CITY OF CRIME
                                            Maxwell Grant
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?   CHAPTER I. CROOKS IN AMBUSH
?   CHAPTER II. SCATTERED HORDES
?   CHAPTER III. BEHIND THE SCENES
?   CHAPTER IV. INTO THE SNARE
?   CHAPTER V. DEATH DELIVERED
?   CHAPTER VI. CROOKS CONNIVE
?   CHAPTER VII. THE FINGER POINTS
?   CHAPTER VIII. THE TRAP REVERSED
?   CHAPTER IX. THE LAW INVADES
?   CHAPTER X. THE LOST TRAIL
?   CHAPTER XI. WITHIN THE LAIR
?   CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S CLUE
?   CHAPTER XIII. DEATH'S FALSE TALE
?   CHAPTER XIV. ON THE SCENE OF CRIME
?   CHAPTER XV. FOILED HOUNDS
?   CHAPTER XVI. NEW REFUGE
?   CHAPTER XVII. THE BOMBSHELL
?   CHAPTER XVIII. LANCE FINDS THE ANSWER
?   CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW GAME
?   CHAPTER XX. THE LAW'S TURN
?   CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S EXIT
?   CHAPTER XXII. ESTELLE'S DISCOVERY
?   CHAPTER XXIII. AMENDED STRATEGY
?   CHAPTER XXIV. DOUBLE BATTLE
?   CHAPTER XXV. WITHIN THE DEN

                            CHAPTER I. CROOKS IN AMBUSH
IT was gala night in the city of Westford. Streets were strung with brilliant lines of colored electric lights.
Store fronts were illuminated, throwing their brightness upon festooned posts and displaying the elaborate
decorations of their own windows. Tourists, driving through the main streets, gained the impressions that
this city of two hundred thousand was engaged in celebration.

As the boosters phrased it, Westford was a "live town" that was definitely "on the map"; the city attracted
visitors from every town within a hundred miles. Business was booming in Westford; it was predicted that
good times were here to remain. Thanks for the prosperity belonged to Westford's "live wire mayor",
Elvin Marclot. His administration was hailed as the greatest in the history of the city.

There was one man who viewed all this dourly, as he sat in a small ground-floor office that gave him a
slanted view of the main street. He was a husky, square-jawed individual, with weather-beaten face and
short-clipped hair that was well streaked with gray. He was attired in a blue uniform, that stretched tight
as he sat erect. His insignia marked him as a lieutenant of police.

Nearly everyone in Westford knew James Maclare. A veteran police officer, he had gained a reputation
for honest and efficient service. His record was one of blunt, painstaking toil, rather than that of brilliant
exploit; yet no one had ever said that Lieutenant Maclare lacked brains.

Though slow to decision, Maclare invariably formed the right opinion. When matters perplexed him, he
thought them over and waited until he had the answer. During that process he kept silence; when the time
was ripe, he acted.

There was one man in whom Lieutenant Maclare placed confidence. That man was another officer, as
straightforward as Maclare himself. He was Sergeant Cassley, Maclare's chief subordinate. Together,
they had charge of the first precinct; and, of necessity, Maclare frequently told Cassley the trend of his
half-formed plans. Cassley was Maclare's man Friday; never did he pass along a single word that he had
heard from his superior.

TONIGHT, Cassley was sitting across the desk from Maclare, watching the lieutenant as he stared from
the window of the precinct office. Though slow of thought, Cassley was positive that opinions were due.
He was right. They came.

"This whole thing is the bunk!" announced Maclare suddenly, emphasizing his gruff statement with a
ponderous punch upon the desk. "Look at those lights; all that tinsel! What do they mean to Westford?
Nothing except trouble!"

Cassley looked puzzled. He was a bulky man; his wrinkled uniform made a contrast to Maclare's smooth
blue coat. His beefy, flat-featured face displayed its bewilderment. The sergeant needed more
statements, in order to grasp the full import of Maclare's objections. The lieutenant noted the fact and
formed a wry smile.

"I know what you're thinking, Cassley," he told the sergeant. "You've fallen for the talk of business
coming into town. Sure! Westford is prosperous. But what's come on with all this excitement? I'll tell you
- a lot of riffraff who think that Westford is the right spot for any crooked game they can cook up!"

Cassley nodded slowly. He was tabulating a list of recent crimes. Maclare was right; there were crooks
in Westford, plenty of them. But when Cassley thought further, his nod ended. He could not see just
where the law had failed to battle crime.

"What about the Flying Squadron?" queried the sergeant. "It's been moving fast, lieutenant, ever since
Director Borman organized it. They were on the job quick, those fellows, after that last bank robbery."

"But the crooks got away," reminded Maclare. "Don't forget that, Cassley."

"You can't blame Director Borman for it."

"I'm blaming Kirk Borman for nothing," returned Maclare, leaning across the desk. "You know what I
think of Kirk Borman. I say that he's the best police director this town ever had. Elvin Marclot, as mayor,
made the best choice anyone could have, when he picked Kirk Borman for the job.

"But Borman hasn't stopped the rackets. He can't, even though he's got full charge of that Flying
Squadron. The job rests with precincts, like ours here. We've got to raid the places where the crooks
hang out. Clean them up before they have a chance to make trouble."

Sergeant Cassley sat silent. Lieutenant Maclare began to strum his desk; then spoke in rueful tone.
"We've drawn a blank every time we've tackled the Club Adair," he admitted. "We know that Lance
Gillick runs it as a gambling joint; but when we blow in, it's always an innocent-looking night club. We're
going there again, though, Cassley. Only, first, I'm planning to hand Lance Gillick a jolt that he won't
forget."

"How will you manage that, lieutenant?"

MACLARE smiled at Cassley's question. Picking up a pencil, he indicated an inkwell that rested on his
desk; drew an imaginary circle around it.

"That's Lance Gillick," stated Maclare. "Working inside his circle, the Club Adair. We know what his
racket is, don't we?"

"Sure," nodded Cassley. "Gambling!"

"All right." Maclare began to tap all around the desk with his pencil. "Here's a lot of stores, pool rooms,
flop-houses - all through the city. They've got slot machines, punchboards; they're running the numbers
racket on the q.t. The State has legalized a lot of that stuff; neither Mayor Marclot nor Director Borman
can break it up. But it's gambling, isn't it?"

