealed to him. The hiding place of the
green metal box was the knowledge that the former merchant of Southfield had
told to no one but the cellmate whom he knew as Sam Fulwell.
From his pocket, Slade Farrow removed a bunch of keys. These were of
varied shapes and sorts, from heavy instruments to thin-bladed tools. It was
one of the latter that Farrow used on the box. The lock refused to turn.
Farrow produced a small oil can and introduced a few drops. Again he
worked with the thin-bladed key. The lock opened. Rusty hinges squeaked as the
top of the box came upward.
A sheet of wadded newspaper showed inside the box. Farrow pulled it loose.
He unfolded it, then tossed it to the floor. It was here merely as protection to
the documents that lay beneath. Farrow withdrew a long envelope; then a folded
paper that looked like a deed; next, a printed certificate.
A knock at the door. Slade Farrow's face showed perplexity. For a moment,
the man hesitated; then, with quick motion, he replaced the documents and
closed the box. The lock closed automatically.
There was a closet near the door of the room. Farrow stepped in that
direction. With his left hand, he thrust the green box upon the shelf and
toppled a hat over it. With his right hand, he unlocked the door of the room.
Opening the barrier, he stepped back.

A STRANGER stood in view. The man was short, stocky and well-dressed. His
broad shoulders and heavy hands were evidences of a powerful physique. His
face, though square-shaped and brutal, showed a keenness that troubled Slade.
"What do you want?"
Farrow snapped the question as a challenge. The newcomer edged his way
into the room and deliberately closed the door behind him.
"I've come to see you," growled the visitor. "Stranger in town, aren't
you?"
"Not exactly," retorted Farrow. "I've just taken over an old business here
in Southfield."
"I know it," asserted the stranger. "The Southfield Clothing Shop. That's
what I've come to see you about."
"You're in the same business?"
The broad-shouldered man scowled at the question. He eyed Farrow narrowly.
"My business is my own," he growled. "You'll find out more about it after
you've been around here a while. Southfield is a place for straight-shooters.
You'd better be one if you want to stay here, Farrow."
Slade Farrow had backed leisurely across the room. His gaze was cold as he
surveyed the intruder. He noted that the man's eyes were glancing suspiciously
about the place. Farrow indulged in a contemptuous smile.
"Who are you?" he cut in, with a voice as hard as the intruder's. "In
places where I'm used to being, visitors usually have the courtesy to introduce
themselves."
"Griffel is my name," returned the intruder. "Eric Griffel - known as
Griff. I'm a reception committee of one in this town. I look over the palookas
who blow in here. There's no phony customers in Southfield."
"And why," questioned Farrow, in a sarcastic tone, "have you come to
regard me in the light of an undesirable settler in Southfield?"
"I'll tell you why," retorted Griff. "The man who used to run the business
you bought turned out to be a crook. Maybe the atmosphere might have the same
effect on you."
"Trouble seems to be your business."
"I look for it."
"Go ahead. Look."
Farrow calmly seated himself in a chair and lighted a cigarette. Griffel
lost no time in accepting the sarcastic invitation. The broad-shouldered
intruder peered about the room, making no pretence in his action. Turning, he
gave a sharp glance at Farrow; then peered quickly beneath the bed.
"Ah!" Farrow was ironical as he puffed at his cigarette. "You think I'm
smuggling Chinese into Southfield, eh?"
"Never mind the lip." Griffel paused as he turned. "If you're on the
level, you're welcome in Southfield. If you're pulling something, you're going
to be watched. That's all."
"Thanks," sneered Farrow.
For a long instant the two men eyed each other steadily. The room was
silent; then came the muffled clanging of a locomotive bell - the Night Express
at the Southfield depot a few blocks away.

GRIFFEL turned as though about to leave. Almost by chance, his eye spied
the crumpled sheet of newspaper lying in the wastebasket. With a leap, the
heavily-built man sprang forward and seized the tell-tale sheet. He stared at
it; then turned quickly toward Farrow.
"Where did you get this?" demanded Griffel.
"What is it to you?" challenged Farrow, stepping forward with clenched
fists.
"This," snarled Griffel. His hand came from his pocket, bringing a
revolver. "Move back there, wise guy. Answer clean. Where did you pick up this
newspaper - a couple of years old? Down at Legrand's store?"
"You would make a competent detective," scoffed Farrow. "Your deduction,
my dear chap, is quite correct. I found that newspaper at my new store; I used
it to wrap up a coat that I brought back with me."
"This paper?" ridiculed Griffel. "Maybe. Maybe not. Edge over to that
wall. I'm taking a look in the closet."
Keeping his gun trained on Farrow, Griffel moved toward the closet. He
yanked the door open and threw a quick glance within. Farrow was watching him
tensely. For a moment, the ex-convict thought that the intruder would not
discover the box. Then Griffel, in another quick glance, happened to notice the
odd tilt of the hat on the shelf.
With a rapid move, the broad-shouldered man shot his hand beneath the hat
and came out with the green metal box. A fierce grin appeared upon his face as
he examined his find. His hard eyes focused upon Slade Farrow.
"Where did you get this?" quizzed Griffel. "Answer or I'll fill you with
lead."
Farrow shrugged his shoulders in resigned fashion. His voice was low and
calm as he replied.
"If that's what you're after, you're welcome to it," asserted the
ex-convict. "I found it down in the basement of the old store, while I was
examining the furnace. I wondered what it was and I brought it up here."
"You found it by the furnace?"
"On the furnace. Wedged under a heating pipe."
Farrow's tone was convincing. Griffel pocketed his revolver and placed one
hand upon the knob of the outer door.
"Legrand was a crook," he affirmed, coldly. "Anything like this doesn't
belong to him - and what doesn't belong to him isn't yours. Get that?
"If you know what's good for you, you'll attend to your knitting. Just
forget that I ever came around here. Mind your own affairs if you want to get
along in Southfield -"
Griffel's growl broke as Farrow, with a sudden spring, came catapulting
across the room just as the broad-shouldered man was opening the door. Before
Griffel could yank out his gun, Farrow was upon him.
The green box bounded out into the hall and clattered on the floor as
Griffel met the attack. For a moment, Farrow's bull-like charge gave him the
advantage. Griffel hurtled back against the wall inside the doorway. Then the
powerful intruder caught his antagonist in a viselike grip.
They wrestled wildly. A chair bounced against the bureau. Griffel caught
with a hold that raised Farrow toward the ceiling and sent the ex-convict in a
heap upon the floor just within the doorway.
Leaping to the hall, Griffel grabbed up the box. Pulling his revolver from
his pocket, he aimed savagely. Murder was in his eye. Slade Farrow, senseless on
the floor, was at the point of death.

BEFORE Griffel could press the trigger, a man leaped from a doorway down
the hall. It was Harry Vincent.
The Shadow's agent had heard the commotion. He saw murder in the making.
He was springing to the rescue. A helpless man at the mercy of a potential
killer was sufficient cause to intervene.
Griffel sensed the leap. He turned in time to meet Harry's onrush. His
powerful shoulder caught The Shadow's agent in the chest. Swinging his gun,
Griffel grazed the top of Harry's head. The two men, locking, staggered toward
the stairway.
The box shot from Griffel's arm and bounded down the steps. His left hand
free, Griffel dealt a sudden blow to Harry's chin. The Shadow's agent sprawled
upon the floor while Griffel leaped madly down the carpeted stairs. Rising
groggily, Harry almost gained his feet; then slumped and lay in a daze. All was
silent in the hall. Slade Farrow was lying motionless within his doorway.
There was an open exit to a fire tower at the end of the hall. It showed
dull light from the city lights. Suddenly, that low glow was blackened out. Two
burning eyes stared from the darkness.
A figure emerged. It was that of a being garbed in black. The Shadow had
arrived. Knowing that his agent would be awaiting his arrival, the master of
the night had chosen this means of entrance.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow advanced. He reached Harry Vincent's
crumpled form and lifted the husky young man with a single arm. Easily, The
Shadow bore Harry through the open door into Room 301. Seeing that his agent
was recuperating, The Shadow let him rest upon the bed.
Moving swiftly, The Shadow headed for Slade Farrow's room. He bent above
the unconscious form and noted that Farrow, like Harry, was no more than
stunned. Keen eyes spied the crumpled sheet of newspaper upon the floor close
by the wastebasket. A low laugh came from unseen lips as The Shadow stepped
forward to examine this piece of evidence.
The old newspaper passed out of sight beneath the folds of the black
cloak. The Shadow's keen eyes noted the hat in the closet, flopped upside down
upon the shelf, where Eric Griffel had tossed it.
Another laugh - a hollow whisper that made no more than a soft echo in
that room where action had ceased. The Shadow stooped and drew Slade Farrow's
huddled form inward. The man moved slightly as The Shadow stepped through the
door and closed the barrier behind him.
The blackened figure reached the fire tower. It merged with outer
darkness. The Shadow had arrived too late to frustrate this quick pair of
combats in which Eric Griffel had bowled out two antagonists.
Yet The Shadow had a clear idea of what had occurred. He knew that Slade
Farrow had been robbed of spoils. He knew that some powerful intruder had made
a get-away. He knew that this combatant had broken loose from Harry Vincent's
clutch.
Avoidance of gunfire, in Harry's case, had been a natural move on
Griffel's part. The intruder had gained what he sought. Murder of an
intervening hotel guest would have been an error.
The Shadow was gone; not long afterward, the silhouette that marked his
presence came stretching inward across the lobby floor of the Southfield House.
It was not a figure in black that cast that sinister streak of darkness. The
Shadow was here in other garb.
He had chosen the guise of Lamont Cranston. Tall, well-dressed and quiet
of demeanor, he approached to sign his name upon the hotel register. A bell boy
was bringing in two suitcases which this new guest had left upon the sidewalk.
Crime and countercrime! Such were the events that stalked in Southfield.
Ferris Legrand's hidden treasure had been uncovered by Slade Farrow. An
intruder had wrested the find from the ex-convict.
The Shadow knew the truth. He knew also that this could be but the
beginning of a coming struggle. A man of Slade Farrow's ilk would not be balked
by temporary defeat.
It was The Shadow's game to wait. Here, in Southfield, he was prepared to
solve the mystery of crime and countercrime!

CHAPTER VIII

MEN MEET

HARRY VINCENT awoke and rubbed his jaw. It was morning. Seating himself on
the edge of the bed, Harry recalled the events of last night.
He remembered a battle in the hall. A knock-out blow that had left him
groggy. After that, he remembered his return to consciousness. He had gone out
into the hall, had seen no one, and had staggered back into his room.
Then to bed, still feeling the effects of the encounter. Harry was a
trifle perplexed; moreover, he was fuming at his own inability to cope with the
enemy who had so easily overcome him.
An envelope fluttered to the floor. Harry reached down and plucked it from
the carpet. He opened the message and read its blue-inked coded lines. The
message faded word by word.
Instructions from The Shadow. Harry realized now that his chief must have
arrived immediately after the encounter in the hall. Harry tossed paper and
envelope in the wastebasket. He dressed and left the hotel room.
It was shortly after noon when Harry strolled into a restaurant on the
main street, almost directly opposite the Southfield Athletic Club. As he
seated himself at a table, Harry noticed a man sitting close by.
Husky and broad-shouldered, his face hardened, this fellow impressed Harry
at once. He was positive that this was the man whom he had battled in the hall.
He happened to meet the gaze of his ex-antagonist. Harry repressed a smile. The
other man had not recognized him.
This was logical. Harry had made the attack. His opponent had not caught
more than a passing glance at Harry's face. Harry turned his gaze in another
direction and paid no attention to his erstwhile foeman.

THE broad-shouldered fellow was leaving the restaurant as Harry approached
to pay his lunch check. The manager nodded cordially. Harry put a question.
"Who is that fellow?" he asked, nodding toward the door.
"You don't know him?" The manager looked surprised.
"I'm a stranger here," returned Harry.
"So I can guess," laughed the manager. "Everybody in town knows that
fellow. His name is Eric Griffel. We all call him Griff. He runs the Southfield
Athletic Club."
"He looks husky," commented Harry.
"Husky?" The manager grinned. "He could lick any three men in this town.
Don't ever pick a quarrel with that fellow. He has plenty of friends."
"Members of the Athletic Club?"
"Yes. A fine bunch of boys. We don't have any trouble with crooks here in
Southfield. We've got a good enough police force - there's nothing against
Chief Kerr, you understand - but we owe a lot to Griff and his club."
"What are they? A sort of vigilante committee?"
"That's it. They don't get rough very often, though. They look over any
strangers who arouse their suspicions. Rowdies and bums don't stay long in
Southfield. Smooth crooks keep away from this city, too."
Harry was still going over these remarks as he left the restaurant. This
placed a new angle on the situation. Harry knew that Slade Farrow was a man
under suspicion. The Shadow had set Harry to watch the ex-convict.
Evidently Eric Griffel, local champion of law and order, had gained an
inkling that Slade Farrow was of criminal intent. Although he had not learned
the reason for the quarrel between Griffel and Farrow, Harry now began to see
the light.
Strolling back to the hotel, The Shadow's agent seated himself at a
writing desk in the lobby and inscribed a short note with his own fountain pen.
He went up in the elevator to the third floor; then took the stairway to the
fourth.
Under the door of Room 401 he thrust the sealed envelope which contained
the report he had just prepared. This was a message to The Shadow - an
aftermath of orders which Harry had received. He had been told to keep tabs on
anything unusual in Southfield and to report in disappearing code.
Harry felt a sense of confidence to know that The Shadow was here in
person. He was sure that The Shadow's present personality must be an assumed
one. Nevertheless, it was unusual for The Shadow to be as close to his agent as
this. Harry felt that it was a reward for his long period of faithful effort in
The Shadow's service.

OUT on the street, two men were walking directly toward Eric Griffel as
the latter was nearing the steps of the Southfield Athletic Club. One of these
men was Slade Farrow; the other was his attorney, Norton Granger. It was the
latter who hailed Griffel. The husky man approached.
"Hello, Griff," greeted Granger. "I want you to meet a client of mine -
Slade Farrow. He's just bought out the Southfield Clothing Shop. Mr. Farrow,
this is Mr. Griffel."
"Glad to meet you, Farrow," expressed Griffel, extending a brawny arm.
"Any friend of Norton Granger is a friend of Griff's."
Farrow received the handclasp and returned it with a grip as tight as
Griff's.
"Glad to know you," said the ex-convict. "Hope to see you down at the
store, Griff."
The husky man smiled. Farrow countered with the same expression. Norton
Granger seemed pleased at the exchange of friendship.
Not for one instant had Norton Granger suspected that these men had met
before. He would have been amazed had he known that the pair whom he had
introduced had been engaged in violent conflict on the night before.
It was not until the young lawyer and his client were about to move along
that evidences of antagonism were delivered. Even then, Granger did not detect
the signs.
A sneering leer appeared upon the face of Slade Farrow. It was the
ex-convict's expression that he feared no future encounter. In return, Griff
showed a warning stare, a token that his persistent vigilance would not
lessened.
Although these signs were not noticed by Norton Granger, they did not
escape a stranger who was passing. A well-dressed stranger, tall and of quiet
demeanor, chanced to observe the trio. He was close enough to view and hear all
that passed.
There was no change in the passer's expression. He sauntered up the street
and crossed to the Southfield House. As he reached the entrance of the hotel, he
turned. A smile appeared upon his thin lips.
Eric Griffel was still standing on the steps of the athletic club. Slade
Farrow was parting with Norton Granger at the doorway of the Southfield
Clothing Shop.
A soft laugh came from the thin lips of the observer. As Lamont Cranston,
The Shadow had divined all that was in the air. He had learned, in an instant,
that Eric Griffel must be the man with whom Slade Farrow had battled. He knew
that Griffel must be suspicious of the ex-convict; that Farrow, in turn, was
ready to meet the husky vigilante's game.
The laugh died. With lips a straight line, his face almost expressionless,
his tall form leisurely in gait, The Shadow entered the Southfield House.
Men had met today. The Shadow had seen that meeting. He had learned facts
which he sought, even before receiving the report from Harry Vincent!

CHAPTER IX

MEN OF WEALTH

EVENING had come to Southfield. Guests were lounging in the lobby of the
Southfield House. Some were chatting, others appeared to be mere loungers.
Slade Farrow appeared in the lobby. He walked over to the desk and spoke
to the clerk. His tone was loud enough to be heard a short distance away. A
lounger caught the statements.
"I'm checking out tomorrow," informed Farrow. "Sorry to leave you, but
I've got a little apartment over my clothing store and I might as well use it."
"Very well, Mr. Farrow," returned the clerk. "We hope you have enjoyed
your stay here."
"I have," stated Farrow, "By the way - do you have a telegraph blank?"
"Yes," said the clerk, "and I can send the message."
"Good."
Farrow received the blank and wrote out his telegram. Just as he was
finishing the message, another guest stepped up to the desk to make an inquiry.
It was Harry Vincent. The Shadow's agent had timed his arrival at a moment when
the clerk was busy. This gave him the opportunity he needed to catch a glimpse
of the wire that Farrow had written.
The clerk came back to get the telegram, He read it aloud. Harry Vincent
had strolled away. This time it was the lounger who benefited.
"David Garvell," read the clerk. "Aristides Apartments, New York City."
"That's right."
"The message: Forty dollars most salary can offer. Stop. Thirty for
competent helper. Stop. Wire when clothing shipments will arrive. Signed: Slade
Farrow."
Slade Farrow nodded and strolled away. A disappointed look appeared upon
the lounger's face. The message had meant nothing to him.
For that matter, it had seemed of little moment to Harry Vincent. The
Shadow's agent, nevertheless, had remembered it word for word. He was putting
it down in special ink at a writing desk in the corner of the lobby.