Cassley nodded.

"Agreed," added Maclare. "Therefore, it's a sure bet that Lance Gillick is behind it. He's the big-shot in
this town."

"Say!" exclaimed Cassley. "If you could hook all that on to Lance -"

"It wouldn't do a bit of good," interposed Maclare. "But I tell you what we can do. Since the rackets
belong to Lance, all those fellows who collect on the machines and numbers must be working for him."

"That's sure enough," agreed Cassley. "They stick together, too. They all hang out down at the old
Mississippi Hotel, near the railroad terminal. That hotel is running wide open, even though it's got no
license."

"That's just it," chuckled Maclare. "So we're going to raid it, tonight. We'll make a round-up and bring in
that whole bunch of hoodlums. The only fellow who could spring them will be Lance Gillick; and he won't
dare do it, because it would show that he was behind the rackets."

Sergeant Cassley arose, grinning broadly. He queried:

"How soon do we start?"

"Get the squad ready," ordered Maclare, briskly. "Have the wagons come along with us. We'll go out the
back way, keeping off the main streets. No one will know where we're bound until we get there."

As Cassley turned toward the door, Maclare picked up the telephone. He made a brief remark, before
he lifted the receiver.

"It's a straight precinct job," asserted Maclare; "but we mustn't forget standing orders. I'm calling Director
Borman, to let him know that we're starting out. He wants it that way, so he can have the Flying
Squadron cover up afterward."

SERGEANT CASSLEY went out into the patrol room, closing the lieutenant's door behind him. He
snapped orders to a group of bluecoats; paraded them and sent word to bring out the patrol wagons.
Lieutenant Maclare arrived from his office; surveyed the dozen men who were standing at attention.

"We're raiding the Mississippi Hotel," announced Maclare. "Sergeant Cassley will enter from the front,
with a detail of four men. We'll let them think it's a minor raid; whoever comes out by the back doors will
find our main force.

"We'll have the wagons with us, to gather up the lot of them when they reach the back street. I'll be in
charge of the main squad. Further orders when we're on the ground. All right, men. Ready for
inspection."

Soon the entire squad was marching from the station house; Maclare, at the head, was leading the
advance through dingy, poorly lighted alleys that had been neglected in Westford's campaign of bigger
and brighter lights. As they reached a corner, Maclare gave the command to halt. Sergeant Cassley told
of his four-man detail. Lieutenant Maclare gave him final orders.

"Don't get far inside the front door, Cassley," Maclare advised. "We want them to come through the
back. Director Borman is sending the Flying Squadron. They'll show up about ten minutes after we
strike. The Flying Squadron will roll up on the front street. After that, you can let anybody go out through
the front door. Remember: put up a big show. We've got a right to arrest anyone who comes out the
back while you're inside. We'll charge them with resisting arrest."

Cassley and his men marched away. Maclare moved the remainder through an alleyway; then along an
ill-paved street that was flanked on the right by coal yards, with the railway tracks beyond. As he and his
men stationed themselves in back of the decrepit Mississippi Hotel, two darkened patrol wagons coasted
into view. Officers opened the doors of the black Marias; stood beside them, ready for the surge that
was to come.

Tense minutes passed. A police whistle shrilled from the front street. Commotion began within the old
hotel. Until that moment, it had been a quiet-looking frame structure, its dim windows silent except for the
jerky music of an overloud player piano. But the whistle blast that marked the beginning of raid was like a
spark igniting dynamite.

Shouts burst from the hotel. Tables clattered; lights blinked on and off. Gunfire sounded; heavy footsteps
pounded. Doors ripped open at the back of the building; the vanguard of a horde of hoodlums appeared.
As three men leaped from rickety steps. Lieutenant Maclare snapped a command to his main squad:

"Take them as they hit the street!" The bluecoats spread, fanwise. With Maclare in the center, they
closed upon the back doors of the hotel. The first fugitives dropped against the steps, raising their arms in
surrender. Footsteps told that more were coming; Maclare and his men were ready to bag them the
instant that they arrived.

Then came the unexpected. From the low-roofed buildings of the coal yards, searchlights poured a
sudden glare that made the street like day. Huge beams of light showed the entire squad of police,
flat-footed on the sidewalk, against the paintless back wall of the hotel.

Maclare, swinging about, stood scowling from the center of his raiders.

Snarled oaths sounded from fences and roofs, delivered by thugs who were out of sight behind the
searchlights. A harsh voice barked an order. Revolvers crackled from the darkness. There was a sharp
rattle; the opening outburst of a machine gun. It ended almost instantly, for the trigger man had started it
too soon.

That warning sound told how hopelessly the police were trapped. Crooks had surprised the raiders.
Hidden in ambush, men of crime were equipped to wipe out Lieutenant Maclare and his entire squad at
an instant's notice.

                          CHAPTER II. SCATTERED HORDES
THE menace of the situation was but partially grasped by Lieutenant James Maclare. He and his men had
faced about; they were blinking at the blinding searchlights. None had been hit by the first revolver fire;
the machine gun had stopped without delivering death.

It occurred to Maclare that ambushed crooks had intended no more than a warning; that they were afraid
to deliver heavy fire because their own men were coming from the hotel. Looking about, Maclare saw
that a dozen fugitives had arrived; but they were no longer in flight. They were a leering, contemptuous
throng, massed upon the back steps of the hotel.

Like the thugs behind the searchlights, these crooks had the police covered. The inference seemed plain
to Maclare. If the police stood by and let the crooks from the hotel make their get-away, there would be
no massacre.

Maclare was partly right in this conclusion. He was to learn later just how far he was wrong. Sizing the
situation, the lieutenant realized that he could not count on aid from Sergeant Cassley; he knew also that
the Flying Squadron would not arrive for ten minutes. Much though he hated to see crooks gain their
way, Maclare could not forget the welfare of his men. He saw no use in allowing the slaughter of his
squad.

Scowling, the lieutenant lowered his revolver and stepped out into the middle of the street. His move was
an order for his men to spread away and let the armed men from the hotel make a calm departure.