A TALL figure appeared from the elevator. It was that of Lamont Cranston.
The new visitor to Southfield was attired in a perfectly-fitting tuxedo. His
keen eyes roved easily about the lobby as he moved toward the door.
Those sharp optics saw the yellow telegraph blank in the clerk's hand.
They caught Slade Farrow going toward a chair; they observed the lounger
strolling away; they spied Harry Vincent at the writing desk.
A thin smile appeared upon the chiseled lips as Lamont Cranston, his
momentary pause scarcely noticed, kept on his way and reached the street.
The well-attired millionaire hailed a taxi. He ordered the driver to take
him to the Crucible Club. The man nodded. He was not surprised that this
tuxedoed stranger should be going there. The Crucible Club was the meeting
place of men of wealth in Southfield.
The cab rolled a quarter of a mile and stopped before a pretentious
building. Lamont Cranston alighted and entered. He gave his name to the doorman
and was promptly admitted. An attendant led him to a card room.
Four men stopped their play as Cranston was announced.
One, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with gray hair, stepped forward with
welcoming hand. His face gleamed with a broad, oddly-formed smile.
"Mr. Cranston!" he exclaimed. "I have been expecting you. I am Townsend
Rowling."
Cranston nodded as he received the real estate promoter's handshake.
Rowling turned to introduce the others.
"Meet Mr. Blogg," he said. "Rutherford Blogg - our principal manufacturer
here in Southfield. This is Hiram Marker - he owns the waterworks and the
electric plant. This young man is Norton Granger, a promising attorney,
well-fitted for his old dad's shoes."
Lamont Cranston's keen eyes were surveying the men before him. Rutherford
Blogg was a bulky, heavy-jowled individual whose face seemed as gray as his
thin hair. His mouth had a fishlike droop.
Hiram Marker was a portly gentleman whose heavy gold watch chain rested
wrinkled on his bulging vest. His face was fat and pudgy. His head was bald
except for tiny patches above the ears.
Lamont Cranston had seen Norton Granger before, nevertheless, he studied
the young lawyer's face with new interest. Granger had an affected air of
professionalism. His boyish frankness was evident, however, to this keen
observer.
"Mr. Cranston is here from New York," informed Townsend Rowling, as he
invited the visitor to a chair beside the table. "He called me at the bank this
afternoon. I arranged for him to come here this evening. Mr. Cranston,
gentlemen, is an investor who sees possibilities in Southfield territory."

RUTHERFORD BLOGG looked steadily at Cranston's calm visage. Hiram Marker
furrowed his pudgy forehead. Norton Granger evidenced mild surprise.
"This meeting is a fortunate one," advised Rowling, as he turned from man
to man. "I think that we three - Blogg, Marker and I - are most well informed
regarding conditions in this territory. Perhaps we can give him excellent
advice."
"Regarding what enterprises?"
The question came from Hiram Marker. It was directed to Lamont Cranston.
"That depends." A thin smile showed on Cranston's lips. "I have many
interests, Mr. Marker. I am associated with numerous others. I have an uncanny
ability for sensing business conditions in communities. Time and again, I have
informed my associates of excellent opportunities."
"In particular?" queried Rutherford Blogg.
"Theaters, for instance," returned Cranston. "Also automatic supplies. I
have also found that farming equipment has many opportunities in areas such as
the Southfield district."
"You have no specific plans?" asked Townsend Rowling.
"None as yet," responded Cranston, quietly. "I like to spend some time in
any district which I visit. Moreover, I find it advisable to treat with local
interests. Being long established, they are often amenable to plans for
first-class expansion."
"Southfield has passed the boom stage," observed Townsend Rowling.
"Nevertheless, Mr. Cranston, this city still presents great possibilities. We
welcome you here and hope that you will enjoy your stay with us."
Conversation turned. It slipped away from local business and became a
friendly discourse on matters elsewhere. Chance questions directed toward
Lamont Cranston received prompt replies. Little by little, the three big men of
Southfield gained new facts regarding their visitor's affairs.
It was late in the evening, when talk had waned, that Rutherford Blogg and
Hiram Marker decided they must leave. Lamont Cranston remarked that he was going
back to the hotel. Norton Granger was prompt to offer the use of his car.
Shaking hands with the other men, Cranston strolled out with Granger. The
pair entered the lawyer's car.

AS soon as they had rolled away from the club, Granger spoke.
"In fairness to you, Mr. Cranston," he said, "I think you should know a
bit about conditions in this town."
"From the standpoint of business?" questioned Cranston, quietly.
"Yes," answered Granger. "Concerning vested interests, to be exact."
"You mean the three men whom I met tonight?"
"Yes. They own Southfield."
"That is interesting."
"It should be. You entered their fields very directly tonight."
"When I mentioned certain enterprises?"
"Exactly. Let me enumerate. You spoke of theaters. Townsend Rowling is a
real estate owner. Through that connection, he controls the bank. He is also
the real owner of both theaters that are located in Southfield."
"How does that happen?"
"High rentals - difficult conditions - those would have brought
receiverships. Rowling, as owner of the properties, gained control. The
theaters are paying now that they are under his wing."
"Indeed." Cranston's tone was thoughtful. "This is very interesting, Mr.
Granger."
"Perhaps," continued the young lawyer. "you thought of automotive supplies
because you noticed that local agencies were very few. There is an answer.
Rutherford Blogg cracks the whip so far as that form of business is concerned."
"I suppose," remarked Cranston, in an amused tone, "that Hiram Marker
controls the sale of farming equipment."
"He does," declared Granger. "That business is consolidated under the
control of Marker's cousin - a man who is controlled by Marker."
"Rather odd," mused Cranston, "that you should mention these facts. I
supposed that these gentlemen were clients of yours, Mr. Granger."
"They are." Granger's tone was low as he stopped his car in front of the
hotel. "I handle certain of their legal affairs. What I have told you is no
betrayal of confidence. I have merely stated facts which any man of your
apparent perception would learn after a short while.
"I merely wished to save you time and annoyance. If you intend to invest
money in Southfield enterprises, Mr. Cranston, I should advise you to treat
with those three men. Make sure that they can share in any ventures which you
plan. Otherwise, you may find yourself against unexpected competition."
"Unfair as well as unexpected?"
"I would not say that. Business men have a right to protect their
interests. Those three have reached their high estate through years of effort.
They have chosen not to overstress their wideness of activity purely as a
matter of policy."
"I see."
"My father," resumed Granger, in a reflective tone, "was closely
associated with their rise. I have often felt that he used his influence to
curb their policy. His sudden death was unfortunate.
"All three were inclined to grasping tactics. Those became more pronounced
after my father was gone. Perhaps Southfield has benefited by the domination of
three men. It is difficult to decide just what is strictly ethical in business.
"I feel that Rowling, Blogg and Marker are inclined to oppose the
intrusion of outside interests. They are the rulers of this bailiwick. To be
fair to them, I think that they might ordinarily warn a stranger to keep out.
"That, however, might be a bad move. Hence their disposition is always a
friendly one; and newcomers to Southfield have been unfortunate in business.
That, Mr. Cranston, is all that I have to say."
Norton Granger extended his hand as Lamont Cranston alighted from the car.
He received a firm grasp. He caught a pair of keen eyes that seemed to stare
through him. Then Cranston turned toward the hotel.
Norton Granger drove away. He felt a strange recollection of those eyes
that had met his. Somehow, the personality of Lamont Cranston, despite its
quietude, had gained a domination over the young lawyer's thoughts.

IN the darkness of Room 401, Lamont Cranston stood looking from the window
along the main street where late lights still glowed. Shrouded in darkness, he
had become The Shadow. A piece of paper crinkled in hidden hands. It was Harry
Vincent's report which The Shadow had just read - the coded statement regarding
Slade Farrow's telegram.
The clothing shop down the street; the Southfield Athletic Club; these
were buildings which The Shadow noticed. His keen gaze terminated, however,
upon a white, marble-faced building with bronze-barred windows that glistened
from a site across the way.
This was the Southfield Bank, owned by Townsend Rowling, biggest of the
three. It stood like a citadel - an impregnable stronghold in the city.
A soft laugh rippled through the room. Shuddering echoes answered, then
died with ghoulish throbs. Southfield, despite its placidity, was a town where
strange events were due.
The Shadow knew!

CHAPTER X

THE VIGIL

A NEW night had come to Southfield. The main thoroughfare of the
prosperous little city was a glitter of light in which many strollers passed.
Southfield drew evening crowds from the surrounding countryside.
Harry Vincent, walking quietly along the main street, approached the front
of the Southfield Clothing Shop. He paused to glance into the display window.
Through the opened door, he could see Slade Farrow behind the counter. With him
was a peak-faced clerk.
Since Farrow had taken over the clothing shop, he had made changes in the
business. The new merchant seemed anxious to gain new trade. He had dispatched
the two old clerks to other towns: one to Gwynnesborough and the other to
Galport. There he had opened small branch stores.
Two new hirelings had arrived. One was the man whom Farrow had wired in
New York. This was David Garvell, the big, bluff-faced fellow whom The Shadow
had heard Farrow address as Dave in a New York apartment.
The other was a man who had come with Dave. He was the pasty-faced chap
now serving as clerk. Farrow, when he spoke to this aid, called him Louie.
Harry Vincent had not learned the new clerk's last name.
A light delivery truck reared up to the curb while Harry was standing at
the show window. A big man alighted and shouldered his way past Harry. It was
Dave. Farrow had bought this truck to carry goods from town to town, and Dave
was the man who operated it.
Harry was turning away when a new arrival came within his field of
observation. It was "Griff" Griffel. The husky head of the local athletic club
was swaggering toward the clothing shop. In the offing were two other men whom
Harry took to be Griff's henchmen.
Harry had not encountered Griffel since that night at the Southfield
House. Quiet and inconspicuous, The Shadow's agent had dwelt quite comfortably
in Southfield. Hence, when Griff strode by and entered the lighted store, Harry
saw no danger in following. He strolled through the door and began to examine
neckties on a rack. Louie, the pale-faced clerk, came over to wait on the
customer.

WHILE choosing neckties, Harry was a witness to all that occurred. He saw
Eric Griffel approach Slade Farrow. He noted Griff's friends lurking on the
sidewalk outside. He observed Dave standing close at hand when Griffel spoke to
Farrow.
"Hello, Farrow," greeted the husky man, in a tone that was somewhat
cordial. "How are you finding business?"
"All right, Griff," rejoined Farrow. "The way it's going, I'll be needing
more help. I'm just waiting to see how the branch stores make out."
"You've started two of them, eh?"
"Yes. One in Gwynnesborough; the other in Galport. Temporary leases. If
they don't work out, I'll yank the old clerks back here. If they go over, I'll
hire some new clerks for this store."
Griffel nodded. He looked about and studied the stock approvingly. Slade
Farrow was obviously making an honest effort to do legitimate business. The big
vigilante could find nothing to arouse his suspicions. He stared toward Dave.
Farrow noted the gaze.
"Meet Dave Garvell," introduced Farrow. "This is Griff, Dave. You ought to
spend some time up at his athletic club. Maybe you could build some muscle on
the exercisers."
"I'm getting enough muscle," laughed Dave. "Driving between here and those
other towns is plenty of work for anybody."
"You're welcome up at the club," announced Griff. "Drop up there any time,
Garvell."
"Thanks," returned Dave.
Harry Vincent was completing his purchase of a few neckties. It was nine
o'clock. Slade Farrow turned from the counter.
"Closing up for the night," he remarked. "You're not through yet though,
Dave. You've got to run those boxes of shirts over to Gwynnesborough. Get back
in time to pick up the consignment of new suits that are coming in on the Night
Express."
"All right, boss."
"I'll be back in the apartment. Take Louie along with you and I'll let you
in when you ring at the delivery entrance."
Griffel was sauntering from the shop. Farrow picked up hat and coat and
overtook the local husky. Together, the pair strolled along the main street
toward the athletic club. Harry Vincent left while Dave and Louie were locking
up. He headed for the hotel.

HARRY knew that Griffel and Farrow were enemies. He knew that neither had
forgotten that episode in the hotel. At the same time, Harry realized that both
had found it wise to play a game in which their bitter encounter would not be
mentioned.
Griffel had gained his point in his battle with Farrow. The ex-convict had
no other course than to bide his time and play the part of a reputable merchant.
All the while, Griffel was on the watch. That part was obvious.
Was Farrow trying to square himself with Griffel? Or was he plotting some
cunning scheme to get back at the man who had conquered him and taken his
spoils? Harry felt that the latter was the case. He realized that a stale-mate
existed.
Griff Griffel could make no move against Slade Farrow so long as the new
merchant kept above suspicion. Farrow, in turn, could not act against Griff
without jeopardizing his own position. This was why enemies appeared as friends.
Other eyes than Harry Vincent's were watching Farrow and Griffel as the
pair strolled along the main street. In the darkness of Room 401, The Shadow
was gazing keenly toward the thoroughfare below. He saw a pair of loungers who
followed in the wake of Griffel and Farrow. He watched Dave and Louie enter the
truck and drive away. A soft laugh came from The Shadow's lips.
Something scraped beneath the door. The Shadow turned and crossed the
darkened room. He stooped and picked up an envelope. A light clicked on; the
shaded rays of a lamp showed only hands as The Shadow opened the envelope. The
message was in code, inscribed in ink of vivid blue. It was Harry Vincent's
prompt report of his recent observations in Farrow's store.
The writing vanished. The light clicked out. A period of silence followed.
Then came a swishing sound. The door of Room 401 opened and a spectral figure
issued forth. In his garb of black, The Shadow was starting out. The tall
figure reached the fire tower. The Shadow descended. His shape merged with
darkness and followed a circuitous path along a back street. Phantomlike, The
Shadow could move entirely unseen so long as he avoided the glittering main
street.
He turned toward that thoroughfare, however, after he had traveled some
distance under cover of darkness. He had reached a spot just beyond the lighted
zone. The Shadow crossed the main street unobserved; his shape no more than a
passing blotch of blackness.
He reached a back street beyond and reversed his course. A few minutes
later, The Shadow was nearing the delivery entrance of Farrow's clothing shop.
His figure eased against the brick wall.

TWO men were blundering through the dark. The Shadow could hear their
low-toned conversation. He knew that these were other henchmen who served
Griffel. At night, Farrow's place was under observation. Griffel was evidently
missing no opportunity to pin something on Farrow.
The delivery door of the clothing shop was heavily bolted. Farrow had
taken pains to keep the place locked tightly. The Shadow, however, had other
means of entrance. He waited until the prowling watchers had passed. He pressed
close against the wall.
A squdgy sound came from the bricks. In the darkness, The Shadow's form
moved upward. With rubber suction cups on hands and feet, The Shadow was
scaling the wall with ease.
A window yielded on the second floor. The Shadow's form entered. A tiny
flashlight flickered; its dollar-sized circle of light was guarded. The rays
could not be seen from the back street below.
The Shadow was in Farrow's apartment.
A careful inspection revealed nothing. The Shadow unlocked the door and
descended a pair of stairs that led down into the shop. There he entered
Farrow's little office.
Telegrams lay upon a desk. These were the only documents of interest that
The Shadow could find in the small room with barred windows. A soft laugh came
from the lips that were covered by the folds of the cloak collar.
These messages told of incoming shipments. All were slated to arrive
tonight, on the Night Express. This worked in with Harry Vincent's report. The
Shadow glided from the office.
The black-garbed investigator found the delivery door. He produced a
blackened pick and probed the lock of a large door beside the closed entrance.
The barrier opened to reveal a stairway to the basement. The Shadow descended.
Store rooms - windowless - were located below. There were boxes and
packing cases here. The Shadow passed through the first room and opened the
door to a small, inner compartment. This had a side door which led back to a
passage toward the stairs.
His inspection completed, The Shadow extinguished the tiny flashlight and
started for the stairs. He paused suddenly. His keen ears had detected a sound
from above. A key was clicking in the lock of the door at the head of the
stairs - a barrier which The Shadow had locked behind him.
As footsteps pounded on the steps, The Shadow edged back into the
darkness. He reached the doorway from the passage to the little room just as
the arrival came to the bottom of the steps.
The approacher walked through the passage to the large store room. He
switched on a light. The glow revealed Slade Farrow. The ex-convict glanced
about to assure himself that all was in order. He did not see the peering eyes
that watched through the crack of the door from the little room beyond.
The Shadow had taken full provision for Slade Farrow's return. He had left
no clew that would let the man know an intruder had been here. Farrow turned and
went back to the stairs, leaving the light on in the big store room.
This time The Shadow waited. Shrouded in the darkness of the little room,
he was prepared to play the part of watcher in the events to follow.

CHAPTER XI

THREE THREATS

UP in the back street behind the Southfield Clothing Shop, Dave and Louie
were unloading boxes and packing cases from their truck. They had brought in
the shipment which had arrived by the Night Express.
The delivery door was open. Slade Farrow was pointing his truckmen toward
the stairs. His voice was plain as he spoke.
"That's all for tonight, boys," he asserted. "Leave the shipment in the
store room and I'll lock up. Have the truck around at eight thirty tomorrow
morning."
A few minutes later, the bolts shot on the delivery door. The truck pulled
away. Lurkers still prowled near the back street. Griff's watchers had seen the
unloading. It had been a regular delivery of goods.
Down in the basement store rooms, Slade Farrow entered and stood beneath
the light. His shrewd face wore a cunning smile, He studied the boxes that his
men had brought in. Picking up a small crowbar, he pried away the top boards of
a packing case.
The Shadow was watching and listening. His keen ears caught a trifling
sound. His vigilant eyes saw the next result. A figure arose from within the
opened box. A tall, cadaverous man stepped lightly from the container and
exchanged grins with Slade Farrow.
"Hello, boss," was his whispered greeting.
"Hello, Tapper," rejoined Farrow. "Get busy with that second case. I'll
take the other."
"Right. I'll let Skeets out while you open the box for Hawkeye."
Muffled tools pried open the indicated cases. Two men emerged, each from a
separate box. "Skeets," like "Tapper," was a shrewd, thin-faced individual, tall
and stoop-shouldered. The third man, "Hawkeye," was small and frail.
Yet of the three, Hawkeye possessed the most striking characteristics. His
face was wizened. It seemed prematurely old. His eyes formed a marked contrast
to the colorless appearance of his skin. They were quick and beady; they were
as sharp as the optics of a snake.

THE SHADOW knew these men. They were criminals who had served their terms;
men who had vanished from the bad lands after their commitments in Sing Sing.
They were of different caliber than such secondary henchmen as Dave and Louie,
the two whom Slade Farrow had allowed to come openly to Southfield.
Tapper, in his heyday, had been one of the smoothest safe-crackers in the
business. Skeets, The Shadow knew, had been a racketeer. Hawkeye had gained
fame as a spy throughout the underworld.
The three had served varying sentences in prison. The Shadow had listed
them as men to be watched when discharged. All three, however, had retired to
lives away from crime. Their whereabouts had become untraceable.
They were in Southfield now - these three men who had been rated as master
crooks in the past. They had come at the bidding of one man whom they recognized
as their chief: Slade Farrow.
Watched in Southfield, Farrow had boldly introduced these three under the
noses of Griff's henchmen. Secretly he had gained the under cover aid of three
men whose crimes had once bewildered the police force of Manhattan. Out of
nowhere, he had assembled a trio capable of supercrime!
The counterthrust was under way. The Shadow's belief that Slade Farrow was
not through in Southfield was justified by the presence of these three.

"YOU'RE here." Farrow was speaking in a low tone to the three men who had
perched themselves upon boxes. "I've done plenty for all of you since you left
the pen. You've wanted to pay me in return. This is your chance."
Nods and pleased grins were the response. Despite their criminal
propensities, these men seemed to possess a sense of loyalty to the one who had
brought them here.
"There's others that I might have picked." Farrow was stern in his
statement. "I could have brought in a bigger crew. But I chose the three of
you. I've got work to do, from under cover.
"You know my rule. No questions asked. I'm going to put you to work in the
lines that you know. The game is mine - remember that. There may be trouble; if
there is, you take the chances along with me."
The prospect did not disturb the listeners. On the contrary, they stared
at Farrow and registered pleased expressions.
"I'm running a clothing store here in Southfield," explained Farrow. "The
business is on the level. Dave and Louie are working for me. In the store and
out, those two will look like me. We're honest people making money in this town
through a legitimate business.
"Our job is to cover up. It's going to get hot before you three fellows
have finished with what you're going to do. Hotter and hotter. But you'll like
it if I know you right. I figure the whole scheme is worth the risk."
"Then I figure the same," vouchsafed Tapper.
"Me too," chimed in Skeets.
Hawkeye made no reply. The little fellow's beady eyes were roaming about
the room. He caught Farrow's gaze and put a sudden question.
"What kind of mugs are we up against?" queried Hawkeye.
"The police force here," responded Farrow, "is insufficient. The town,
however, boasts of a wiseacre named Eric Griffel. He runs an athletic club
which is the headquarters of men who act as vigilantes. They run crooks out of
town - when they find them."
"Those were the mugs that were watchin', eh?" sneered Hawkeye. "I mean the
ones that were out back when we were bein' unloaded."
Skeets and Tapper stared. Hawkeye laughed.
"Say" - the little man's tone was scornful - "you guys don't wise to
nothin'. These boxes we were in have got cracks in 'em, haven't they? Well -
don't you think I was wise enough to be lookin' - an' listenin'?
"I spotted some boobs around that back alley. I was figurin' on somethin'
like it. Why do you think the boss here lugged us in the way he did?"
"You're right, Hawkeye," spoke Farrow. "Griff's men are on watch. That's
why I smuggled you through. I know this fellow Griff, and he's keeping tabs on
me. But I'm going right ahead and he won't stop us."
"Leave it to Hawkeye," commented Tapper. "He can spot anything a mile
away."
"I'll bet the same," added Skeets. "I'll bet that Hawkeye could even spot
The Shadow."
The little man looked quickly at the speaker. His beady eyes showed
nervousness. Grins faded as Hawkeye glanced at the others.
"Say!" Hawkeye's whisper was hoarse as he addressed Slade Farrow. "The
Shadow ain't in on this deal, is he, boss?"
"Not a chance of it," returned Farrow.
"The Shadow's a tough bimbo to buck," warned Hawkeye. He arose from the
packing case on which he had been sitting. "I'm tellin' you, an' I know.
Listen. When I went to stir, I was glad to get there. I've been glad I've
always been layin' low since. You ask me why? I'll tell you. Because of The
Shadow."
Silence. Hawkeye licked his lips in worried fashion.
"I was hooked up with some big shots," resumed the crafty little man. "I
know who got 'em. It was The Shadow. I've trailed that guy."
"You know who he is?" queried Tapper.
"Me?" Hawkeye laughed nervously. "Say - there ain't nobody knows who The
Shadow is - except The Shadow. All I found out about him was enough to make me
call it quits."
"You mean," interposed Farrow, sternly, "that if The Shadow should appear
in Southfield, you would refuse to work for me?"
"I ain't sayin' that, boss," pleaded Hawkeye. "Don't get me wrong. When I
begin a job, I stick. I'm just tellin' you - I don't want to get mixed around
The Shadow.
"That guy was due to get me once - The Shadow was. I ain't boastin' when I
tell you that I'm the one bird keen enough to spot him. Maybe there was others
like me - if there was, they ain't around no more to brag.
"I ain't felt right since I got in this joint. It wasn't those hicks out
in the alley that worried me, neither. I'm tellin' you - I get hunches that
other people don't. There's somethin' about The Shadow - just his bein' on the
ground - that I can feel.
"I'm suspicious of this joint. I ain't said nothin' yet, but I'm tellin'
you that when I feel this way it means somebody's lookin' in."
As Hawkeye's sentence ended, there was a motion beyond the door to the
next compartment. The watching eyes of The Shadow disappeared from the crack.
Yet not a sound marked his withdrawal.

HAWKEYE stared toward the door to the passage. Then, with a swift turn, he
glanced toward the very door that The Shadow had left. While the others watched,
Hawkeye sneaked across the room and opened the door of the smaller compartment.
Light over his shoulder revealed the room as being empty.
The Shadow had reached the passage. While Hawkeye stared into the little
compartment, The Shadow was moving noiselessly toward the stairs. All backs
were in his direction, for the other men were watching Hawkeye's actions.
When the little fellow turned back into the big room, he was again too
late to spy The Shadow. The messenger from the night had reached the steps and
had glided upward. Hawkeye mopped his brow and returned to the packing case.
"Maybe I'm nervous," he admitted. "But that don't mean nothin' good. When
I get that way, it's because I'm wise to somethin' that ain't right.
"It felt like eyes were burnin' on me - but it don't feel that way now.
Just the same, boss" - Hawkeye paused to address Farrow in serious fashion -
"I'd like to look upstairs in this place. I ain't foolin' - when I get worried,
it means somethin'."
"All right, Hawkeye," agreed Farrow. "I brought you here to spot anything
that might be wrong. You two stay here, Skeets and Tapper. Hawkeye will go up
with me; he'll be back after he's gone through the place inspecting it."
With Hawkeye at his heels, Farrow left the store room. He conducted
Hawkeye to the little office, then let the little man into the store, which was
dimly illuminated by street lights that shone through the barred show windows.
The next move was up the stairs to the apartment. Hawkeye prowled about in
shady corners after Farrow had put on one light. Satisfied that no one was here,
Hawkeye returned downstairs.
The delay on the first floor had given The Shadow opportunity for
departure through the apartment window. Smoothly, he had made his way down the
brick wall and off through the darkness of the back street, undetected by
Griff's watchers, who were still prowling in the offing.
Shortly afterward, burning eyes stared toward the Southfield Clothing Shop
from the window of the hotel room occupied by Lamont Cranston. The Shadow had
returned to his temporary abode.
A soft laugh died in a suppressed whisper as The Shadow viewed the
darkened shop that he had left. That building harbored men competent of any
crime - Slade Farrow's three threats - Tapper, Skeets and Hawkeye.
An idler passing on the street stared at the darkened store windows. Again
The Shadow delivered a murmured laugh. He had recognized another of Griff's
watchers.
Slade Farrow was playing an undercover game. He had deceived the
vigilantes of Southfield. But he had not tricked The Shadow.
Again, The Shadow knew!

CHAPTER XII

CRIME BREAKS

IT was early the next evening. Dusk had arrived and a light was burning on
the writing table in Room 401. Seated in front of the table was a firm-visaged
individual dressed in evening clothes. The Shadow was again in the guise of
Lamont Cranston.
Two envelopes rested on the table. The Shadow opened each in turn. He read
the coded messages and let the papers and envelopes flutter into the wastebasket.
One note was from Harry Vincent. The other was from a second agent who had
arrived in Southfield. Cliff Marsland, summoned from his usual habitat, the
underworld of New York, was also on the job.
The Shadow arose from the table. In the leisurely fashion that was
characteristic of Lamont Cranston, he strolled to the window. A cigarette found
its way between his thin lips, and was lighted with a hasty gesture.
The delivery truck was parked across the street in front of Slade Farrow's
store. While The Shadow watched, Dave and Louie appeared. They were carrying a
packing case through the broad front door of the shop.
The pair set the big box in the truck. They went back into the store and
returned, lugging another case. Again, they made the trip. Once more a heavy
packing case. Then both went back and came out on their final trip with a
fourth box.
A slight smile formed itself on the lips of Lamont Cranston. To this
keen-eyed watcher, the handling of that fourth case was sufficient clew. It was
obviously lighter than the others - yet sufficiently heavy for a box filled with
clothing.
In the first three trips, Dave and Louie had carted out Farrow's hidden
henchmen. The last trip was the only one which concerned merchandise to be
delivered in another town.
The delivery truck pulled away. Loungers near the store paid no attention
to it. Once again, Griff's vigilantes had seen nothing. The Shadow still
watched from the window. He saw a young man appear from the front of the hotel
and saunter down the street. It was Harry Vincent.
A few moments later, another man slipped into view. This chap was huskier
than Harry. He took the same direction. This was Cliff Marsland.

THE SHADOW'S agents were going to their posts. Crime foreboded. The
departure of Farrow's truck was proof of that. Although neither Harry nor Cliff
knew its significance, The Shadow had ordered them to time their departure to
appointed spots with the moment that Farrow's truck left the store.
Slade Farrow had added new boldness to his methods. He had made this
shipment in open view, scorning the seclusion of the delivery entrance on the
rear street. To a great measure, this was a better plan. It had proven its
merits through the complete deception of Griff's watchers.
The Shadow turned and crossed the room. He extinguished the light and went
into the hall. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston appeared in the lobby of the
hotel. Strolling out to the street, he entered a coupe parked there. It was
Harry Vincent's car. The Shadow had taken it for his own use tonight.
Seated in the car, The Shadow gazed toward the whitened front of the
Southfield Bank. He started the coupe, drove down a side street past the
marble-faced building, then turned toward the Crucible Club.
Satisfied with conditions in the neighborhood of the bank, Lamont Cranston
was on his way to join the elite at the Crucible Club. Arrived at his
destination, he alighted and locked the door, after a glance at a small
suitcase which lay on the floor of the car.

LAMONT CRANSTON'S arrival was welcomed by three men whom he found in the
card room. The trio consisted of Townsend Rowling, Rutherford Blogg, and Hiram
Marker. Cards were on the table. Lamont Cranston sat down to a game of bridge
with these nabobs of Southfield.
"Where is Norton Granger?" inquired Cranston.
"I don't know," replied Marker.
"Up calling on the Legrand girl, I imagine," asserted Blogg, rather
testily.
"I can't understand that," declared Marker. "Her father murdered his
father."
"That was never proven," insisted Rowling, quietly.
"It didn't need to be," snorted Marker.
"I don't agree with you, Hiram," persisted Rowling. "We all know that
Ferris Legrand turned crooked. Yet as law-abiding citizens it is our part to
accept the decision of the law. Ferris Legrand was convicted for robbery - not
for murder."
"Have it your way," asserted Marker. "in either event, I can't see why
Norton Granger should be interested in Mildred Legrand."
"She was an innocent victim," declared Rowling, in a pious tone. "The poor
girl should not suffer for her father's misdeeds."
"Maybe you're right," agreed Marks, in a mollified tone. "Well -
Southfield has been free from crime since that time."
"Thanks to Eric Griffel," commended Blogg.
"Who is Eric Griffel?" queried Cranston, in a casual tone.
"He heads our local athletic club," stated Rowling. "It is a commendable
institution that keeps young men out of mischief. Southfield is a crime-free
town because we have a working corps of stalwart vigilantes, headed by a man of
high caliber. Everyone knows Griff and all admire him."
"How did he come to be the recognized leader in crime prevention in the
town?"
"He was the man who trapped Ferris Legrand. We were short on police here
in Southfield. When Wilbur Granger, our most prominent attorney, was murdered
several years ago, Griff led a group of deputies to his home and surprised
Ferris Legrand robbing the place. He later trapped Legrand with the stolen
goods. Legrand was sentenced for his crime. Griff became an active leader in
the law and order movement. I have contributed to his work; so have my friends
here."
"It seems to me," observed Cranston quietly, "that a larger police force
would have been a better plan."
"Police can be fixed," returned Rowling. "Griff and his volunteers cannot.
They have done remarkable service. Less expensive than a larger force, the
Southfield Athletic Club has done double duty. It has curbed crime intent among
our younger citizens and has lined up all of them for service in law and order."
Hiram Marker and Rutherford Blogg nodded approvingly at Townsend Rowling's
words. Conversation lagged for a time, then resumed with a new statement from
Hiram Marker.
"Norton Granger swung that deal for Mildred Legrand," remarked the
waterworks owner. "The girl obtained a good price for that store of hers."
"Yes," agreed Rowling. "This man Farrow took over the lease which I held.
He appears to be doing good business."
"Too good for Southfield?" inquired Rutherford Blogg, in an anxious tone.
"Not as yet," replied Rowling. "He is apt, however, to overestimate the
possibilities of this territory. If he does, I suppose it will mean another
business failure."
Rowling's opinion was delivered in a casual tone. The bank owner intended
one import to reach Lamont Cranston; the other to carry to his friends. For the
statement was double-edged.

BOTH meanings, however, were obvious to the keen mind of The Shadow. He
remembered the statements that Norton Granger had made regarding these three
men who were rulers of Southfield.
Rowling was trying to discourage Cranston, who was in the city as a
potential investor. He was also endeavoring to allay any worries on the part of
Blogg and Marker by intimating that Farrow, if successful in business here,
would meet with obstacles that would clamp his enterprise.
An hour passed. Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker arose. Both stated that
they were due at their respective homes. In Southfield, a city of small size,
the suburban districts could be reached very quickly. Although the departing
men called cabs, they could have walked home without great effort.
Townsend Rowling remained. A widower, with no children, he lived at the
Crucible Club. As he chatted with Lamont Cranston, the bank owner proudly told
how he had instituted this club.
"Why don't you come up here to live?" he queried. "You will find it more
pleasant than the hotel."
"Perhaps I may do so later," responded Cranston. "For the present, I am
staying at the hotel because I have given it as my local address. I am
expecting calls from there tonight. I am apt to receive telegrams from New York
at any time."
"Ten thirty," observed Rowling, glancing at his watch. "Getting rather
late for business calls."
"I think I shall call the hotel," decided Cranston. "Perhaps they have
neglected to forward any messages."
Rising, Lamont Cranston strolled out into the lobby of the club. He
entered a phone booth to apparently make a call. He stepped out and took a
chair in the lobby. To all appearances, the line had been busy.
Actually, this had been a pretext to move away from Townsend Rowling. The
local bank owner, coming from the card room, had encountered friends - exactly
what The Shadow had anticipated. Townsend Rowling had gone his own way,
expecting to see Lamont Cranston later.
The Shadow waited. His keen eyes watched the clock above the entrance.
Twenty minutes of eleven.
The bell rang in the phone booth. The doorman saw Lamont Cranston rise to
answer it. He supposed that this was the reply to a call put in by the guest.
"Hello." The greeting came in the voice of Lamont Cranston. "This is the
Crucible Club."
"I want to speak with Mr. Cranston." It was Cliff Marsland on the wire.
"Is he there?"
"Report." The word came in a whisper from the lips of Lamont Cranston. Its
tone was the sinister note of The Shadow's voice.
"All quiet," came Cliff's information, "Hiram Marker came in half an hour
ago. It doesn't look as though this place is the one picked for tonight."
"Relieve Vincent," came The Shadow's order.
"Instructions received," was Cliff's reply.
Lamont Cranston's tall form cast a weird silhouetted shadow upon the floor
of the lobby as the New Yorker emerged from the phone booth. Cliff Marsland's
report had been due at half past ten. So had Harry Vincent's. The Shadow had
calculated that one would be sure to come; but not both.

FOR tonight, Cliff and Harry were each watching a strategic spot. The
Shadow had decided that one of two places would be picked for crime. Those
places were the homes of Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker.
Outside of Townsend Rowling, those two were the only men of wealth and
importance in Southfield. Their homes were the ones that criminals would pick.
Slade Farrow's trio of assembled crooks had gone out on business. The Shadow
had placed watchers at each strategic point.
Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland - after half past ten, one was sure to be
safe. That would be the first man to call; and Cliff had telephoned, some
minutes later. There was no use waiting for a call from Harry Vincent. His
tardiness required prompt investigation.
The Shadow had dispatched Cliff to that job. His own action was to follow.
The doorman looked up as Lamont Cranston approached. He heard the New York
millionaire speak in a quiet tone.
"I am going back to the hotel," came Cranston's words. "Inform Mr. Rowling
if he asks for me."
The clerk nodded as Cranston strolled from the Crucible Club. Cranston
unlocked his coupe and entered. His hands opened the suitcase. Black garments
appeared as he withdrew them.
Again, this personage who played the part of Lamont Cranston was assuming
the sinister garb of The Shadow!

CHAPTER XIII

THE RAID

RUTHERFORD BLOGG'S home was a hedge-surrounded mansion on the outskirts of
Southfield. Harry Vincent, watching for events here, had stationed himself
within the hedge, at a secluded corner.
He had seen Rutherford Blogg come home in a taxi. Still watching, Harry
had glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch to note that the time was
approaching half past ten.
It was then that Harry had decided upon a rapid inspection before putting
in his call to The Shadow. There was a filling station not far from Blogg's
home. It would serve as the place from which to phone. With this thought in
mind, Harry had begun a circuit of the house.
Creeping along through darkness, Harry had reached a sun porch at the side
of the building. A trellis-work went upward to the second floor where a lighted
room proclaimed Blogg to be present. It was by the shelter of the porch that
Harry had stopped to listen.
Someone was on the side lawn. Harry could hear the motion of cautious
figures. He could not make out men in the gloom, but from whispers that he
caught, he decided that the group must consist of three.
A warning utterance. Motion stopped. It became a waiting game. Seconds
ticked by into minutes, while Harry Vincent, crouched by the sun porch, watched
the darkness. Three men - somewhere near the house wall - so did Harry
speculate. Then came a surprise.
A wiry man leaped from the lawn and landed on Harry with a ferocious
plunge. The Shadow's agent sprawled. Clutching hands grasped his throat.
Gasping, Harry slumped helpless. He had no strength to cry out as a
handkerchief was jammed between his teeth.