It was not until he had detached himself from his squad, that Maclare realized another purpose behind the
ambush. Hardly was the lieutenant standing entirely alone before a rasped voice called from a low roof
top:

"Get Maclare!"

One man alone was marked to die; that was Maclare himself. Crooks wanted the raiding lieutenant dead;
they were contemptuous of the policemen who formed the squad. Maclare, by his own action, had
placed himself in the very spot that his enemies wanted.

Bluecoats, like crooks, heard the death order. The cry electrified them. They responded more quickly
than the gloating thugs. They were loyal to Maclare; the danger that threatened him was to be theirs.
Almost as one, the policemen raised their guns. Some aimed blindly for the coal yards, along with
Maclare; others wheeled about, to fire at men whom they could see. Their targets were the massed thugs
on the steps.

The scene was set for massacre. The street looked like the stage of a theater, beneath the glare of a
spotlight. All eyes were focused upon Maclare, with the bluecoats clustering about him. The patrol
wagons, standing deserted on either side, were like the wings of the stage. All was dim beyond those
vehicles.

DURING these tense moments, an event had occurred offstage. Unseen, a figure had come up to the far
side of a patrol wagon, almost beneath the shelter of a coal yard fence. Like an actor expecting his cue,
this silent arrival had risen on the running board of a black Maria. His head and shoulders projected
above the wagon top, where they were outlined dimly by the fringe of a searchlight's path.
That head was topped by a slouch hat. The shoulders were shrouded by a black cloak. Two
black-gloved fists projected from the cloak; each gripped the heavy handle of a .45 automatic. Those
guns were leveled at the instant the hidden crook shouted the word to get Maclare.

As policemen leaped to Maclare's side, ready to die with their leader, that strange marksman loosed the
fire of one gun from atop the black Maria. His target was a large one; he picked the glass front of a
blazing searchlight. As his trigger finger tugged, a bullet ripped to its mark. The searchlight vanished with
a clatter of glass.

Crooks gazed toward the patrol wagon. They saw no one, for the marksman had picked the nearer
searchlight and was no longer in the edge of the glare. But mobsters saw the next token that came from
the blotted wagon top. It was another stab of flame, loosed from the second automatic.

Another crash marked the finish of the second searchlight. The street looked black; feeble lamplights and
illumination from the hotel were pitiful at best. They were completely inadequate as an aftermath to the
glare that had been so promptly extinguished.

From the sheltering patrol wagon came a sudden sound that belonged with darkness. It was the strident
burst of a sinister, mocking laugh, that brought alarm to every thug who was straining his eyes to offset
the gloom.

Men of crime knew that taunt. It was the laugh of The Shadow!

Black-clad master who battled evil, The Shadow was here in Westford, covering the very spot where
slaughter had been ordered. His first coup had been to deprive crooks of their most important weapons:
those searchlights on the coal yard roofs. With two strategic shots, The Shadow had equalized the
battleground.

True, crooks outnumbered Maclare and his squad; they also had machine guns in readiness. But the law
had gained an ally whose strength could offset a score of foemen. The Shadow was on hand, prepared
for instant battle.

Again, the automatics spoke. From his vantage point, The Shadow fired along the fence top. Lieutenant
Maclare shouted an order. Policemen dived everywhere, firing as they took to cover. Revolvers spat
from the coal yard; machine guns began a hasty rattle. Thugs at the doorways of the Mississippi Hotel
came leaping down the steps, cutting loose with their revolvers.

Those mobsters in ambush fired for the area where Maclare and his men had clustered. They fired
uselessly, for the police had spread. Those coming from the hotel sizzled futile shots in the direction of the
patrol wagon. They, too, were late. The Shadow had sprung to the fence; come up to the top and
slugged down a lone thug who was stationed on the flank.

All that carried menace were the machine guns, for they began to spray their fire. There were two of
them, clicking like typewriters from a roof top midway along the fence. One rattling weapon ceased, as
The Shadow blasted a fusillade at the gunners behind it. He had picked them by the spurting fire.

CROOKS fired for The Shadow; but their shots were wide. He had come up to a roof top; there, he
ripped another barrage, that settled the men who handled the second machine gun. Both weapons were
silenced; everywhere, crooks were springing to the ground, to avoid the enfolding fire that The Shadow
had begun.

By outflanking the foe, The Shadow had routed all but a few; they were the ones upon the very roof top
where he had so suddenly arrived.
Three in number, those crooks leaped forward with swinging revolvers, hoping to beat down the fighter
whose shape was vague before their eyes. An automatic thudded against a skull; the other .45 spat its
singeing flame between the eyes of an attacker. The third crook dived for the ground as his companions
sprawled.

Meanwhile, Maclare and his squad had done gallant duty. Flattened in the street, some had aimed for the
fence and roof tops, while others had delivered quick fire toward the open doors of the hotel. This choice
had been a smart one; the officers who took it gained massed targets. Thugs who had wasted opening
shots at the patrol wagon were caught against the framed light of doorways. Four sagged in quick
succession.

Scattering crooks had paused to aim for the low roof where The Shadow had handled three foemen.
They blazed for that darkened spot, again to no avail. The Shadow had dropped from the back of the
roof; he was crossing the tracks of the railroad yard. His quick shots clipped two marksmen who were
firing at the roof.

A hoarse voice shouted from between two buildings. It was the same leader who had issued the
command to get Maclare. His new order was a command for flight. All thugs who were able, dashed for
the street, crossed it and made off through alleys toward the front. Others sprang back into the hotel.

Lieutenant Maclare shouted for pursuit. Two of his eight men had fallen in the fight; leaving a pair to care
for them, Maclare headed through the hotel, followed by the remaining four.

Inside, thugs were making for the front; Cassley and his detail let them go through. Loud-whining sirens
were announcing the arrival of the Flying Squadron.

Crooks should have found a new trap; but when Lieutenant Maclare reached the front door of the hotel,
he witnessed a wild get-away. The Flying Squadron, a score of men in pursuit cars and on motorcycles
were coming in from the left. Scattered crooks had converged to the right; there they were boarding an
assortment of automobiles that were parked beside an old brewery.