THE man who had made the sudden onslaught knew how to gag a victim. A
guarded light flickered above Harry's eyes as two other men approached.
Half-conscious, Harry dimly caught the muffled conversation while his captors
pinioned his arms and legs.
"Great work, Hawkeye. You spotted him all right."
"I could hear him breathin'. That's why I told you to wait, Skeets, while
I snook up on him."
"What'll we do with him, Tapper?"
"Leave him here. You know the orders. We're after the gravy - not out to
give a guy the bump."
"Right. What next?"
"Me for the roof." It was Hawkeye who whispered. "Lay low and get the
signal."
Craftily, the little crook climbed the trellis-work. He found it strong
enough to bear his weight. He knew that it would do for the others also. He
reached a flat-topped roof, surrounded by a rail. Hawkeye climbed over and
snapped his fingers above the ledge. It was the signal to come on. The others
followed.
On the roof, the silent trio could see through the lace curtains of a pair
of French windows. They were looking into Rutherford Blogg's bedroom. The
manufacturer was seated in shirt sleeves, going over papers at a table. The
watchers saw that the heavy-jowled man was well away from the French windows.
Tapper produced a jimmy. His assumption that the doors were locked was
correct. The workmanship that followed was a tribute to Tapper's skill. Prying
noiselessly, the jimmy-artist managed the locks so cleanly that Rutherford
Blogg did not notice the noise until Tapper was ready for the final twist.
As the manufacturer sprang to his feet and faced the window, Tapper forgot
caution to deliver a final pry. The windows snapped open. As Tapper swung aside,
Skeets, his face masked with a blue bandanna, leaped across the threshold
brandishing a revolver.
Blogg's gray face whitened. The manufacturer nearly slumped as he backed
toward the wall. Skeets approached him; Hawkeye, also masked, remained just
outside the windows, ready to aid Skeets if necessary.
Blogg was completely cowed. Hence Hawkeye made no effort to join Skeets.
He stepped aside to allow Tapper to enter. The jimmy-worker had adjusted a
handkerchief to hide his features. He strode into the room and grinned as he
spied Rutherford Blogg's portly, quaking form.
Tapper was looking for something. This room was paneled, with wallpaper
above. At no spot could Tapper spy a possible opening. This was the cue for
Hawkeye's entrance. The little crook prowled into the room and moved along the
wall. As he neared Rutherford Blogg, he chuckled.
The manufacturer, when he had steadied himself with upraised arms, had
shifted slightly sidewise. Hawkeye had discerned this move. He thrust out an
arm and sent Blogg sprawling into a corner. He rapped his fist against the
paneled wainscoting, just behind the spot from which he had shoved the
manufacturer.
Cowering under cover of the gun which Skeets held, Blogg saw Tapper
approach the place that Hawkeye had indicated. The big man rapped the panel
also. He chuckled. He jammed his jimmy against the paneling, and pried. The
woodwork yielded.
With the same system that he had used in opening a packing case in
Farrow's basement, Tapper splintered the mahogany and broke it away to reveal
the front of a fair-sized safe.

ANOTHER chuckle. Tapper knelt beside the strongbox and began work upon the
dial. Rutherford Blogg had evidently counted as much on concealment as on the
strength of the safe, for the device was by no means modern.
Tumblers dropped under Tapper's skillful touch. The door of the safe swung
open toward Rutherford Blogg. The manufacturer, turning his bloated gaze in that
direction, could not see the actual rifling.
Tapper had produced a bag. He was shoveling the spoils into it while
Hawkeye looked on. Cash - bonds and certificates - these were coming into view.
Hawkeye pounced upon new stacks of papers and handed them eagerly to Tapper.
The work was quick. Within a few brief minutes, the safe was devoid of
contents. Tapper swung the heavy door nearly shut. He picked up the bag and was
about to move toward the flat roof when Hawkeye stopped him. The little crook
had chosen to lead the way.
On the ground below, Harry Vincent was gasping as he struggled with his
bonds. He had managed to roll away from the wall and was lying prone upon the
ground. He heard footsteps thudding close by. A flashlight clicked. Harry
stared into its lowered glare.
A low exclamation. Harry recognized the voice. It was Cliff Marsland. Sent
here by The Shadow, the second agent had discovered the plight of the first.
Bringing out a knife, Cliff cut Harry's gag.
"Look out!" Harry gasped the warning as Cliff was about to loose the
ropes. "They're in the house - three of them - upstairs, Cliff - by the trellis
-"
Cliff stared straight up. He heard a sound from above. He leaped quickly
away from the wall, dropping the knife as he reached for an automatic. He was
just in time. Hawkeye had arrived at the rail.
The quick little crook had heard the sounds below. Revolver in hand, he
spied Cliff out upon the lawn. His warning cry came to Tapper and Skeets as
they were at the doorway, Tapper carrying the bag, Skeets backing as he covered
Blogg's cringing form.
Cliff Marsland had stepped into too much light. He was on the fringe of
the illumination from the second story. Hawkeye, though warned by Slade Farrow
to avoid gunfire, had no other choice.
"Through the house!" This was his warning to Tapper and Skeets as he swung
the muzzle of his revolver toward Cliff Marsland.
The little crook was beating Cliff to the shot. Revolver barrel upon the
rail, he was pressing finger to trigger as he heard Tapper and Skeets scramble
through Blogg's room. Then, with a sudden twist, Hawkeye suddenly flung himself
upon the flat roof.
Governed by sudden impulse, the crafty crook had given up his perfect
opportunity to shoot down Cliff Marsland. The Shadow's agent, caught
flatfooted, was saved by Hawkeye's change.
There was an answer. It came with a resounding report from the hedge
across the lawn. Almost at the instant of Hawkeye's drop, the flash burst and a
simming bullet skimmed the rail to flatten itself against the wall of the house.

THE SHADOW!
He had arrived.
With perfect marksmanship, he had aimed a long range shot to beat Hawkeye
to the finish. Had the little crook remained the fraction of a second longer,
he and not Cliff Marsland would have fallen with a bullet in his body.
Hawkeye, gazing toward Cliff and beyond, had caught the movement of the
hedge. He had seen neither the gun nor the black-gloved hand that had wielded
it. Yet the quiver of the brush had told him of a menace.
Intuitively, the quick crook had dropped from the path of The Shadow's
bullet!
Cliff Marsland opened fire at the rail above. Hawkeye, squirming like a
snake, shot through the opening into Blogg's room. Cliff was delivering the
hopeless volley. Hawkeye's body, flat upon the roof, was too low to be reached
from the ground below.
Wriggling sidewise into the room, Hawkeye gained his feet. Rutherford
Blogg, inspired by the rattle of the automatic, came plunging upon the wiry
crook. Hawkeye's gun swung up. The crook could have shoved the muzzle into
Blogg's paunch. Instead, he swung past and delivered a backhand blow.
Hawkeye's fist, tight about the revolver barrel, caught Blogg squarely in
the jaw. The weight of the hand added impetus. Blogg floundered to the floor as
Hawkeye scrambled off through the house.
Servants were shouting from down stairs. They had heard Tapper and Skeets
dash out by that direction, with the swag.
Hawkeye kept on across the second floor. A woman screamed as he dashed
through a darkened room. Gaining the open window, Hawkeye shot through. His
hands gripped the sill; then loosed their hold. The escaping crook plumped in
the soft turf of a flower bed.
A car was starting on the other side of the hedge. The invaders had used
good judgment by approaching the house on the side opposite the road where they
had left their automobile.
Springing through the hedge, Hawkeye gained the runningboard of a moving
touring car and blurted out his words to Skeets, the man at the wheel.
"Get going. Out to the woods. We're clear. We can meet the truck."
The car shot off a street to the right. Skeets was steady at the wheel.
Tapper was chuckling. Hawkeye, the last of the trio to escape, was puffing from
his rapid flight.

BACK on the lawn beside the sun porch, Cliff Marsland was standing in
momentary consternation at the confusion which his shots had produced. Cries
were coming from the mansion. Lights were flashing on. At any moment, people
would be here. Cliff realized the predicament. He was about to leap forward to
aid Harry Vincent when a hand gripped his arm.
"To the car." It was The Shadow's voice. "Beyond the front hedge."
Cliff turned and hurried across the lawn. It was The Shadow who moved to
Harry's rescue. He did not pause to release his agent. There was no time for
delay. The shrill siren of a police car was sounding from the town. A call for
aid had been made.
Gathering Harry like a padded sack, The Shadow swept speedily across the
lawn. He reached the hedge and broke through. Cliff Marsland was at the wheel
of the coupe. He had started the motor.
Harry's body plopped beside him. A single word came from the darkness.
"Go!"
The coupe shot away. Cliff took a direction away from town. He drove
rapidly for five minutes, then eased the speed as he drew a knife from his
pocket and cut Harry's bonds.
"I'm driving out of town," remarked Cliff to Harry. "Taking the road to
Galport. We can head back later."
Back by the hedge, The Shadow was waiting. His tall form was invisible in
the darkness. His sharp eyes viewed the lighted house. Bright lamps were aglow
along the drive. They had been switched on from within.
A police car whirled up to the front. Two men in uniform alighted. Then
came new throbs as a trio of roadsters arrived in quick succession. The Shadow
saw Eric Griffel and half a dozen men pile out to join the police when they
entered the house.
Such was the law in Southfield. The vigilantes, at the heels of the
police, provided heavy reinforcements. More cars were coming. Men were flocking
out upon the lawn. The Shadow turned. His tall form disappeared in the darkness.
Less than an hour later, a figure stood within the window of Lamont
Cranston's room. The eyes of The Shadow, peering keenly, saw Slade Farrow's
delivery truck come coasting along the main street, turn a corner and swing to
reach the delivery entrance at the back of the store. Piled boxes showed in the
rear of the truck.
A soft laugh came from hidden lips. Griff and his men had not returned
from the scene of the crime. They were still looking for raiders who had
escaped.
Meanwhile, the swag had come to its destination. The Shadow knew where he
could find it when he so desired. Raiders with their spoils had come back to
roost in Slade Farrow's store room.

CHAPTER XIV

COMING CRIME

THREE days had elapsed since the robbery at Rutherford Blogg's. Southfield
was in turmoil over the successful foray by a trio of masked crooks. Squads of
vigilantes, mustered in as deputies, were on patrol. No trace had been
discovered of the robbers.
No one knew the exact extent of Rutherford Blogg's loss. It was said that
the manufacturer had parted with a bundle of cash and negotiable securities.
More than that, the robbers had taken various documents that Blogg was anxious
to recover - valuables that could be traced and which would be of no value to
the thieves.
The looting of Blogg's safe was the sole topic of conversation about town.
Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland heard it everywhere. Fortunately, they, like
Lamont Cranston, were too reputable in appearance to be regarded as suspicious
strangers.
Slade Farrow, in his store, chatted with customers and heard their
theories. Since it was known that Farrow had bought out the business with cash,
he, too, was above suspicion. There was one man in Southfield who might have
picked Slade Farrow as sponsor of the crime, but that lone individual had very
good reasons for looking elsewhere.
Eric Griffel was the man. Oddly, his previous suspicions of Farrow were
the reason why he was lulled at present. Through his vigilantes, Griffel had
been keeping close watch on Slade Farrow. As a result, Farrow needed no alibi
at present.
The ex-convict had been watched constantly on the night of the robbery. He
had been at the Southfield House until an hour after the commotion at Blogg's;
then he had gone to his store to open the delivery entrance for a shipment of
goods that had come in on the Night Express.
Farrow had played a clever game - one far too subtle for Griffel to
discern. The very openness of his methods had been Farrow's safeguard. Griffel,
though still watchful, was not ready to risk a challenge. So far as Farrow was
concerned, he kept vigilantes on duty watching the new merchant. That was all.
When he dropped in to see Norton Granger regarding the bonding of the
clerk whom he had sent to Gwynnesborough, Farrow was not surprised when the
young lawyer turned to the present topic of conversation - the robbery at
Blogg's.

GRANGER held to the theory that a band of out-of-town crooks had invaded
Southfield and departed with their haul. That seemed to be the accepted opinion.
Farrow agreed with Granger. Their talk turned to the clothing business.
Farrow expressed satisfaction with his purchase.
"That store was a good buy, Mr. Granger," he declared. "So much so that I
really feel I should not have obtained it at so low a price. Inasmuch as I
reserved certain rights in making the purchase, I feel that I have a privilege
which I am free to exert."
The ex-convict drew a piece of paper from his pocket and laid it upon the
desk. Norton Granger stared in surprise. It was a check for one thousand
dollars, made out to Mildred Legrand.
"What does this mean?" questioned the attorney. "You have completed the
payment for the business."
"An additional amount," returned Farrow, with a smile. "It indicates my
full satisfaction with the buy. I trust that Miss Legrand will accept it."
"This is fine of you, Farrow!" exclaimed Granger. "It - well, it means a
lot to me. I have seen Mildred a few times since you bought the store. I know
that my effort on her behalf has done much to end her former feeling toward me.
"I think she doubted that I could be well disposed toward her. The crime
which her father committed against mine still continues as a barrier. It has
lessened since you bought the store. Perhaps -"
"Perhaps," interposed Farrow, dryly, "it will lessen further if you are
willing to take credit for obtaining this additional amount. Simply say that
you talked it over with me; that you convinced me that the store was worth more
than I paid originally."
With this parting remark, Farrow strolled from the law office leaving
Norton Granger in bewildered delight. The ex-convict smiled as he reached the
street and turned back toward the clothing store.
Farrow's smile went through slight changes as the man walked along the
street. Passing Griff near the steps of the Southfield Athletic Club, Farrow
waved a greeting. Griff's nod in response was the cause of Farrow's first
change of expression. The next came when he saw his own truck pull up at the
door of the clothing store. Dave alighted and Louie came from the shop to help
him carry in a big box.
Loadings and unloadings had become an accepted routine at Farrow's store.
Light deliveries at the back; heavy ones at the front. Such was the procedure,
and it was so natural that Farrow had no worries concerning his system of
criminal smuggling.

IT was after dusk when Lamont Cranston strolled from the Southfield House
and hailed a taxicab. Farrow's truck was absent when the cab rolled by the
store on its way to the Crucible Club. Arriving at his destination, Cranston
looked for Townsend Rowling. The bank owner was absent; so was Rutherford
Blogg. Hiram Marker was the only one of the big three whom Cranston encountered.
"Terrible," confirmed Marker, in a serious tone, as they seated themselves
in the lounge. "This robbery at Blogg's was an outrage. No trace of the
criminals. I doubt that the miscreants will be found."
"Why?" queried Cranston.
"Because," asserted Marker, "they would be fools to tackle Southfield
again. The only satisfaction that can be gained from their raid is that we are
safe from crime for a while. No other crooks would risk a second attempt in
this vicinity."
"Where is Blogg tonight?" asked Cranston.
"At home, I believe," declared Marker. "Rowling is at the bank, I
understand. I expect to go to my own house for an eight o'clock dinner. Could
you come with me, Cranston?"
"I should be pleased," rejoined the New Yorker. "I must call the hotel
first so that I can be reached if any important messages arrive."

FIFTEEN minutes later, Hiram Marker and Lamont Cranston reached the big
mansion owned by the Southfield nabob. Marker was a bachelor. His niece and
nephew lived at the house; they dined with their uncle and his guest. To Lamont
Cranston, it was apparent that no love was lost between this pair and their
uncle. Both niece and nephew left the house immediately after dinner.
Marker conducted Cranston into a sumptuous ground-floor study. While they
were lighting cigars, Cranston observed the door of a vault situated in an
alcove. He made no comment. Instead, he questioned Marker regarding his niece
and nephew.
"My sister's children," explained Marker, sourly. "I was appointed their
guardian. It is a thankless task, as they have very little money. They are my
only living relatives."
"Your brother-in-law was not successful in business?"
"He was successful," responded Marker, in an uneasy tone. "He owned the
local electric plant; after his death it was mismanaged. My sister was very ill
- she died within the year - and the business would have been a total failure
but for my intervention.
"Fortunately, I was able to supply funds to save it. I took over the stock
- it was almost worthless at the time - and managed to bring the business back
to a profitable basis."
"Very fortunate," observed Cranston.
Marker did not catch the irony in his guest's tone. Cranston could see the
lack of sincerity which governed Marker. He knew well that the wealthy man had
probably made enormous gain through the transaction.
The telephone bell rang on Marker's desk. The waterworks owner answered it
and passed the telephone to his guest.
"A call from the hotel," he said.
"Hello." Cranston's voice was quiet. "I see... Yes... You will be there
all evening... I understand... Yes... Thank you for calling... No, never mind
calling me when they leave... If there is anything else important, telephone me
here..."

BACK at the hotel, Cliff Marsland hung up the receiver. He turned and
shrugged his shoulders as he faced Harry Vincent. The two agents were in Room
301. Across the street they could see Dave and Louie loading big packing cases
into Farrow's truck.
"We're to stay here," declared Cliff. "Keep on the lookout for anything
unusual."
Slade Farrow was locking up his store. Cliff and Harry saw the man stroll
down the street toward a theater. The loading of the truck was completed. Dave
took the wheel with Louie beside him and the vehicle pulled away.
New crime was coming. Strolling vigilantes who watched Slade Farrow had no
inkling of it. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland scented trouble, but were not
sure that it would fall.
Only The Shadow foresaw the facts of coming crime. He was at the spot
where it was due to strike!

CHAPTER XV

HAWKEYE MEETS THE SHADOW

HIRAM MARKER was loquacious as he chewed the end of a fat cigar. The
bald-headed man of wealth had reverted to the subject of robbery at Rutherford
Blogg's. He was soliloquizing on his friend's stupidity.
"A house full of servants!" he exclaimed. "Yet they let three men go in
there and open a safe like it was a toy bank."
"The robbers were lucky to escape," observed Cranston.
"They never should have made a getaway," decided Marker. "Fancy it - out
through the side door and away in a car that was parked on the other side of
the hedge.
"Well" - Marker smiled sourly - "it was Blogg's own fault. Counting on an
old-fashioned safe up in his bedroom."
"I understand that it was hidden behind the paneling."
"So it was. In the very place where they would be apt to look for it. I
don't blame Blogg for keeping valuables in his house. I do the same. Take a
look at my vault over here."
Marker led the way to the alcove. He pointed out a massive vault door, set
in a steel frame. It was locked with heavy cross-bar and adjustment wheel.
"Seventy-five hundred dollars," boasted Marker. "That's what I paid for
the door alone. The frame-work is set in concrete. No smart crook is going to
open that door. It's one that used to be in the old bank. I had the vault built
to fit the door."
"Quite formidable," observed Cranston.
"Rowling has one like it at the bank," declared Marker. "He uses it for
special funds - apart from the big vault that the bank uses. His smaller vault
is in the basement. Of course, he has time locks. Now my vault -"
Marker had turned while he was speaking. He was facing the doorway of the
room, beyond the spot where Lamont Cranston was standing. The bald-headed man
broke off suddenly. His lips moved but gave no utterance.
Cranston turned toward the door. He saw what had caused his host's
consternation.

WITHIN the study were three men, all masked with bandanna handkerchiefs.
Two were tall; one was short. All three held revolvers.
Marker's arms went up as though impelled by a spring. Cranston's followed
at a leisurely speed. The New Yorker's calmness was unruffled. He eyed the
intruders almost casually. As The Shadow, he had seen these men before. Tapper
at the right; Hawkeye in the center; Skeets at the left.
"Keep them covered." Tapper was speaking to Skeets. "Come along" - this to
Hawkeye - "while I crack this vault."
Skeets motioned with his revolver. Hiram Marker, pale and scare-faced,
moved away from the vault door. Tapper advanced, with Hawkeye beside him.
Lamont Cranston's tall form remained motionless. His eyes were focused
upon Skeets. The man with the gun did not meet the gaze. He did not realize
that those eyes were studying opportunities. A quick spring - all would be up
with Skeets. The ex-racketeer did not know that one of those whom he was
covering was The Shadow.
Hawkeye turned suddenly. The little crook's revolver flashed into view.
Hawkeye became tense as he noted Cranston's face. He backed away from the vault.
"Cover old Moneybags," growled Hawkeye, to Skeets. "I'm takin' care of
this guy. There's two of 'em. That means two of us on the job."
Skeets complied. He had a respect for Hawkeye's intuition. While Skeets
covered Marker, Hawkeye stepped back and kept his gun pointed at Cranston's
tall form. Hawkeye's gaze was unrelenting.
Some hunch had told the little crook that this calm-faced personage was a
menace. Crafty to the utmost, Hawkeye intended to leave no loop-hole for an
escape. His finger rested on the trigger of his gun.
Lamont Cranston appeared unperturbed. His first glance told that Hawkeye's
vigil would be a steady one. Cranston's head turned. His eyes watched Tapper, as
though interested in the safe-cracker's boasted cracksmanship.
Hawkeye had stated that he had once trailed The Shadow. Had he noted the
glint in Cranston's eyes, he might have had a recollection of the past. The
firm, chiseled countenance with its aquiline nose was unfamiliar, however, to
Hawkeye. He gained no recognition.
Tapper was finding the vault formidable. His growl showed his disapproval.
He worked on the combination with smooth, steady fingers; then stepped back and
shook his head.
"It's going to be a job to crack this safe -"
"Yeah?" The interruption came from Hawkeye. The little crook spoke while
his eyes remained fixed upon Cranston's profile. "That ain't goin' to be a job.
I'll tell you the way out. Work on Moneybags."
"That's an idea," chuckled Tapper. "Try it, Skeets."
The ex-racketeer nodded. He jammed the muzzle of his revolver into
Marker's bulging stomach. The fat man winced. Skeets growled as he thrust out
his chin.
"Give us the combination," he ordered. "Come on - spill it!"
Marker hesitated.
"Come on!" rasped Skeets. "There's hot lead in this gat."
Marker's lips moved. Tapper caught their mumble. He chuckled when Marker
had finished. Tapper stepped back to the vault. He worked on the combination.
He revolved the wheel and raised the bar. The heavy door swung open on its
perfect hinges, as smoothly as though made of cardboard.

LAMONT CRANSTON'S eyes were watchful as Tapper produced a bag. He saw
stacks of banknotes drop into the sack. He noted that Tapper, though working
swiftly, was examining all the swag. A bundle of bonds dropped into the bag;
then odd lots of documents. Tapper picked out a small stack of papers encircled
by a rubber band. He dropped this bundle into his inside pocket.
Tapper finished the job in a hurry. The vault rifled, he bundled up the
bag. Cranston's eyes were upon Hiram Marker. The bald-headed man's face was
ashen. Skeets had stepped back. His manner was no longer threatening. Tapper's
actions were the cause of Marker's pallor.
"Take the money!" pleaded Marker. "Take the bonds - but - but you can't
use the rest -"
"We're taking what we've got," snarled Skeets. "Come on. Let's scram."
"Wait a minute," Hawkeye interrupted. "We're not goin' to blow too quick.
We don't want no trouble comin'. Back that fat bozo into the vault."
Hiram Marker was quaking.
"I'll suffocate!" he gasped. "You can't do this! You can't murder me this
way -"
"Don't go goofy," snarled Hawkeye, speaking to Marker while he still
watched Cranston. "They'll be here to help you. We'll see to that. You can tap
the combination when they come. We've got what we want - that's all we've come
for."
Marker backed into the vault. He dropped to the floor of the little room
and sank cowering. He was gasping in anticipation of the closed door.
"You next."
A thin smile appeared upon Lamont Cranston's lips as Hawkeye threatened
with the gun. Marker's guest stepped lightly back into the vault. Even then,
Hawkeye did not relax his vigilance. He motioned to Tapper to close the door.
The big fellow obeyed. It was not until the huge barrier had swung into
position that Hawkeye lowered his gun.
"Jam that bar," ordered Hawkeye. "We can fire a shot when we scram. That
will bring somebody in."
"Yeah?" Skeets objected. "You know what the boss told us about raising a
racket."
"Well, what of it?" retorted Hawkeye. "We're not goin' to let those mugs
smother. We've got plenty of time for a get-away."
"Call up on the phone," suggested Tapper, as he pressed against the bar to
clamp it into place. "From that store a block down. One of the servants will
come to answer it. I'll give him the combination over the wire."
"All right," agreed Hawkeye. "They can hold out that long."
Tapper began to fume. He could not get the bar to wedge. He had closed the
vault door tightly. Yet the mechanism refused to function.
"Can't jam it -"
"Scram then," ordered Hawkeye. "I'll cover from the door. They'll be
scared to move for a while. Get goin' with that swag. We ain't got time to fool
with a stuck door."
Tapper picked up the bag. Accompanied by Skeets, the safe-cracker hurried
from the study. Hawkeye stood at the door, staring as steadily as he had
before. He could picture that calm countenance of Lamont Cranston beyond the
barrier of steel.
Half a minute passed. The throb of a motor sounded outside. Hawkeye turned
and dashed away. Twenty seconds later, gears ground as the waiting car started.

MORE minutes ticked past. The vault door swung open. Lamont Cranston's
tall form stepped into the study. The millionaire's lips wore a smile as his
eyes turned toward the huddled form of Hiram Marker.
"Come on," suggested Cranston calmly. "We are free."
Marker scrambled to his feet. He staggered into the study. He stared at
Cranston.
"Who let us out?" gasped Marker.
"I did," was Cranston's quiet reply. "An excellent vault you have here,
Marker. I took your word for it." He stooped and picked up a paper match that
lay at the bottom of the framework. "I dropped this from my pocket while the
door was closing. I think a pencil shaving would have done as well. The
slightest obstruction will keep a vault door from closing tight enough to lock
it."
Hiram Marker stared dumfounded at Lamont Cranston's casual explanation.
Then, suddenly, the bald-headed man realized that he had been robbed as well as
confined in an empty vault.
"The police!" he screamed. "The police!"
He leaped for the telephone, just as it began to ring. He raised the
receiver.
"Hello! Hello! This is Hiram Marker!"
There was a sharp click at the other end of the wire. Marker jiggled the
hook excitedly. He began to blurt out the news as the operator answered.
A servant came running into the study. He had heard the loud phone bell
and the cries which Marker had uttered.
The thin smile showed on Lamont Cranston's lips. The Shadow had divined
the meaning of that interrupted call. He had pieced the sequence of events -
the method that the escaping robbers had decided upon to free their prisoners.
Even though they had not locked the vault door, they had taken a precaution.
Robbery, not murder, was their objective.
The Shadow had played a passive part tonight. He had divined, from a study
of the robbery at Blogg's, that the trio who served Slade Farrow were under
orders not to kill. The Shadow had chosen to appear as a chance visitor at
Hiram Marker's home upon this night of crime.
Moreover, he had studied the methods of the crooks. He knew where their
swag was going. He had formed plans that concerned its recovery. These were
reasons for the thin smile; there was another reason also.
Hawkeye, the keenest crook of the lot, had shown intuition when he had
picked Lamont Cranston as a menace. It was a recollection of the past - a hunch
that Hawkeye had gained but had been unable to explain.
Hawkeye had met The Shadow; he had sensed the spectral master's presence,
but his hunch had gone no farther.
Hawkeye, shrewd though he was, had not penetrated The Shadow's guise. He
had failed to identify Lamont Cranston as The Shadow.

CHAPTER XVI

ROWLING GIVES ORDERS

"FIFTEEN men are all I have on the force. No wonder there's been crime in
Southfield."
The speaker was Police Chief Alexis Kerr. Attired in uniform, he was
seated at his desk in the city hall, facing a group of men before him.
Townsend Rowling was directly opposite Kerr. Beside him were Rutherford
Blogg, Hiram Marker and Norton Granger. A short distance away, Lamont Cranston
viewed the scene as spectator. Eric Griffel and three others were at the side
of the chief's desk.
"You two have been robbed." Kerr wagged a pencil first at Blogg, then at
Marker. "Now, Rowling, you come here and say that crime must stop. I say, give
me a force of fifty men. That's what Southfield needs."
"You've talked that for two years, Kerr," retorted Rowling. "All the
while, Southfield has been free from crime. Why? Because of Eric Griffel and
the work that he has done. You ask for fifty men. Griff can give you two
hundred."
"As policemen?"
"As deputies."
"I've already sworn in two dozen of them."
"Swear in the lot. Let Griff pick them. Not the youngsters, but men who
can do the work. Some of those who were members of Blogg's factory police."
"To take orders from me?"
"Yes. Through Griffel. He's their leader."
The police chief grunted. He stared toward Griff and the three men who
were with him.
"Who's police chief in this town?" he demanded. "Am I - or is Griff? He's
here with his three lieutenants. What do they want to do? Take over my job?"
"Kerr," declared Rowling, in a serious tone, "this is an emergency. It is
no time for animosities. You and Griff have no quarrel. I have influence in
Southfield. So have these men with me. Let us make a sane proposition.
"Give Griff and his picked crew the authority that they require. We want
armed guards about this town. Let us set a time limit on the arrangement. When
that is up, you will have two hundred experienced men to pick from.
"Then we can choose new members for your force. Have the fifty that you
think you need. Southfield can stand the expense. Norton" - Rowling turned to
young Granger - "I am instructing you to draw up the agreement. Attend to the
legal angles of this matter."
"You're talking something different," decided Kerr, in a mollified tone.
"That's an arrangement that ought to work. There's only one question. If we
have to wait to build up the force, what about the salaries of these deputies?
You can't get men for nothing."
"I shall defray all expenses," announced Rowling, seriously. "Kerr, these
crooks are out to grab all they can. There's only one big spot left in
Southfield. That's my bank."
"I know it."
"I need armed guards there. Twenty men at least. Five times that number in
the vicinity. I'll pay for it, at present. But I need the authority of the law."
"You'll use the deputies?"
"Yes. Your force has other duties. You are a busy man. Griff and his men
will have one objective. I can always count on the armed guards that I need."
"You're going at it big," said Kerr, with a shake of his head. "It's
agreeable to me, though. It will be some time before the city council will
authorize the fifty men that I require. Since you promise them - and I've been
working to get them for two years - I'll go along the way you want."
Townsend Rowling arose with a satisfied air. He turned to Norton Granger,
to give the young lawyer definite instructions.
"Arrange this promptly," ordered Rowling. "I want those men on duty before
tonight. Properly deputized, you understand. Swear in Griff and his three
lieutenants for a starter; give them the power of control that they require."

THREE men accompanied Rowling from the city hall. They were Rutherford
Blogg, Hiram Marker and Lamont Cranston. Blogg and Marker had come to use their
influence with Rowling's. As victims of the crime raids, they were ready to
cooperate in stopping crime. Cranston, sole witness of the robbery at Marker's,
had been invited to the conference.
It was the afternoon following the robbery at Marker's. Rowling and his
two friends started for the Crucible Club. Rutherford Blogg showed signs of
long worry. His dejection was shared by Hiram Marker. It was Townsend Rowling
who now invited Lamont Cranston to accompany them. The New Yorker declined,
stating that he had work to do at the hotel.
From the window of Room 401, The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, gazed upon
the main street of Southfield. Rowling's bank was shining in the late afternoon
sun. It was a mark for crooks to shoot at.
Impregnable though the bank appeared, Rowling was not satisfied. He wanted
guards about the building. He had passed the stage of taking chances.
Why? A smile showed on the thin lips of Cranston's countenance. The keen
brain of The Shadow had long since divined that there must be fierce method
behind the measures that Slade Farrow was using.
Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker had been pushovers for the trio of
cunning crooks who served Slade Farrow. Blogg and Marker were men of wealth.
They were small, however, compared with Townsend Rowling.
Rowling knew this. He was a keen man - this real estate owner who
dominated Southfield. A man of lesser keenness might have felt secure by
convincing himself that Blogg and Marker had been victims because of their
comparative weakness.
Townsend Rowling had reasoned differently. Somehow, he knew that the
robberies at Blogg's and Marker's had been launched as forerunners to more
daring crime. He was prepared to combat a crew of crooks who had not yet showed
their full capability.
The Shadow, in turn, was watching. That was the way he dealt with men of
crime who proved elusive. He let them reach their zenith. Slade Farrow's
greatest quest was still to be gained.
Here, in the center of the city, Farrow must find a way to enter a virtual
fortress, guarded by armed deputies on all sides. Like Rowling, The Shadow knew
that Slade Farrow would attempt the impossible. The Shadow was waiting.
A truck rolled along the street. It was Farrow's delivery wagon. It had
not appeared in Southfield since last night. Presumably, it had gone to the
town of Galport to deliver its load, and it had remained there over night.
Dave and Louie began to unload. Packing boxes went in the front door of
the clothing shop. Slade Farrow, standing on the sidewalk, watched the work.
Passing men - potential deputies by tonight - stopped to let the truck men
carry in their burdens.

THE SHADOW laughed softly. Three crooks and their swag were going into
Farrow's! Here, in broad daylight, the finishing touches were being given to
last night's crime. The unloading was completed. Louie entered the store with
Farrow, while Dave drove away.
Farrow had played his cards again. Last night, he had kept within view of
the vigilantes. He had worked differently, bringing in the spoils on the day
following. Such was the ex-convict's genius.
The Shadow's laugh was prophetic. He understood the caliber of Slade
Farrow. The Shadow knew that this stranger in Southfield was ready for any
hazard. He had been defeated once - in his early encounter with Eric Griffel.
Since then, Farrow had left the leader of the vigilantes stupefied.
The final episode was brewing. Recognized deputies would go on guard
tonight. Slade Farrow would have a scheme to counteract their presence.
Meanwhile, The Shadow watched.
The conniving brain of a genius was at work. Slade Farrow, posing as a
peaceful merchant seeking trade in a new city, had left his greatest exploit to
the last.
The Shadow knew the mechanism of Slade Farrow's methods. His presence
unknown to the men who had twice stirred Southfield with unexpected crime, The
Shadow held a vantage which all others lacked.
Forewarned, acquainted with the details of Slade Farrow's deeds, The
Shadow stood more formidable than Griff and his two hundred deputies, together
with the slim police force that patrolled Southfield under Alexis Kerr.
The Shadow, alone, held the key. His presence here would solve the chain
of mystery that had begun with Slade Farrow's finding of the green box hidden
by Ferris Legrand!

CHAPTER XVII

AGENTS WATCH

THE next evening. Southfield had become an armed camp. Townsend Rowling's
demand for deputies had been fully granted. Griff's vigilantes were patrolling
the main street.
The Southfield Bank was the center point. The deputies stationed there
were armed with rifles. Passing citizens were divided in opinion. Some were
disconcerted by these preparations; others were approving.
The consensus, however, voiced the thought that crime must be stopped at
any cost. Efforts to apprehend the successful robbers had failed. The best plan
was to prevent a recurrence of crime.
Slade Farrow, busy behind the counter of his store, looked up to see two
persons enter. One was Norton Granger; with the young lawyer was Mildred
Legrand. Slade Farrow bowed. His face - a countenance that could register many
expressions - was typical of the courtly gentleman.
"Good evening," greeted the ex-convict.
"Good evening, Mr. Farrow," said Mildred Legrand. "I have come to thank
you for your generosity. Norton has persuaded me that I should take the
additional thousand dollars as purchase money."
Farrow looked toward Granger. He saw at once that the young attorney had
not taken the credit which Farrow had suggested. Suavely, Farrow expressed the
thought himself.
"It was not my generosity, Miss Legrand," he declared. "Thank Mr. Granger
for his good business sense. When he and I discussed the value of the purchase,
I found myself agreeing with him that the original price had been too low."
Mildred Legrand looked toward Norton Granger. The lawyer's accustomed
poise failed him. Confused, Granger could only stammer. His manner indicated
that Farrow's statement had been one of fact.
"This business is a good one." Farrow, still suave, spoke again to prevent
Granger from talking out of turn. "I have found everything as represented. Well
established, it has given me great possibilities for expansion."
"My father was proud of this store," nodded Mildred. "I - I was keeping it
in operation on his account. Then - then he died. I am glad, Mr. Farrow, that
you are running the business the way father would have liked to see it."
"Mr. Farrow is the type of merchant that Southfield needs," declared
Norton Granger. "He is to be commended upon his work here. How are the branch
stores doing, Mr. Farrow?"
"Very well," replied Farrow, with a smile. He was looking toward the door.
"Here is the truck. Have you seen it since I put the new streamers on it?"