As the Flying Squadron pulled up, Maclare bellowed the news and pointed past the brewery. Promptly,
the picked squadron took up the chase.

The brief delay had served the crooks. Cutting through to another street, a dozen of them made a
get-away, in three cars that contained four men each. The three automobiles took different routes within
the next few blocks, to split the pursuing squadron. Maclare, fuming at the door of the raided hotel, heard
the sirens fade in the dim distance.

THERE was a fourth car that had fled; it had taken a route of its own. Rounding the brewery, this
machine had followed a street that led across the railroad tracks, a block away from the Mississippi
Hotel. Swinging past a freight siding, the crooks - three in number - were greeted by shots from the
shelter of a steel freight car.

Wildly, they fired in return. Their bullets flattened on the steel wall of the freight car. The driver, clipped
by a slug from darkness, lost control and swung from the crossing. His sedan jolted down a low
embankment, slewed sidewise and crashed against a signal tower.

There was no stir within the car, when it halted. Distant policemen heard the crash. Footsteps racing
upon sidewalks told that they were coming to witness the result. One car-load of fugitives had been
bagged, even though the other three had outraced the Flying Squadron.

Blackness moved from beside the freight car. The purple light of a switch signal glowed upward to show
a shrouded form, tall in its guise of black. Gloved hands dipped mammoth automatics beneath the front of
a flowing cloak. Unseen lips voiced a grim laugh from the muffling front of an upturned collar.

Weird, chilling tones betokened the final stroke of the night's victory. The sardonic mirth faded, as the
cloaked figure passed from the purplish glow. The battle was ended; The Shadow had left the field to the
law.

OUT of darkness, The Shadow had arrived to deal with crime in Westford. Into gloom, he had returned
- after his efforts had saved the life of Lieutenant Maclare and a squad of officers. Yet the chill of his
eerie laugh seemed to hover; for that spectral tone had carried a touch that seemed to concern the
future.

Like Lieutenant Maclare, The Shadow had recognized the significance of tonight's episode. Fierce though
the fray had been, it scarcely scratched the surface of the evil that lurked deep within this prosperous
city.

Crime and death would be due again in Westford. Here, evil was organized far beyond the extent that
Lieutenant Maclare had guessed. There would be need for more and greater effort before crime and
corruption could be banished.

The Shadow knew those facts. His appearance in tonight's battle was but proof that he had long been
present in Westford, investigating the iniquity which held the city in its grip.

                         CHAPTER III. BEHIND THE SCENES
HALF an hour after the raid on the Mississippi Hotel, Lieutenant James Maclare arrived back at the first
precinct station. Muffled oaths and dull clatter greeted Maclare when he crossed the patrol room. The
sounds came from the cell room, where policemen had housed an assortment of hoodlums unloaded from
the patrol wagons.

There had been many captures following the raid. Cornered riffraff had thrown away their guns, to
surrender, denying that they had carried weapons. Practically all of these were men who had been inside
the hotel at the beginning of the raid.

Lieutenant Maclare felt pleased as he took a seat at his desk and began to prepare a report. Armed
resistance had made the case against the prisoners a stronger one. Maclare could see jail terms awaiting
many of the participants. Maclare's pleasure increased, when Sergeant Cassley knocked at the door to
announce a visitor. The arrival was none other than Kirk Borman, the police director.

Maclare was on his feet when Borman entered. Tall, heavy of build, the police director was as much a
fighter as Maclare. Borman's face was sharp-featured; his lips showed a broad smile between his hooked
nose and his pointed chin. Advancing to Maclare's desk, Borman thrust a congratulating hand across the
top, to grip Maclare's hand in a solid shake.

"Fine work, Jim," commended Borman, in a short-clipped tone. "You cleaned out a nest of bad eggs.
Carry on with it. Go after the gilt-edged places in this precinct."

"You mean the Club Adair?" queried Maclare. "That's one place I'd like to get, Kirk. Lance Gillick has a
gambling joint somewhere in back of that fancy night club front."

"Go after it, tomorrow night," ordered Borman. "Telephone me first, though. I have two headquarters
men watching things over there. I'm going to drop in there this evening and look the place over for
myself."
"Lance Gillick will probably see you," remarked Maclare. "If he does, he'll pass you a lot of smooth
talk."

"All the better," decided Borman. "If he thinks I'm the man he has to deal with, he won't be expecting you
tomorrow."

Kirk Borman clapped his hand upon Lieutenant Maclare's shoulder; then turned about and strode from
the office. Policemen saluted, as the director passed through the patrol room. Outside the station house,
Borman stepped aboard an official limousine and told the chauffeur to take him to the Club Adair.

LOCATED just within the limits of the first precinct, the Club Adair fronted on one of Westford's main
streets. The club itself was on the second floor, over a row of shops.

Alighting from his car, Kirk Borman entered a pretentious doorway and ascended a broad flight of
thick-carpeted stairs. At the top, he left his hat and coat at a check room. Attired in tuxedo, the police
director entered a glittering night club, where tobacco smoke clouded a thick throng of dancers who
occupied the center of the floor.

An orchestra was producing strident music. Buzzed conversation, bursts of laughter sounded
everywhere. The place was doing capacity business; a bowing head waiter was apologetic when he
ushered the police director to an obscure table, behind a pillar. It was one of the few tables that remained
vacant.

A heavy-jowled man spied Borman immediately and came over to the director's table. He was one of the
headquarters men; he reported in an undertone:

"They've been going through that door over there, a lot of em. Looks like the gambling joint's on the
other side -"

Borman whispered an interruption. The headquarters man silenced as the head waiter approached the
table. Directly behind the head waiter came a man in full evening clothes. The arrival was Lance Gillick.

The night club proprietor was tall and long-limbed. His manner was polished; his speech was suave. His
features were handsome, despite their sallowness. His wavy black hair, his pointed mustache gave him a
debonair air.

"Good evening, Director Borman," greeted Gillick, with a bow. "It is not often that I have the pleasure of
meeting you here. I somewhat expected your arrival tonight" - Lance smiled, as he looked in the direction
of the headquarters man - "because I saw two of your advance agents. This gentleman and the other,
over by the wall."