STEPPING from behind the counter. Farrow led the way to the door. The
delivery truck had drawn up in front of the store. Dave was on the sidewalk,
calling to Louie to help him unload a box.
The sides of the truck bore the painted legend:

SOUTHFIELD CLOTHING SHOP
The Store Where Goods Are Best

This name and slogan had already become familiar since Farrow's truck had
begun its daily rounds. Below, however, was a new addition. A heavy oil-cloth
streamer ran all along the bottom of the truck, its lower edge almost dragging
in the street.
A big red arrow occupied the center of this hanging banner. Two lines of
words appeared: one above the horizontal shaft, the other below. They stated:

FOLLOW THE ARROW
BUY FROM FARROW

"My idea," chuckled Farrow. "The same wording appears on the other side of
the truck. You see, the truck is always heading for one of my three stores. If
any one wants to follow the arrow, they'll find a Southfield Clothing Shop at
the finish of the trip."
"Real advertising!" exclaimed Norton Granger. "This is the kind of thing
that brings business."
"Which is what I'm out to get," smiled Farrow.
The ex-convict's gaze turned along the main street. Farrow saw clusters of
deputies in the neighborhood of the Southfield Bank. Norton Granger looked in
the same direction.
"We have plenty of protection," remarked Farrow. "Evidently those recent
robberies have caused considerable consternation."
"Townsend Rowling is worried," admitted Granger. "I arranged for two
hundred deputies yesterday. Rowling fears a raid on his bank."
"The place appears safe enough."
"Yes. But if the crooks plan another visit to Southfield, the bank is the
place where they will strike."
"I doubt that they will try it now."
"So do I, Farrow. Those deputies are ready for any emergency. They have
rifles and tear-gas bombs. Should any alarm sound, they are prepared to enter
the bank and overcome the marauders."
"An unnecessary precaution, Granger. How could any criminals get into the
bank in the first place, with a whole company of guards on duty outside?"
Norton Granger shrugged his shoulder. He agreed with Farrow that an
entrance to the bank would be impossible.
"The building is well protected," decided Granger. "I feel, however, that
Rowling must be worried because it lacks the features of a large city bank. The
walls, for instance, could be blown open. Or crooks might drill their way in -"
"Not with the guards on duty."
"Exactly. That is why Rowling called for such protection."
While Slade Farrow was nodding wisely, Norton Granger turned to Mildred
Legrand.
"I'm sorry, Mildred," stated Granger, "that you have an engagement for
this evening. Could you dine with me at the hotel, in the meantime?"
Mildred nodded. Granger waved good-by to Farrow. The lawyer and the girl
crossed the street. Slade Farrow watched them. Evidently the present was
lulling the memory of the past, so far as these young people were concerned.

FARROW'S benign expression faded as the ex-convict turned back into his
store. His face hardened. It showed traces of the grim countenance which Farrow
had displayed while a prisoner in the penitentiary.
Dave and Louie were waiting inside the store. No customers were present.
"Get the boxes out," ordered Farrow, in a low tone. "We're going through
with it tonight. I'm counting on you. No slip up."
The two men nodded.
"Keep on to Gwynnesborough," added Farrow. "Be back here at nine o'clock.
Stall around at the restaurant down near the athletic club. Coffee and
doughnuts - then be ready when the trouble breaks."
New nods. Slade Farrow waved his hand. Dave and Louie turned toward the
stairs that led to the basement. Slade Farrow took his place behind the
counter. He was pleasant in manner as he waited on an arriving customer.
Dave and Louie appeared with a large packing case. They carried it out and
placed it aboard the truck. They came back for another. While they were engaged
in loading, Farrow looked up to see Eric Griffel entering the store.
The leader of the vigilantes was wearing a deputy's badge. Farrow noticed
it. He pointed a finger and made a remark.
"A good idea," said Farrow. "But it's not enough. I understand you have
about two hundred men on the job. Why don't they wear uniforms?"
Griff eyed Farrow narrowly. The leader of the vigilantes was still wary of
this man from whom he had wrested Ferris Legrand's green metal box. At the same
time, Farrow's explanation of how he had found the box was one which Griff had
been forced to accept. Farrow's conduct as a reputable Southfield merchant had
produced a lulling effect. The suggestion of uniforms was in keeping with the
clothing business.
"Smart gray coats," suggested Farrow. "Gray trousers and caps to match. I
can get wholesale prices that will amaze you, Griff."
"Who'll pay for the outfits?"
"Charge the deputies for them. They're working for regular salary. I
suppose their wages are low, but those who didn't have jobs are getting money
they hadn't counted on; and those who are doing part time duty as deputies are
making side money."
"I'll take it up with Rowling," declared Griff, in a pleased tone. "Say,
Farrow - you're enterprising. I've got to admit it."
Farrow chuckled at the compliment. Three boxes had gone out. Dave and
Louie were carrying a fourth. Farrow called to stop them.
"Hold up a minute!" he exclaimed. "You're coming back from Gwynnesborough.
What's the idea of taking those overcoats that are supposed to go to Galport?"
Stepping from in back of the counter, Farrow approached the packing case.
He picked up a hatchet that was beside the counter and pried open the top of
the box. Overcoats showed within.
"Nice lot of goods," remarked Farrow. Griff nodded. Farrow replaced the
top that he had pried loose. "Take this back downstairs" - Farrow's order was
to Dave and Louie - "and bring up the rest of those Gwynnesborough boxes. Keep
the lids off. I want to make sure you're bringing the right stuff."
As he chatted casually with Griff, Farrow inspected each of five more
boxes that his men brought up to the shop. He hammered on the lids himself
while Dave and Louie were going after other cases. All the while he talked to
Griff:
"The Gwynnesborough store is making money... Just an experiment at
first... Stocking it up heavy now... Bonding the clerk that I put in charge...
Going to take on two new clerks here next week... Hope Galport shows results
like Gwynnesborough... Guess I can hire a couple of good men here in town...
You've got most of them as deputies though..."

WHEN Griff strolled out of the store after buying some new shirts, he was
more convinced than ever concerning Slade Farrow's competence as a business
man. He believed that he had seen the entire stock that was going to the
Gwynnesborough store. He thought nothing of the three packing cases that had
been loaded on the truck prior to his arrival.
Griff stared admiringly at the truck with its trailing banners at the
side. As Dave raised the back and closed the doors, Griff saw that the oilcloth
extended at the rear and bore the legend:

FOLLOW FARROW
HE LEADS

Just as Dave was taking the wheel, Louie came out of the store with a
small box that had evidently been forgotten. Grumbling, Dave refused to open
the back of the delivery truck. Louie set the box on the runningboard and held
it there. Griff paid no more attention to the truck as he strolled past the
bank toward the athletic club.
There were watchers, however, who saw the truck depart. Harry Vincent and
Cliff Marsland, seated by the window of Room 301, were keeping vigil. The truck
rolled slowly up the main thoroughfare. As it neared the bank, the loose box
suddenly fell from the runningboard. Dave applied the brakes. The truck stopped
in the middle of the street, almost directly in front of the bank.
Louie scrambled from his seat. The box had broken open. Shirts wrapped in
cellophane had scattered on the street. Louie made a funny sight as he waved at
approaching cars, steering them aside. Bobbing about, Louie gathered up the
shirts and replaced them in the box.
Coming to the truck, he set the box on the runningboard and fished out a
rope from beneath the front seat. Under Dave's direction, he tied the box
firmly in place. The work was slow. Fully five minutes elapsed before Louie
clambered aboard and the truck pulled away.
Eyes were watching from above. In Room 401, a thin smile formed on the
hawklike visage of Lamont Cranston. The tall watcher went to the writing desk.
He inscribed a blue-inked message. He inserted it in an envelope. Leaving the
room, he took the stairway to the floor below.
Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent were talking in subdued whispers. They
were discussing the matter of the truck.
"It looked natural enough," Cliff was saying, "but it may have been a
stall."
Harry nodded.
"That fellow took a while to tie the rope," added Cliff. "The way the box
cracked open gave him time, too."
"Wait a minute." Harry gripped Cliff's arm. "Look - that's where the truck
stopped, isn't it? Right over that man-hole cover."
"That's the spot."
"What do you think was in the truck?" questioned Harry, in an excited
whisper. "Just boxes?"
"Maybe not."
"And those new streamers, with the arrows. Dragging to the street -
covering the wheels -"
"I get you, Harry!" Cliff's tone also betrayed excitement. "A trapdoor in
the bottom of the truck. A hidden drop under cover of the streamers -"
"That's it," interposed Harry. "The same three men who robbed Blogg and
Marker -"
Something swished beneath the door of the room. Harry and Cliff turned
quickly to see an envelope, projected from beyond, coming to the end of a
flutter that had followed its swift skim.
Harry pounced on the envelope and opened it. He and Cliff read the coded
lines. The words faded one by one. Harry looked at Cliff.
Their assumptions were correct. The Shadow had spied the game while his
agents were still pondering. He had prepared the message; his instructions told
Cliff and Harry to remain here on duty.
Craftily, Slade Farrow had unloaded his three threats into a conduit that
led beneath the walls of the Southfield Bank. While more than a score of
watchers guarded the street, crime was coming from below!
Grimly, The Shadow's agents watched. The waiting game was still in
progress. The Shadow was ready. Did he intend to let this third crime strike?
Only The Shadow knew!

CHAPTER XVIII

THE THIRD CRIME

THE big clock on the Southfield city hall was booming the hour of nine. In
the darkness of Room 301, Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland were still watching
the lighted street below.
Armed deputies were much in evidence. Fully fifty men were on duty. In
contrast, four uniformed policemen seemed a trivial number. Eric Griffel, not
Alexis Kerr, was in charge of the city. The leader of the vigilantes had
usurped the police chief's power.
Despite the lulling quiet, The Shadow's agents were expectant. They knew
that crime was due to strike. They had box seats for the coming drama. Their
low, whispered conversation showed their tenseness.
The zero hour had arrived. The token of crime came with a startling
suddenness. Harry and Cliff leaped closer to the window as they heard the sound
of a dull, muffled explosion. The blast was from within the Southfield Bank!
Griff's deputies stopped their patrol. The men stood as though stupefied.
Alarms began to ring. Then came a wild shout as Griff himself appeared. The
leader of the transformed vigilantes had been coming in this direction from the
Southfield Athletic Club.
Men with rifles sprang toward the doors of the bank. Griff's lieutenants
were on the job. The doors swung open. Volumes of smoke poured forth. Shouting
orders, Griff directed his cohorts into the bank.
Of four policemen, three were joining the deputies. The fourth man dashed
to an alarm box to signal headquarters. Chaos reigned as deputies dashed about
to stop oncoming traffic.

THE deputies who had entered the bank were met with warning shots. These
crackled from the top of a stairway that led below. Three men were firing
through a heavy gate. Their shots seemed purposely high but they gained effect.
The green deputies scrambled back to the outside air.
Amid swirling smoke, Hawkeye, a water-soaked bandanna about his face,
growled to his companions. They had come up here to escape the effects of the
charge which they had used to blow the lower vault.
"Grab the swag," was Hawkeye's suggestion. "We can't do nothin' up here.
I'll keep 'em away from this gate. Hook the stuff out of that vault downstairs."
Tapper and Skeets descended in a hurry. Their faces, too, were covered
with dampened handkerchiefs. They had purposely added smoke powder to the
charge which Tapper had used for the vault.
With flashlight aiding, the tall crooks rifled the vault and bagged the
spoils. Shots from above played a staccato while they worked. Tapper chuckled
as he piled away the articles that Skeets handed him - other objects besides
reams of cash.
The job was quick. Tapper whistled. Hawkeye, crouched behind the top step,
was still delivering timely shots. Three emptied revolvers lay beside him. The
cunning crook had gauged his fire to ward off the deputies.
A surge came just as Hawkeye reached to grab his guns. Griff's orders had
taken effect. Deputies, with police behind them, were piling in through all the
doors. They reached the metal gate too late. Hawkeye was already below.
Tapper and Skeets were waiting. Hawkeye sprang into an opening in the
marble floor, a jagged hole which the three had drilled from the conduit below.
This was another token of Tapper's craftsmanship.
Skeets followed Hawkeye. Tapper was the last to leave. Loaded with bags of
swag, the three henchmen of Slade Farrow were moving through the conduit which
they had used to reach their objective. The pipe turned toward the front
street. Hardly had the three men gained the corner in the conduit, before a
muffled explosion echoed behind them.
"That'll do it," chuckled Tapper. "That's the charge I placed to crumple
junk into the hole we went through. Keep ahead. We're safe."
Griff had opened the metal grill through which Hawkeye had held back his
men. Deputies, on the stairs, dropped back at the second explosion. Volumes of
smoke poured up the stairs. The outlet was blocked; these fumes were driving
back Griff's men.

OUT on the street other deputies were warning cars away from the curb.
Traffic was blocking on the far side of the street as Slade Farrow's delivery
truck came speeding up the thoroughfare. Dave was grim as he held the wheel. He
ignored the shouts of two deputies; then applied the brakes in a hurry.
The truck with its wheel-concealing banners came to a dead stop directly
over the spot where it had paused on its way to Gwynnesborough. Other cars were
adding to the jam. Dave turned off the motor; with Louie, he leaped to the
street to argue.
A whining siren announced the arrival of the police chief's car. Alexis
Kerr, his square-set face grim above the blue collar of his uniform, leaped to
the street to take charge of the situation.

THE chief arrived in the bank just as Griff's deputies were throwing
tear-gas bombs down the stairs. They followed this maneuver with a rattle of
rifle fire. Kerr saw Griff standing in the clearing smoke and bellowed at the
chief deputy.
"Why don't you get men down there?" demanded Kerr.
"We can't," retorted Griff. "Too much smoke."
"So you chucked tear gas, eh?" shouted Kerr. "Fine work. If the crooks can
stand the fumes, they can stand the gas. Clear out these deputies. I'm in
charge."
Sullenly, Griff called off his men. A policeman was coming in from Kerr's
car, bringing a bag of gas masks. The chief donned one; three officers did the
same. Griff followed suit.
Then men reached the floor below. Their flashlights showed the broken,
rifled vault. The gaping hole in the floor was filled with broken debris. The
stone base of the lower vault room had been crumbled by the second charge.
Police Chief Kerr waved his men upstairs. He saw that the robbers had
escaped. He reached the street and went into conference with Griff and the
latter's lieutenants.
"Spread out!" ordered Kerr. "All over town. We've got to get these crooks!"
Kerr turned toward the street. He saw the jammed cars, among them Slade
Farrow's decorated truck.
"Get this traffic clear!" he instructed two policemen. "We want some space
here."

HARRY VINCENT and Cliff Marsland, watching from their post above, saw the
traffic move. Cars were clearing from the street. Dave was jockeying with the
crank of the delivery truck.
More than ten minutes had elapsed since Dave had stalled his bannered
vehicle at that spot. When the truck moved away and pulled to the curb some
sixty feet down the street, Cliff gripped Harry's arm and pointed to the
man-hole cover.
"A clean get-away," he whispered.
"With the goods," added Harry.
Both agents looked toward the truck. Dave and Louie were on the sidewalk,
interested spectators of the chaos which still reigned about the bank.
"Look."
Cliff followed Harry's pointing finger. Slade Farrow had come from the
front of the hotel. The Shadow's agents saw him cross the street and
gesticulate to Dave and Louie. His motions indicated that his men were to drive
the truck around the block to the rear delivery entrance.
Farrow continued on to open the store. He had closed it just before the
hour of nine. Dave and Louie still stood watching the scene on the main street,
as though in no hurry to obey their employer's order.
Lamont Cranston's inflexible face was at the window of Room 401. A soft
laugh came from the unmoving lips. The tall figure turned and stepped into deep
darkness. Shortly afterward, a swishing sound occurred.
The door of the room opened. The Shadow stepped noiselessly into the
corridor. His gliding form moved toward the fire exit.
Crime had reached its climax. The aftermath was due. Slade Farrow had
completed his looting of Southfield's coffers. The Shadow was faring forth to
view the counting of the spoils. Three jobs had been accomplished; the next
stroke would be The Shadow's!
Phantomlike, The Shadow followed the rear streets. He crossed the main
thoroughfare beyond the lighted zone. Unseen by prowling deputies, he reached
the street behind Slade Farrow's store.
Ascending the brick wall, The Shadow reached the darkened apartment. He
descended by the stairs. He saw a light in Farrow's office. Softly, The Shadow
approached the door to the basement. It was unlocked.
As the door closed behind the black-garbed figure, a motor throbbed at the
back of the store, then ceased. Dave and Louie had arrived. Slade Farrow, his
face wearing a grim smile, approached the delivery door and unlocked it.
The final job was done. Successful henchmen were returning with the swag.
Dave and Louie were unloading cases from the truck. Slade Farrow was triumphant.
The ex-convict's smile would have faded, had Slade Farrow known that The
Shadow lurked below!

CHAPTER XIX

GRIFF DECIDES

POLICE CHIEF ALEXIS KERR had returned to his office at city hall. His
square-set face showed determination as he spoke orders through the telephone.
A dozen police and nearly two hundred deputies were scouring the town in search
of the bank robbers.
Footsteps clattered and Townsend Rowling strode into Kerr's office. Behind
him were Hiram Marker and Rutherford Blogg. Then came Eric Griffel. The leader
of the deputies was followed by Norton Granger.
"What are you doing here, Kerr?" demanded Rowling. "Why aren't you out on
the job? Why haven't you trapped those robbers?"
The square-jawed police chief stared coldly at the gray-haired
millionaire. Kerr seemed to resent Rowling's intrusion at this hour.
"I am directing affairs from here," informed Kerr. "I am receiving reports
from deputies as well as from police. I am in charge of the search."
"More must be done," stormed Rowling. "This is terrible. The robbers have
cleaned everything from the lower vault."
"At least they failed to break into the large vault. I understand that it
contains practically all of the bank's funds."
"It does." Rowling was reluctant with his admission. "The downstairs vault
held all my private wealth. Cash, negotiable securities - and those are not all.
In that vault" - Rowling's tone was serious - "were deeds and titles. Also
confidential papers that cannot be replaced. Something must be done, Kerr - at
once!"
The police chief settled back in his chair. The situation seemed to
challenge him. He became speculative; and in his chain of thought, he formed a
theory.
"Odd," asserted Kerr, "that the crooks should have blown the smaller
vault. They must have known that the large one was upstairs."
"They didn't have time to blow both," suggested Norton Granger.
"Then why the smaller one?" questioned Kerr.
"I'll tell you why!" blurted Rowling. "It was a thrust at me - just like
the robberies that occurred at Blogg's and Marker's. The crooks wanted to get
my private property."
"Ah!" Kerr sprang to his feet. "This gives me an idea. Those crooks,
gentlemen, must be here in town. They have struck three times. They know enough
about Southfield. Their very method of entrance proves that."
"They came up through the ground."
"Yes. We have not opened their path because they filled it with debris
through another explosion. They must, however, have spent some time in
preparing a tunnel -"
"I have it!" Hiram Marker interrupted with his exclamation. "I know how
they entered! You don't have to trace their tunnel!"

ALL eyes turned in the direction of the bald-headed speaker. Hiram Marker
was wildly excited.
"The water conduits!" he exclaimed. "My company installed one before the
new bank was built. It runs from beside the bank out to the main street."
"That's right!" nodded the police chief. "I had forgotten all about that
conduit! We all know it's there. The crooks could easily have learned about it.
Where does it come out?"
"It's blocked," asserted Marker. "No longer in use. There's only one
entrance to it - the man-hole in front of the bank -"
Griff turned. Two of his lieutenants had entered. The chief deputy barked
an order.
"You heard what the chief said," he told his men. "Get into that conduit.
We can trap those crooks with the goods."
The lieutenants hurried from the office. Griff decided to follow. Police
Chief Kerr arose. He waved the other men to chairs.
"Stay here," he ordered. "I'm going up to see about this. We'll get them
if they're there."
Word had passed up the street by the time Kerr arrived in his car. The
man-hole was open. Deputies were already in the conduit. Griff was standing as
director. Minutes passed. A head came from the man-hole.
"They've cleared out," stated a deputy. "We found the blocked end of the
pipe, under the bank. The other end is closed, too."
Police Chief Kerr stepped into his car. Angrily, he ordered the driver to
take him back to city hall. Griff saw the chief depart. The leader of the
deputies entered another car and ordered the driver to follow Kerr.
The police chief was announcing the disappointing news to Rowling and the
others when Griff arrived. The leader of the deputies joined the conference.
Long minutes of discussion passed.
"I can't understand how they escaped," summarized Chief Kerr. "There were
fifty deputies on that front street. Those crooks had their swag to lug away.
That man-hole is the only outlet."
A man came hurrying into the office. It was one of Griff's lieutenants.
The arrival approached his leader.
"What is it, Caderly?" questioned Kerr.
"Listen, Griff," announced the lieutenant, "you've started something.
While the boys were busy around that man-hole, a couple of them got an idea.
They remembered seeing that delivery truck that belongs to Farrow."
"Yes? Where was it?"
"Stalled right over the man-hole on -"
"Wait a minute!" For the first time, Griff remembered his visit to
Farrow's store. "I saw that truck going out. A lot of big boxes in it."
"Yeah," agreed Caderly, "and banners that covered the wheels. The boys did
a sneak over to the garage after they got their hunch. I'll tell you what they
found - a trapdoor in the bottom of the truck!"
"After I was in the store," recalled Griff, excitedly, "that truck stopped
in the middle of the street, on its way to Gwynnesborough. A box fell off it.
Say - that's when the crooks got into the conduit. They had plenty of time to
carve their way up into the bank!"
"The truck pulled up in back of Farrow's," added Caderly. "Some of the
boys on the back street saw the driver and that clerk of Farrow's unloading
boxes that they had brought back with them."
"Where are the two men now?"
"Out on the street, looking on. I saw them up near the bank."
"We'll get them!" exclaimed Griff. "Farrow's in that store. We'll use them
as decoys. We've spotted the man, all right." Griff turned to Rowling and gave a
significant nod. "It's Slade Farrow. I've been watching that fellow, but he was
too smooth for me."
"Hold up there!" Police Chief Kerr spoke as Griff was turning toward the
door. "I'm in charge of this, Griff. Bring your deputies along - tell them what
to do - but take orders from me."
Griff scowled. He stared toward Rowling as if in protest. The millionaire
hesitated; then nodded.
"That's right, Griff," he declared. "If you're going to enter Farrow's
place, you'll need Chief Kerr. Isn't that best, Norton?"
"Yes," agreed young Granger. His face was solemn. "I'm going along, too,
Rowling. I can't understand this about Farrow. I was sure that he was an honest
man."

FIVE minutes later, Dave and Louie were surprised by a pair of deputies
who suddenly approached and covered them with rifles. Police Chief Kerr stood
by while Griff barked orders to his lieutenants.
Watching from their window, Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland saw the
captives marched along the street. The prisoners turned the corner toward the
rear of Farrow's store. Kerr, Griff and Granger were in charge; a group of
deputies behind. Other deputies and police were watching the front of the
clothing shop.
"It's coming," whispered Harry.
"Right," agreed Cliff. "Be ready."
This was the emergency which The Shadow had foreseen. His agents were
prepared to deliver aid.

CHAPTER XX

TABLES TURN

STACKS of banknotes lay upon packing cases. Piles of bonds and securities
formed another pile. A heap of scattered documents were on the floor. Slade
Farrow was sorting through this pile while his three threats watched.
They were in the large store room. The gathered spoils brought triumphant
grins to the faces of Hawkeye, Tapper and Skeets. Yet the three crooks curbed
their eagerness. All decision lay with Slade Farrow, the man whose orders they
obeyed.
A bell rang above. Slade Farrow paused in his labor. His face clouded.
Hawkeye reached toward his pocket. Farrow shook his head and motioned the
little crook to put away his gun.
"It's Dave and Louie," decided Farrow. "I told them to keep watch on the
main street. They've managed to slide away to report. Wait here. I'll go up."
The three crooks seated themselves among the spoils after their chief had
left. Their confidence in Slade Farrow was absolute. Even Hawkeye did not
appear perturbed. The little crook was interested in the stacks of money.
Then footsteps sounded. Apparently, Farrow was returning with Dave and
Louie. It was not until the sounds arrived at the door that the three crooks
turned in that direction. When they did, they were dumbfounded.

THEY saw the scowling face of Griff, broad-shouldered leader of the
Southfield vigilantes. The husky man was armed with a revolver. Beside him were
two deputies with rifles. The three crooks were covered.
"Up against the wall," ordered Griff.
The crooks backed with raised hands. Griff and his men stepped through the
door. Farrow, Dave and Louie appeared in single file. They, too, were marched to
positions by the wall, controlled by the rifles of other vigilantes.
Police Chief Kerr entered with Norton Granger. The official's eyes gleamed
as they fell upon the spoils. While Griff and his men covered the crooks, Kerr
motioned to Granger to aid him in inspecting the recovered pelf.
"So we got you, eh?" Griff was growling, as he covered Farrow with his
revolver. "A crook all the time?"
"A crook," admitted Farrow, "but a clever one. Perhaps you are due to find
that out, Griff. My men were after more than money. You should have known that
from the start. I've learned a lot since that night at the hotel. I may have
more to say about where I found -"
"Shut up!" snarled Griff. "One word and I'll shoot you dead. Trying to
pull something, eh? I'll -"
Chief Kerr had turned quickly. He saw a murderous look on Griff's face. He
spotted a finger on the revolver trigger. He sprang forward to stop the shot.
"Hold it!" The snarl came from Hawkeye, "I'll plug the first guy that
moves!"
The deputies had wavered in their vigilance, due to the sudden words from
Police Chief Kerr. Hawkeye, quick as a snake, had whipped out his revolver. He
was turning it in a wide circle, to cover all the invaders.
Men were about to drop their rifles. Griff's hand had lowered; but as
Hawkeye's circling gun muzzle passed him, Griff barked an order that would have
succeeded through force of numbers:
"Get them! Shoot them all down!"
A peal of mocking laughter burst through the room. It came like a knell of
doom - a terrifying sound that chilled all who heard it. Griff stood petrified,
beside the door. His henchmen wavered. Chief Kerr was transfixed; so was Norton
Granger.
The prisoners - Farrow and his henchmen - still stood with upraised arms.
They had been ready to grab for revolvers, to aid in the futile fight that
Hawkeye was ready to begin. Now they stood as helpless as before.
Most marked was the effect upon Hawkeye himself. With the first peals of
that laugh, the keen crook quavered. His eyes bulged; his lips twisted. The
revolver dropped from his shaking hand. It clattered upon the floor.
Hawkeye knew the author of that laugh. Like an echo from the past, the
weird tones of The Shadow's mirth had cowered the little crook.

WHILE his hidden lips were uttering the eerie mockery, The Shadow had
swept into view from the door of the inner store room. His tall black form cast
an ominous splotch across the floor - a broad streak of black that covered the
mass of wealth in the center of the room.
His burning eyes brought terror to those who met them. His mighty
automatics, one clutched in each black-gloved fist, were weapons that none
dared defy. To every observer, it seemed as though a tunneled muzzle was gaping
in his direction.
Hawkeye and his quickly drawn revolver were as nothing to the menace of
this mighty figure whose shuddering laughter still persisted as ghoulish, dying
echoes. Like a thing from the beyond, The Shadow had awakened unforgettable
terror.
Motionless, The Shadow waited, amid grim silence. The atmosphere became
more tense. The laugh came again, this time as a sinister whisper. Police Chief
Kerr was standing dumbfounded; all others showed drawn, worried faces, with one
exception.
That one was Slade Farrow. The ex-convict who had launched crime in
Southfield was calmly waiting. He, of all those in this room, might most have
dreaded The Shadow's presence. Supercrooks had quailed at sight of the master
from the night.
Yet Farrow's face betrayed no fear, even as his eyes met the blazing orbs
of The Shadow. Caught with the goods, trapped by the superfighter who battled
crime with unrelenting fury, Slade Farrow was displaying amazing self-reserve.
The Shadow's eyes turned squarely toward Police Chief Kerr. The Shadow had
picked this official as the one to receive his order. A stern pronouncement came
in The Shadow's whisper - a sibilant tone that hissed:
"Let Slade Farrow speak!"

CHAPTER XXI

FRUITS OF CRIME

SLADE FARROW stepped from the wall. He dropped his arms and nodded
quietly, as if thanking The Shadow for the opportunity that had been given him.
To all others, including Police Chief Kerr, The Shadow's automatics still were a
potent threat. None dared move.
Farrow faced the police chief. He could see Norton Granger's tense face
beside Kerr's. He observed Griff standing just within the door. No others
appeared of consequence. Under protection of The Shadow's guns, Slade Farrow
spoke.
"You see the fruits of crime," declared the ex-convict, swinging his hand
toward the mass of wealth upon the packing cases and the floor. "My men were
the ones who gained these spoils. They did their work under my order. Their
purpose, however, was to reclaim - not to pilfer.
"I was an inmate of the state penitentiary until a few weeks ago.
Presumably there as a convict, I was actually confined at my own request. I am
a sociologist, and my life work has been to lead men away from ways of crime.
"These men" - Farrow was indicating those who had served him - "were once
criminals. All had served their terms. Through confidence in me, they have gone
straight. I summoned them to aid me in my work in Southfield, because there was
no other way to gain the results that I required."
Farrow paused. Chief Kerr and Norton Granger stared in amazement. Griff
glowered. Sight of a looming automatic muzzle made the big man quail. The power
of The Shadow still prevailed.
"My cellmate," resumed Slade Farrow, "was Ferris Legrand. I learned his
true story. I shall tell it now. Legrand was a friend of Wilbur Granger,
Southfield's most prominent attorney. One night, Wilbur Granger came to Ferris
Legrand and gave him a green metal box.
"That box contained full evidence concerning the fraudulent activities of
three men in Southfield. I shall name them. Townsend Rowling; Rutherford Blogg;
Hiram Marker. Wilbur Granger had warned them to desist their evil practices.
They had refused.
"All three had gained properties through false deeds. Wilbur Granger had
obtained the originals. All three had dealt in crimes of greater order - even
to murder - as in the case of Hiram Marker, who caused the death of his
brother-in-law.
"The green box contained genuine papers to dispute fake documents. It held
testimonies of dead men and living. Its contents were sufficient to put an end
to the combined evil that Rowling, Blogg and Marker had committed in their
greed for wealth.
"Wilbur Granger was fleeing town. He left Legrand's home. Legrand, in
turn, went directly to the railway trestle above the deep gorge. He hid the
green box in the open end of a steel girder.
"Returning, he went to Wilbur Granger's home. He had another duty to
perform. It was his task to remove personal funds and belongings that Wilbur
Granger had left; to keep them until his friend's return. But Wilbur Granger
was never to return."

NORTON GRANGER'S face was firm. This reference to his father was rousing
fury in his mind. He knew enough to piece the story. He understood the perfidy
that lay beneath the smugness of the three men who were his clients: Rowling,
Blogg and Marker.
"Wilbur Granger was murdered," declared Farrow, solemnly. "He was slain
shortly after he left Legrand's. His body was discovered. Men went to his
house. They surprised Ferris Legrand - not in the act of robbery, but while he
was performing a duty to his friend. He was trapped in this very house. All
that he had taken was restored to Norton Granger. Ferris Legrand was then
sentenced to the penitentiary.
"Legrand was afraid to speak. He was awaiting his release. By regaining
the green box, he could prove his innocence and lay crime upon the three evil
men who ruled Southfield. Death intervened; but before Ferris Legrand died, he
told his story to his only friend - myself."
Another pause. Not a man stirred. The whispered laugh of The Shadow crept
through the room. It was an ominous tone that held no mockery nor mercy. Those
who heard it shuddered - all except Slade Farrow.
"I came to Southfield," asserted the sociologist. "I recovered the green
metal box. It was taken from me. I knew why - because suspicions had been
aroused by my purchase of Ferris Legrand's business.
"I remained here." Farrow's tone was firm. "I knew that the contents of
that green box would be found in certain places. I brought former criminals to
my aid. They did the work that I required. They raided Blogg's; then Marker's;
and finally, they blew open Rowling's own vault.
"They took all that they found. Such was my order. The wealth of those
three men has all been stolen from those to whom it rightfully belonged.
Furthermore, I decided to leave no clew. Yet Townsend Rowling feared. He sensed
the purpose of the robberies. He wanted deputies to guard his bank.
"Here is the reason why." Triumphantly, Farrow reached his hand into a
packing case and drew out a green metal box. "This was in Rowling's vault. It
contained some real deeds, and other documents, of which Blogg and Marker had
the forgeries. Rowling gave the originals to his friends; he kept the false
ones. He wanted to hold the whip hand. A crook at heart, he could not trust
others of his kind.
"Other proofs are here - some, even, that can incriminate Rowling himself.
But the irony is yet to come. In this box, Rowling placed other documents which
he had in his vault. He trusted no one - not even those who served him.
"I have completed my examination of these papers. Among them is a signed
statement, evidently obtained by Townsend Rowling, from the man who was the
murderer of Wilbur Granger. The murderer was paid for his work; his confession
was his receipt."
Turning, Farrow thrust the box into the hands of Police Chief Kerr.
"Take care of this," warned Farrow. "For there, beside you, stands the man
who slew Wilbur Granger!"
With a dramatic gesture, Farrow swung his arm and pointed straight at Eric
Griffel!

THERE was no need for further accusation. Griff, the powerful leader of
the vigilantes, was cowering in the doorway. His face betrayed his own guilt.
His game of years had been uncovered.
Griff's fealty to Townsend Rowling; his desire, tonight, to slay Slade
Farrow - these were fitting proofs to Alexis Kerr and Norton Granger.
The Shadow's mockery crept weirdly through the room where astounded men
were standing. That weird laugh was the affirmation of Slade Farrow's words.
The Shadow, ever since that night when he had visited the penitentiary,
had been gaining new facts concerning Slade Farrow's purpose. He had thrown his
might into the balance.
Slade Farrow, the man who had come to Southfield to right great wrong, had
gained his sole desire. When failure had capped Farrow's noble efforts, The
Shadow had stepped forth to bring the truth to light!

CHAPTER XXII

THE BREAK

"YOU'RE under arrest!"
Police Chief Kerr uttered these words as he turned to Eric Griffel.
Thrusting out a brawny hand, the chief gripped Griff by the arm.
Footsteps on the stairs. Griff swung a quick glance through the doorway.
It was Caderly and a squad of deputies, arriving to investigate the delay.
Chief Kerr, in grasping Griff's arm, had committed a grave mistake. Kerr's
body was swinging between Griff and the spot where The Shadow stood. With a
sudden shout, Griff swung his fist up to Kerr's chin.
As the police chief staggered, Griff dived toward the stairs. His
screaming words were orders to his arriving vigilantes - men who did not know
the truth.
"Get them!" shouted Griff. "Shoot them down! All of them!"
Loyal to Griff, Caderly sprang to the door of the store room to meet the
lunging form of Police Chief Kerr. He aimed his revolver to fire. A shot
thundered from across the room. The Shadow, picking an opening past Kerr's
shoulder, felled Caderly with a bullet in his arm.
It was the signal for strife. The deputies in the store room, although
they had heard the truth, took sudden measures in Griff's behalf. They came up
with their rifles, ready to fight Slade Farrow and his henchmen.
The effort was too late. Hawkeye was leaping forward to attack. Following
his example, the others piled upon the deputies. Norton Granger joined in the
attack.
One of Griff's ruffians swung free and aimed his rifle squarely at Slade
Farrow. Another flash came from The Shadow's corner. The deputy dropped as a
bullet clipped his shoulder.
Revolvers flashed as the beleaguered men leaped toward the door to meet
the onrush of Caderly's crew. Griff, dashing for the stairs, had shouted word
to kill.
Police Chief Kerr was at the door, with Hawkeye beside him. Both were
foemen to Griff's frenzied deputies. Sworn to obey their leader, they were
ready to fight the law as well as crime.
Guns barked. Chief Kerr staggered wounded. Hawkeye dropped a vigilante,
while Farrow dragged the police chief back into the store room. Griff, from the
stairs, was barking out new orders.
"Get them all!" he rasped. "Get that swag. Kerr has gone crooked! So has
Granger!"
Then came shots from the end of the passage below the stairs. Vigilantes
staggered as they reached the door of the store room. The Shadow had come
through the little room. A dim shape at the end of the passage, he had opened
fire.
Sprawling vigilantes failed to return The Shadow's shots. Those behind
them turned tail as the automatics thundered death. The invaders were backing
up the stairway. A weird avenger, The Shadow came sweeping on their trail.