Borman turned to the headquarters man.

"Go over there, Thompson," he ordered, "and bring Rhine here. I want both of you to come along with
me."

Lance Gillick arched his clipped eyebrows, as he heard Borman give the order. When the two
headquarters men arrived at the table, Borman snapped brisk words to Lance:

"We're going through that far door, Gillick! You can conduct us there!"

"With pleasure," said Lance, with a bow. "Come at once, director."

LANCE led the way to the door in question. He rapped a signal; the door opened. Borman and his men
followed through into a large room, where some twenty people were seated at tables, laughing as they
chatted and drank. All were well attired; the men in evening clothes, the women in evening gowns.

The room, itself, was magnificent. Its walls were adorned with huge oil paintings; the windows were
covered by expensive velvet draperies. Lance conducted Borman and the others to a far door; he
opened it, to show a small office with oak furniture and paneled walls to match.

"My private office," explained Lance. "The large room through which we came is simply an exclusive
dining room for my more important guests."

"It passes muster," decided Borman. Then, eyeing the office: "I suppose you are very careful in your
bookkeeping, Gillick?"

"I am," replied Lance, smoothly. "Perhaps you would like to see my books?"

"I would."

"Step into the office, director."

Borman hesitated; then turned to the headquarters men, with an order:

"Go back to the night club proper. Take my table. I'll join you there."

Thompson and Rhine departed, out through the door by which they had entered. Lance Gillick ushered
Kirk Borman into the oak-paneled office. Closing the door, the night club proprietor grinned. He pressed
a wall panel; it slid open, to reveal a darkened passage.

"Step in there, Kirk," chuckled Lance. "Take a look through the back of the big painting on the far wall."

Smiling, Borman followed directions. Looking through a peek hole, the director saw a quick
transformation in progress.

Waiters were lifting the top of a huge buffet; as they rolled the bulky object forward, its sides fell away
and it became a roulette table. Small tables were pushed in line; their covers whipped away. They
produced the green board upon which players could place their bets.

Other waiters were bringing boxes loaded with playing chips, serving them to guests in return for credit
slips. The chips began to click; a waiter took charge of the wheel and it began its spin. Director Borman
stepped back into Lance Gillick's office. Lance closed the panel.

"They think it's hot," laughed Lance. "As soon as you're ready to go out, they'll see the lights blink. It will
just be tables and drinks again, when you go through. A great set-up, eh, Kirk?"

KIRK BORMAN nodded. Lance caught a troubled look on the director's face. Quickly, Lance
questioned:

"Something went sour tonight?"

Borman nodded.

"What was it?" quizzed Lance. "Didn't they rub out Maclare?"

"Maclare made a clean-up," answered Borman. "He and his squad bumped off more than half dozen of
the mob. About the same number went to the hospital. Maclare hauled in pretty near twenty of the bunch
that were in the Mississippi Hotel."
Lance glared sourly. "I can't figure why that outfit didn't get Maclare. As soon as you gave me the tip-off,
Kirk, I phoned Beezer Dorsch and told him to be on the job. Beezer should have gotten Maclare."

"Smart work, using Beezer," commended Borman. "He's the one real mobster in town who's supposed
to be at odds with you."

"Sure!" Lance laughed as he spoke. "That covers me perfect, in case Beezer gets recognized! Say, have
you seen Maclare since the raid?"

Borman smiled; then nodded.

"I told him to blow in here tomorrow night," informed the director. "When he and his squad find nothing,
they'll owe you an apology, Lance. Only, be ready to duck the roulette layout so deep that they'll never
find it."

"I won't run the gambling joint tomorrow," stated Lance. "I'll tell the customers to stay away, on account
of you being here tonight. Maclare and his crew of flatfeet won't even find a gambling chip. All the stuff
will be out of the place."

Lance sat down at his desk, brought out a box of expensive cigars. Borman helped himself to one of the
perfectos. Lance lighted up also.

"Let's forget Maclare," decided Borman. "There's something bigger to think about. We've got to worry
about Prescott Dunson. If he runs for district attorney, we'll have a tough guy to deal with."

"Then it's up to Stephen Ruthley," decided Lance. "As the big reform champion of Westford, he can find
fault with Dunson. No one has even guessed that you and I are working together; that Mayor Marclot is
also with us. So how can they ever figure that Stephen Ruthley, the big philanthropist and reformer, is the
man we all take orders from?"

KIRK BORMAN shook his head.

"A lot of reformers like Prescott Dunson," he said. "Therefore, Ruthley can't move against him. Ruthley
has to put up a bigger front than the rest of us. There's only one thing to do, Lance. Bump Dunson!"

"My specialty" laughed Lance. "Tip me off to where Dunson is. I'll do the rest. Say, though" - he stroked
his chin ruefully - "I wish I'd kept Trig Callister here."

"Who is Trig Callister?"

"A bird who was here to see me last night. He's a one-man arsenal, that guy. Packs a couple of gats and
knows how to use them. I let Trig go back to New York. I'll get hold of him again, though, before next
week."

"We won't have to rub out Dunson before then. It will take a while to find him, too. You're right, though,
Kirk. We've got to put Dunson on the spot. With him out, there'll be no opposition to Louis Wilderton
running for re-election."

Borman chuckled at Lance's reference to Wilderton, the man who was, at present, district attorney.

"Wilderton is a babe in the woods," laughed the police director. "Any smart lawyer can tangle him into
knots. But Wilderton means well."

"It also makes it easy for us," concluded Borman. "Wilderton is under Ruthley's thumb. Comes running to
him for an opinion on everything. Like a kid visiting a department store Santa Claus, around Christmas
time."

With this comment, Borman arose, as indication that he was ready to leave. Lance reached beneath his
desk and pressed a hidden button, to blink the lights in the gaming room. Rising, he walked to the door
with Borman, and stopped there for a few moments.

"Wait until they've had time to cover the wheel," reminded Lance. "Then put on your act when we go
through the room. Don't forget about Prescott Dunson. Tip me off when you've located him."

"I'll have every copper in town on the lookout," returned Borman. "When I give the order, I'll state that
it's for Dunson's own protection."

IN his office, the big-shot gambler grinned, as he took a long puff from his perfecto. Leagued with Mayor
Elvin Marclot and Police Director Borman, Lance had little to fear from the law. Moreover, he knew that
he could rely upon a leader more powerful than either of those two; namely, Stephen Ruthley, Westford's
champion of reform.

The future looked rosy to Lance Gillick, despite the fact that crooks had failed tonight in their effort to
slay Lieutenant James Maclare.

Lance Gillick had not yet learned that The Shadow's hand had been responsible for crime's failure.

                             CHAPTER IV. INTO THE SNARE
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since Westford had been stirred by the law's combat with crime.
Lieutenant James Maclare had been heroized for his raid on the Mississippi Hotel. Westford's chief
newspaper, the Daily Banner, had been loud in its acclaim. A great quiet had settled upon the city, as an
aftermath to Maclare's exploit.

The newspaper headlines were of huge interest to a man in shirt sleeves, who sat in an easy chair,
surrounded by the quiet of a modest parlor. The house which contained this room was a small suburban
home in one of Westford's residential districts; but the man, himself, looked out of place in such an
ordinary room.

His bulky frame; his huge, bulging forehead, denoted him as a man of action. His bushy eyebrows, with
flashing eyes beneath, showed that he was tired of seclusion. This man was Prescott Dunson, long known
as a challenger among political circles.

Across from Dunson sat a weary-faced, middle-aged woman, busy with her knitting. She looked up as
she heard Dunson grumble aloud. She shook her head and sighed. Dunson mopped his huge forehead
and smiled indulgently.

"It's too bad, Martha," he declared, in a booming tone, "that you had to marry a man who went in for
politics; particularly in this rotten town. But I am determined to go through with what I started. I intend to
be the next district attorney of this county. And Westford is nearly all the county."

"Is it worth the risk, Prescott?" inquired the woman.

"Yes! Westford is in the hands of rogues!" boomed Dunson. "Mayor Marclot is a smug pretender!
Director Borman is a traitor, in league with criminals! I can prove those facts, Martha! And I have a
suspicion there's a big-shot above them all!"

Dunson's wife stared, amazed.
"As for Louis Wilderton," added Dunson, "he is a know-nothing. A puppet, acting as district attorney.
What chance is there for justice, while he holds office?"

"I can't believe all that, Prescott," protested Mrs. Dunson. "It sounds incredible! If I won't believe it, how
can others? They will say that you are a fanatic; they will laugh at your assertions."

Dunson thrust a big hand into his coat pocket; drew out a folded letter and held it aloft in his right band.

"This came from a man who knows the truth," he announced. "A man whom I have never met; but who
told me enough in his previous letters. He signs himself Theo D. Shaw; he has not only promised me
more facts, he has offered to take me to a place of absolute security. With his aid, I can lift the lid. I can
not only tell the truth; I can prove it."

STOOPING, Dunson picked up the newspaper that he had dropped. He opened it to the editorial page;
pointed to a paragraph.

"Look, Martha," he said. "Already, they state that they expect to hear from Prescott Dunson; that I have
promised to throw light on hidden corruption; to name men who have bled this city. When I officially and
publicly announce myself as candidate for district attorney, I shall wither the rogues whose names I
mention. I shall -"

Dunson broke off. A telephone bell was ringing in the hall. With a nod to his wife, Dunson lowered his
tone and ordered:

"Answer it."

The woman laid aside her knitting; she went to the telephone, held a brief conversation. She came back
into the room, to whisper:

"Someone wishes to speak to you, Prescott. He says that his name is Shaw."

Dunson bounded across the room. In the hall, he seized up the telephone, began a quick conversation.

"Yes, yes..." Mrs. Dunson heard all that her husband said. "Of course, Mr. Shaw... I knew that you
would learn where I was living... Yes, I have my car here... The garage..? Right in back of the house...
Certainly. I understand.

"Twenty minutes..." Dunson nodded as he spoke. "Yes, I can make it in that time... Parking lot beside the
Majestic Hotel... Up through the fire tower... Room 304... Very well, Mr. Shaw. I shall be there within a
half hour."

Hanging up the receiver, Dunson came into the parlor. He told his wife the import of the call.

"Shaw wants me to meet him at the Majestic Hotel. I'm going straight up to his room. Pack my bag at
once, Martha."

"Is it safe, Prescott?"

"Absolutely! I am to park my car by the side of the hotel, in that parking space that we've used so often.
I'll go in by the side door; up the fire tower to Shaw's room. I'll call you, after I have talked with him."

Donning coat and vest, Dunson clapped a battered hat upon his head. He went out through the kitchen,
while Mrs. Dunson started upstairs to pack the suitcase.

Five minutes later, Mrs. Dunson arrived downstairs, carrying a light bag. She heard the kitchen door
slam; Dunson arrived, fuming incoherently. Taking the bag, he explained the reason for his annoyance.

"The battery is dead," he told his wife. "I'll take the trolley into town."

"Didn't Mr. Shaw tell you to drive in your car?"

"Yes. Probably, because I said that I had one available."

"Perhaps you should call him at the hotel."

"No. That would be unnecessary."

Kissing his wife good-by, Dunson stepped toward the door. He paused long enough to add a last
assurance.

"The trolley stop is only one block from the Majestic Hotel," reminded Dunson. "That block is a quiet
one. I can walk along the left side of the street, in front of Judge Benbrook's old house. Then I get past
there, I can cross over to the parking lot, and enter the hotel as Shaw suggested."

LEAVING, the house, Dunson took to a secluded sidewalk. The suburban street was deserted; Dunson
felt secure as he paced in the direction of the car line. He reached the car stop; stood under the darkened
shelter of a large tree. In a few minutes, a jouncy trolley car came along the street. Dunson stepped into
the glow of its headlight and halted it.

There were only five passengers on the trolley car. None noted Dunson particularly. Setting his bag on
the seat beside him, Dunson shoved his hat back from his bulgy forehead and stared from the window as
the car rolled along.

After a few blocks, the car halted. A policeman stepped aboard the back platform, grunted a "hello" to
the conductor. The car started on; the officer remained on the rear platform. The trolley had traveled
another block before he happened to glance in through the door.