GRIFF knew what was happening. He leaped for Farrow's office while he
shouted to new men who were at the delivery door. In the office, Griff closed
the door and grabbed the telephone. He called police headquarters.
Barking guns still sounded. The Shadow was on the stairs. His shots from
the darkness were driving back the incoming vigilantes.
Griff could hear shots below. He knew that men whom The Shadow had
scattered and wounded were making a vain resistance against Farrow's band,
following in The Shadow's wake.
"Hello..." Griff gasped the word. "Rowling?... The jig is up... Yes...
Farrow squealed... Stay there - I'm on my way."
An automatic barked just outside the door. The Shadow was at the top of
the stairs. Griff leaped to the window. It was barred. The brawny vigilante
thrust an arm through the bars and with a mighty effort wrenched them from
their fastenings. With a wild leap, he plunged through to the rear street.
The door of the office burst open. The Shadow, his eyes gleaming fiercely,
saw the telephone, its receiver still off the hook. Beyond that, the unbarred
window. The Shadow's laugh was grim.
His emptied automatics disappeared beneath his cloak. Another pair
replaced them. Turning, The Shadow swept back toward the delivery door.
Standing there, he blazed two shots; then leaped into the darkened street.
Shots came from ahead. Griff's henchmen were guarding their leader's
flight. The automatics replied. Weaving forward in the darkness, The Shadow was
picking living targets, yet his own form remained unseen.
Rifles and revolvers were aimed each time his automatics blazed. But The
Shadow was never there to receive the return shots. Vigilantes sprawled on the
paving. Others fled as they heard their companions groan.
Police Chief Kerr had arrived at the top of the stairs. Though wounded,
the chief was game. Norton Granger and Slade Farrow were beside him. Behind
them were Farrow's henchmen.
Vigilantes had smashed through the front of the clothing store. It was in
this direction that Chief Kerr turned. He raised his right hand and shouted an
order:
"Put down your guns! In the name of the law!"
A rifle crackled. The bullet skimmed Kerr's shoulder. Other guns swung
upward, aimed by vigilantes. A revolver barked beside Chief Kerr. Hawkeye
grinned as his prompt shot downed the vigilante who had fired.
Skeets delivered shots. The ex-racketeer was a marksman. As Tapper and
Farrow joined in the fray, the vigilantes broke and fled for the front street.
Chief Kerr, unbalked by danger, dashed in pursuit.

OUT on the street, the official stood in plain view. He saw policemen
across the street. He waved his hand in signal. That was sufficient. A distant
vigilante fired. His bullet shattered the glass of the display window, close
beside Kerr's head.
Kerr's policemen understood. Although outnumbered, they began a fray
against the vigilantes. Kerr, standing openly upon the street, waved to Farrow
and his henchmen. Springing to Kerr's aid, Farrow's reformed crooks joined the
battle.
It was a fight against odds, with The Shadow no longer here to aid. The
black-garbed master had cleared his way in pursuit of Eric Griffel. Once again,
however, Chief Kerr was to owe his life to The Shadow. The master fighter had
left two aids upon the scene.
Sniping vigilantes were aiming rifles to end Kerr's career, as the daring
police chief scorned all cover. From the window of the hotel room, Harry
Vincent and Cliff Marsland opened fire on the would-be murderers.
Vigilantes scattered as members of their crew dropped to the street.
Policemen leaped forward. Farrow and his henchmen deployed. Dave and Louie had
joined the other three. Wild gunfire reigned.
Louie staggered wounded; so did Tapper. Two policemen fell. But a dozen
vigilantes sprawled, a third of their number shot through the heart. Hawkeye
and Skeets, amazing marksmen, were doing duty in the street. Harry and Cliff,
firing from above, were doing their part to send the vigilantes scudding.
At the city hall, three men were standing on the curb. Townsend Rowling,
heeding Griff's frenzied warning, had hastened from Kerr's office with Hiram
Marker and Rutherford Blogg. As the three men hesitated, a touring car shot up
beside them.
Griff was at the wheel. He barked an order to a pair of vigilantes as he
motioned Rowling and his companions into the car. Jamming home the gear, Griff
pulled the touring car away from the curb.
The game was up. The three crooks knew it. They were ready to follow
Griff's lead in an attempt at flight. But Griff knew more than they.
He knew that The Shadow would soon be on the trail. Flight was the only
way to thwart The Shadow. That was the method Griff had chosen. He had made the
break. Now was the chance for safety!

CHAPTER XXIII

GRIFF'S STRATEGY

THE Southfield city hall was half a block from the railway depot. The
eastbound D & O Limited was standing in the station as Griff's car headed in
that direction. A locomotive, with three baggage cars attached, was panting
while a shifting engine shunted a dining car toward a siding.
The engineer and fireman were standing beside the locomotive. They were
listening to the crackle of gunfire that came from far up the main street.
Passengers, too, were on the station platform, wondering if civil war had
broken loose in Southfield.
The limited had cleared the railway crossing where the main street passed
over the tracks. On the other side, a freight was making up. The front half of
the train was separated from the back, so that the crossing would not be closed.
The two vigilantes whom Griff had dispatched were heading straight for the
freight locomotive. It was only a short dash between two buildings. They were at
their objective in less than twenty seconds.
Griff, as he jerked the touring car out into the main street, was quick to
glance along the thoroughfare behind him. Traffic had ducked for side streets.
Only one car was in view. It was pulling from the curb at a corner near the
Southfield House.
Griff fumed an oath. He knew who was in that car. Ever since his leap from
the window in Farrow's office, Griff had realized that his henchmen could not
stop The Shadow. Yet despite his anger, Griff wore a fierce grin. His strategy
had not yet ended.
The touring car bounded as it struck the rails of the grade crossing. It
swiped sidewise and Griff jammed at the brakes. He straightened the car as it
shot between the halves of the freight train.
Up ahead, Griff's vigilantes had clambered into the freight engine. One
had pounced upon the fireman. The other met the engineer. A swift punch to the
jaw. The engineer crumpled. The vigilante who had struck him down grabbed a
lever. Looking backward along the train, he saw Griff's touring car shoot
through the break in the train. The vigilante pulled a lever.
The freight cars buckled as the front half of the train went into reverse.
While a watchman cried an excited warning, the front of the train came backing
over the crossing. No brakes were applied. The first of the moving cars smashed
into the rear half of the train.
Loud rattles echoed all along the siding. The rear car of the joined train
was jammed against the bumper of the side-track. Cars buckled and toppled from
the rails as the engine wheels drove backward. Then the vigilante yanked the
lever. The train was stopped. Its derailed cars formed a barrier across the
only grade crossing which would serve the pursuers of Eric Griffel.

A COUPE, hurtling up to the grade crossing, made a sudden swerve as the
freight cars buckled in its path. Too late to avoid a crash with the brakes
alone, the driver swerved and headed his car along beside the track.
The coupe narrowly escaped a toppling freight car. Again it swerved,
bounded over rails and came to a stop close by the side of the second baggage
car of the D & O Limited.
The door of the coupe opened. A tall form emerged. It was The Shadow. He
had made a quick pursuit, once he had cleared away the blocking vigilantes.
Where Griff's men had failed, the jammed cars of the freight had preserved an
obstacle which The Shadow could not pass.
The half-wrecked coupe was evidence of Griff's unexpected strategy. Less
than a hundred yards behind the vigilante and the crooked men of wealth, The
Shadow had been stopped.
A soft laugh came from The Shadow's lips. His tall form stood unseen. He
was on the side of the baggage cars away from the station platform. With swift
pace, The Shadow hurried forward. He knew the only road that the escaping men
had taken.
Black against the side of the black locomotive, The Shadow was totally
unseen as he climbed the steps of the panting Mogul. His sharp eyes, peering
from beside the cab, spied the engineer and fireman on the platform beside
their engine.
As The Shadow entered the right side of the cab, a sedan came speeding up
to the station. A young man leaped from the car and dashed across the platform.
It was Norton Granger. He shouted at the conductor:
"Did they get on the train?"
"Who?"
"Three men - four - making a getaway -"
"They took the grade crossing. The freight has blocked it. Something must
have gone wrong, backing in like that -"
Norton Granger stared. The engineer and fireman of the limited were moving
down the platform to see what had happened to the freight. So had others.
Wild-eyed, Granger realized what had happened.
A thunderous chug came from the locomotive of the limited. Then another.
The wheels revolved. Weighted by only three cars, the huge Mogul responded
quickly to the pull of the throttle.
A cry came from the engineer. With the fireman, he started up along the
platform. The conductor had left; Norton Granger was standing alone. A sudden
inspiration struck him.
With a leap, the young lawyer gained the side of the moving locomotive. He
swung aboard as the big engine gathered speed. Engineer and fireman were on
their way. They were losing in the race.
Aided by the slight down grade, unhandicapped by extra cars, the big
locomotive was pulling out with unusual speed. Its glaring headlight was
burning down the track. Its huge wheels were rattling over switches as the
train headed for the open track beyond the yards.
In the left side of the cab, Norton Granger panted from his short run. He
gazed through the front window; then nodded as he understood. Only one person
could have sprung this swift scheme of pursuit. That was the one who had
appeared to deliver timely aid in Slade Farrow's store room.
The Shadow was at the throttle. Norton Granger did not know the identity
of the black-clad stranger. He realized only that The Shadow, like himself, was
anxious to stop the flight of Eric Griffel and the three men with him.
Through The Shadow, Ferris Legrand's name had been cleared. Nothing now
could remain a barrier between Norton Granger and the girl he loved. Justice,
however, must be done. The men who had brought about the death of Wilbur
Granger must be stopped in their mad escape.
Springing from his side of the cab, Norton Granger yanked open the door of
the fire-box and began to shovel coal. Stoking fuel from the tender, he was
lending aid to The Shadow's purpose.
The thundering locomotive was on the trail of escaping men of crime. The
Shadow, grim messenger of vengeance, had pulled the throttle wide!

CHAPTER XXIV

THE PRICE OF CRIME

ERIC GRIFFEL was blurting facts as he swung the touring car along the
curving road that led away from Southfield. In short syllables, he was telling
why the game was up. Townsend Rowling was in the front seat; Hiram Marker and
Rutherford Blogg were in the rear. All were delivering frantic questions.
"It's all spilled," growled Griff, as he swung the car beneath the low
bridge just outside of town. "We're lucky to get away - and we wouldn't be away
except for the boys who yanked the freight across the track."
"Who is after us?" queried Rowling, anxiously.
"The Shadow," returned Griff.
"The Shadow?" questioned Marker.
"Yes," informed Griff. "I've heard of him but I didn't know he was in this
mess. But he won't get us now. I'll cut left before we get to Gwynnesport. Over
to the flying field. We'll grab a plane for Canada. It's our only chance."
"I can get money," stated Townsend Rowling. "I've been ready for
emergencies such as this. Don't worry" - the crooked bank owner paused to laugh
- "we'll be safe when we get across the border."
"What's that?" Rutherford Blogg put the query as he stared through the
back window of the car. He had seen a light behind as the automobile had
reached the straight road a few miles out of town.
Townsend Rowling turned to stare. A wild gasp came from his lips as his
ears heard the distant rumble.
"It's the Limited!" he exclaimed. "Pulling out ahead of time. It's coming
after us!"
An oath came from Griff. The fuming vigilante pressed the accelerator to
the floor. The speedometer moved to sixty-five; then neared seventy.
"I can't get a bit more out of this old buggy," he snarled. "Seventy is
the best."
"Enough to beat the train," decided Rowling. "Keep at top speed, Griff."
"Three baggage cars," muttered Griff. "That was all the load the loco had.
The Mogul might do ninety on the down grade."
"Can you beat it to the crossing?"
"I think so."
An anxious cry came from Hiram Marker. The water-works owner was looking
through the back. He could see that the train was gaining.

THE huge headlight showed the fleeing touring car. Burning eyes were
staring from the window of the cab. The Shadow, his gloved hand upon the
throttle, was swaying with the rocking of the locomotive as the huge Jagannath
rolled along the one-track roadbed.
Norton Granger was still stoking. The swaying of the locomotive nearly
caused him to lose his balance. He caught a guard rail and steadied.
The distance was lessening to the crossing. The brilliant light of the
locomotive showed rails that seemed hurtling up beneath the wheels. The short
train was doing close to the ninety miles an hour that Griff had feared.
The space between the mighty engine and the fleeing car was narrowing. Yet
the automobile had gained a long start. The straight railroad had favored the
locomotive, for the touring car had followed a curving course just outside of
town. Now both were on the final stretch of straightaway.
A weird laugh came from The Shadow's lips. It sounded above the roar of
the locomotive. The end of the chase was near at hand. Only minutes remained in
which to stop the fugitives.

IN the touring car, Griff uttered a sudden exclamation. Far ahead, he
could trace the outline of the wooded patch through which the road curved to
take the grade crossing beside the gorge.
"We've got him licked!" exclaimed Griff. "He can't catch us now!"
"How's that?" queried Rowling, anxiously.
"We can cross before or after him," returned Griff. "His only chance is to
block us - like we stopped his car with the freight. That's where we'll beat him.
"He'll use the air brakes when we hit the woods. Listen and you'll hear
him. He's only got three cars. He'll have to use them to make a barrier.
"If we reach the woods ahead of him, we're safe. The brakes will slow him
and we'll shoot over the crossing before he gets there."
"But if he doesn't brake the train what will -"
"We'll know it when we strike the woods. If he doesn't shoot the brakes,
we'll let him go over first. He's wise enough to know that. Here's the woods.
Watch and listen."

THE locomotive was close behind the car as the fleeing automobile neared
the woods. The Shadow's black hand left the throttle. It pressed the air-brake
lever. The locomotive shuddered and seemed to bounce along the rails as the
brakes sighed their response.
Triumphant cries sounded as the touring car shot into the woods. These
were from the watching men in the back seat. Griff responded. His prediction
had been proven.
"He's done it," sneered the vigilante. "That's the end of him. We're still
ahead - and this is where we get across before him."
The speedometer showed sixty-eight as Griff took the circuitous curve. The
steady driver knew his speed. The curve was nullified by the lead. The slowing
train could not block the crossing ahead of the fleeing car.

AS the headlight of the locomotive blazed its way through track-fringing
trees, The Shadow's hand left the brake lever. It gripped the throttle and
pulled it wide. The big engine gave a leap.
Unknown to the fleeing crooks, The Shadow had changed his tactics. The
locomotive was hitting the curve toward the grade crossing. Its pounding wheels
seemed to stagger on the rails. No whistle sounded the Mogul's thundering
approach.
Bearing heavily on the increasing curve, the locomotive seemed to hang on
two wheels. Roaring forward, its speed had become a danger. Yet the hand of The
Shadow never left the throttle.
Blazing light showed an opening amid the trees. The locomotive gobbled up
the space. With new fury, the steaming giant of metal fairly leaped toward the
grade crossing by the gorge.
Then into the path of light came the hurtling touring car. With the Mogul
thundering down upon it, the automobile seemed a frail and trivial toy. A
swallowing monster, the locomotive hit the grade at ninety miles an hour just
as the fleeing car was midway on the rails!
The locomotive seemed to spring upon its prey. The giant mass of metal
wobbled as its front crashed against the side of the automobile. Twisting as it
hurtled upward, the touring car was instantly transformed into a mass of
hopeless wreckage as it piled upon the pilot of the Mogul.
The locomotive roared upon the trestle. The Shadow's hand was already on
the brake. The trestle trembled. The locomotive rose, then steadied. Full speed
would have wrecked the engine and its cars; quick application of the brakes
would have done the same.
But The Shadow's hand was steady. He eased the speed with master skill.
Wheels seemed to regain their rails as the steel steed steadied midway of the
trestle. A slackening, while Norton Granger staggered in the left side of the
cab.
From his window, Norton saw the twisted touring car go lurching from the
pilot. With its falling occupants dropping like toy soldiers, the automobile
plunged far off the trestle and turned over and over as it went to the depths
of the gorge, two hundred feet below!
The brakes were tightening as the locomotive passed the trestle. The
tender served as bulwark against the cars as the train slowed steadily on the
down grade.
Half a mile down the track, the locomotive came to a jolting stop. Norton
Granger caught himself as he shot forward in the cab.
The young lawyer was dazed from the hectic ride. The hurtling trip along
the rails; the jolt at the grade crossing; the sight of that spinning car as it
whirled into the ravine - all these were chaotic recollections.
Murderers had gone to their doom. All four had been party to the death of
Norton's father and to the slaying of others who had blocked their schemes for
ill-gained pelf.
Fleeing from the law, they had dared The Shadow's might. They had failed.
Townsend Rowling, Rutherford Blogg, Hiram Marker and their underling, Eric
Griffel, had met swift death which they deserved.
Beneath the very trestle where Ferris Legrand had hidden the green box,
these men of crime were lying dead. The Shadow, risking his own life, had
stopped their sure flight to evade the penalty of the law. His deed had been
the only course that offered lasting justice.
The big locomotive was panting like a weary runner. Norton Granger rose
unsteadily and crossed the cab. He stared at the seat beside the throttle.
The place was empty. The Shadow had departed.
As Norton Granger listened, he heard a distant sound that came above the
panting of the engine. It was a token that he had heard before; but here, in
the night air; its weirdness had a new and ghostly sound.
A strange peal of outlandish laughter; sardonic mockery that rose to
strident crescendo; then faded while dying echoes mocked.
The triumph laugh of The Shadow!

THE END