"Say!" exclaimed the bluecoat, to the conductor. "Isn't that Prescott Dunson, the fellow that's going to run
for district attorney?"

"Guess it is," rejoined the conductor, peering through the door. "Looks like the pictures I've seen of
him."

The cop whistled.

"We got orders tonight to watch for him," he informed. "On account of that battle last night, the police
director's taking no chances. Guess he figures there'll be crooks looking for Dunson. Ring for a stop at
the next corner. I'd better put in a call to the precinct."

"Want me to hold the car for you?"

"Naw! I'll take the next one. I wasn't told to go along with Dunson. Orders were to report if I saw him."

The conductor signaled the motor-man. The trolley stopped long enough for the policeman to drop off;
then resumed its jerky course. Coming into the heart of the city, it was halted frequently by traffic lights;
but took on few passengers.

After ten minutes, the trolley neared the corner where Dunson intended to get off. The conductor, staring
toward the street, noted that a touring car was loitering along beside the trolley; but he quickly forgot the
fact. The trolley swung into a one-way street; Dunson arose and pressed a button. When the car
stopped, the big man alighted at his corner.

DUNSON'S first move was to cross the street. This brought him to the left side of a short block. To his
left was the looming bulk of an old-fashioned mansion, the residence of Judge Martin Benbrook, who
was long retired from the bench. There were two gates in the iron picket fence that ran in front of the old
house. One offered access to the front door; the other led to a side passage that ran to the rear of the
house.

Just past Judge Benbrook's home, the remaining half of the block was composed of buildings with lighted
fronts. Across from them was the Majestic Hotel, on the right side of the street. Nestled against the hotel
were parked cars, scarcely discernible in the darkness of the parking lot.

Dunson strolled along at leisurely gait; he saw that he could easily cross the street unnoticed, after he had
passed Judge Benbrook's.

It was when Dunson neared the second gate, that the first token of danger came. A touring car had
swung the corner which the trolley had left. Its lights flashed suddenly from dim to bright. Dunson's
walking figure was outlined in their glare. For an instant, the big man paused, hoping, the lights would
swing away. They did, but in their place came the vivid glow of a spotlight.

Prescott Dunson was caught in full view, turned half toward the side gate in the picket fence. He was
clutching his suitcase, blinking into the brilliance that had so plainly revealed him. To his startled ears
came the sound of a rasped command, that delivered two words only:

"Give it!"

The suitcase dropped from Dunson's shaky hands. In that tense instant, the doomed man realized that he
was on the spot.

Prescott Dunson had walked into the snare of death.

                            CHAPTER V. DEATH DELIVERED
OTHER eyes than Dunson's had seen the sudden glare of the revealing spotlight. They were eyes that
were not blinded by the unexpected brilliance. Across the street, but beyond the spot where Dunson
stood, a lurking figure was watching from the shelter of cars stationed in the parking lot.

To that observer, the spotlight told its story. He saw the helpless man caught in the path of light. With a
quick spring, this watcher came from his place of security. Street lights showed him as a shrouded shape.
The Shadow was again on hand to offset crime.

Before thugs could obey the command of their leader, The Shadow's fists came up. With quick fingers,
he pulled the triggers of automatics; dispatched whining bullets straight for the death car that lay almost
between him and Prescott Dunson. Cries came from the slowly moving touring car. The Shadow had
scored hits upon human targets.

Those shots saved Dunson for the moment. They gave the doomed man a needed opportunity. Close
beside Dunson was the gate to the side passage that led beyond Judge Benbrook's house. Had Dunson
dropped his suitcase and pressed through the gate, he could have gained the shelter that would save him.

Instead, Dunson stood rooted. He seemed hypnotized by the light that blinded him. The death car
veered, to escape The Shadow's bombardment. While the automatics still tongued, a clatter began from
within the touring car. One crouching machine gunner had lain below The Shadow's fire, was pushing the
muzzle of the death gun through the opening of a half-opened door, on Dunson's side of the street. That
killer profited by Dunson's lack of motion. He let the doomed man have it.

The touring car sped forward, while bullets still streamed from its side. The driver was low behind the
wheel; the machine gunner was crouched on the rear floor. Others were hanging from the side of the car
while it ran the gantlet of The Shadow's fire. One in the front seat, the other in the rear, two thugs had
stopped the bullets that had entered the right side of the car.

The Shadow boomed last shots at the driver. They failed to get him; for the rolling form of an intervening
thug shielded the man at the wheel. As the touring car wheeled leftward to the main street, The Shadow
put a bullet through the gasoline tank; but the automobile kept onward and disappeared from view.

THE SHADOW started across the street, to the darkness where Dunson's body lay. Before he arrived,
he heard light, quick footsteps. As he came up in the darkness, he found a girl bending over the
bullet-riddled man. The Shadow saw a white face in the darkness, as the girl listened to Dunson s last
words.

"Tell - tell Shaw!" gasped Dunson. "I should - should have done as he - he said -"

The sentence ended with a sigh. Prescott Dunson was dead.

Bravely, the girl raised the man's head; felt it drop back from her grasp. At that instant, she sensed that
someone was beside her. Looking up, the girl viewed a blackened figure almost at her elbow. She saw
the burn of steady eyes. Frightened, bewildered, she tried to scream an accusation.

"You - you killed him!"

An approaching car had swung the corner. The Shadow saw it across the girl's shoulder. He knew that it
was bringing a second crew of gunmen. Shoving one gun beneath his cloak, he seized the girl about the
shoulders. Hurling his full weight against the gate, he rammed it open; then launched the struggling girl
along the passage beside the house.

The Shadow performed this action with a complete spin that brought him again facing the street, a ready
gun in hand. He had whirled the girl more than a dozen feet away; she was in a spot of safety. New battle
was due; the click of an automobile spotlight foretold it. Standing at the gate, The Shadow was fully
revealed by a stream of light.

Though spotted as Dunson had been, The Shadow was prepared. His laugh sounded its fierce challenge.
Standing above the body of the murdered man, The Shadow loosed quick bullets from his single .45;
though few, those shots were perfect. This time, The Shadow had the range he wanted.

His first bullet was straight for the rear door of the car. That door, like the previous one, was partly
opened. The Shadow dropped the man who was behind it. His second bullet stabbed the spotlight,
finishing its glare. As the driver gave the car the gas, The Shadow ripped a final bullet for the steering
wheel. A cry told that he had clipped the hoodlum at the wheel.

The car zigzagged wildly. An unwounded thug managed to control it and yank it into the parking lot,
where it sped through a path between parked cars.

The Shadow whipped forth the gun that he had stowed away; but he did not aim toward the car that had
fled. He had a new target; this was a sedan that swung in from the other direction.

COMING from the main street, the sedan was plain against the lighted front of the Majestic Hotel. The
Shadow saw a gun muzzle thrust from a rear window; he blasted away before the driver was ready to
turn on a spotlight. Bullets that spat from darkness were too much for this crew. The driver wheeled the
sedan to the left; took the route that the second car had followed, through the parking space.

Before The Shadow could make another move, he heard the whine of sirens. They came from both
directions. The Flying Squadron was coming to the scene of battle. To others, that arrival signified the
law. To The Shadow, it meant something else.

The Shadow knew the extent of crime in Westford; he knew that the Flying Squadron was a bluff.
Crooks would make their get-away amid wild pursuit; the squadron would gain credit for prompt action.
That was exactly what had happened last night, after Lieutenant Maclare's raid.

The Shadow knew more. He had guessed the personnel of the picked men who formed the Flying
Squadron. He knew that they were as dangerous as crooks; otherwise, they would not be party to the
fake pursuit that they so often staged.

Because of that, The Shadow saw danger in his own position. His guns were empty; he would have no
chance to battle uniformed men who merely pretended to uphold the law. They, however, would be
pleased at the opportunity to drill The Shadow.

Already, cars and motorcycles were swinging into view, converging toward the very spot where The
Shadow stood; a fact that signified that they knew where to find Dunson's body. The Shadow had one
lone path to safety. That was the passage past Judge Benbrook's house, the route along which he had
sent the girl.

Turning, The Shadow swiftly entered the passage, swinging the gate shut behind him. Hardly had he
started through the darkened space before he heard a siren stopping on the rear street. One of the Flying
Squadron's cars had arrived there; Borman's men were coming through from the back.

Quickly, The Shadow swung into the shelter of an alcove at the side of the house. He stumbled a short
flight of steps; as he caught himself against the wall, he heard a whispered voice just above his head. The
voice gave question:

"You - you're safe?"

It was the girl who spoke. She had taken this shelter ahead of The Shadow. She had guessed that the
person stumbling in darkness was the one who had saved her from death. The Shadow gave quiet
response.

"I am safe," he whispered. "Remain silent until everyone has gone."

"I have my key," began the girl. "If I could only unlock this door -"

Almost instantly, The Shadow blinked a tiny flashlight. By the glow, he saw the key that the girl was
holding; her hand was shaking as she tried to fit it into a door. Quickly, The Shadow plucked the key
with gloved fingers. He found the lock; opened the door and thrust the girl inward.

Following, The Shadow closed the door behind him, inserted the key from the inside and turned the
lock.

LOOKING about, The Shadow found himself in an entry that led to a dimly lighted hall. The girl had
gone through; she was staring back, trying to discern the man who had so promptly aided her with the
door.

The Shadow stepped forward into the light. The girl gasped, as she saw his weird, cloaked figure. She
silenced, as The Shadow gave a whisper. Fascinated, the girl met the gleam of The Shadow's burning
eyes. She heard him speak; not a question, but a statement.

"You are Judge Benbrook's daughter?"

The girl nodded.

"Estelle Benbrook," stated The Shadow. "I have heard of you."

Though more amazed than ever, Estelle Benbrook found her voice. She thanked her rescuer.

"You saved my life," declared the girl. "You have my gratitude! But - but -"

The Shadow waited for the girl to continue. Estelle finally expressed her thoughts.

"But the police are now outside!" blurted the girl. "Why did we need to avoid them?"

"They are as dangerous as the others," replied The Shadow, calmly. "Criminals were ready to eliminate
all who saw Prescott Dunson die. These police would willingly do the same."

Estelle Benbrook continued to watch The Shadow's eyes. When the girl spoke, her tone was, one of
conviction.

"I believe you," she declared, firmly. "I recognized Prescott Dunson, when I saw his body. My father has
said that matters were wrong in Westford; but I have never repeated his statements. He is an old man; his
mind seems tired. Yet I have known that he speaks the truth."

The girl paused; then added:

"I have never spoken this before; not even to Louis Wilderton. He would not believe me. He thinks that
all is well in Westford. If Louis could only understand -"

"He will learn," interposed The Shadow, quietly, "when the right time arrives. Until then, you must remain
silent."

"I promise," declared Estelle. "I shall say nothing of what I saw tonight. Terrible though it was, it has given
me courage."

The Shadow stepped back into the passage. He listened at the side door; he heard the shuffle of
departing feet. The members of the Flying Squadron had completed their search in the passage beside
the house. They had gone forward to join the ones at the front.

The Shadow turned the key in the lock: Estelle saw the motion of his hand as she joined him in the
passage. Anxiously, the girl queried:

"Are you sure that the way is safe?"

The Shadow's response was a whispered laugh; mirthless, it was scarcely audible in the darkness. It
betokened ill for any who might block his path.

Estelle, as witness of The Shadow's mighty battle, understood the grim significance. As The Shadow
drew the door inward, Estelle reached forward; she found the key and plucked it from the lock.

"Take this key," pleaded the girl "I have another. Sometime, you may wish to return. Perhaps - perhaps
there may be new danger, greater than that which you faced tonight."
Gloved fingers grasped the key. Estelle released it. She sensed that The Shadow had moved outward;
but she expected him to speak again. It was not until half a minute later that she realized that The Shadow
had departed. Silently, he had closed the door behind him. Estelle Benbrook stood alone.

SLOWLY, the girl went through the lighted hall. She reached a front room and turned on a desk lamp.
The glow showed her well-formed face, attractive despite the paleness which dominated it. The darkness
of her hair made her pallor seem more evident; for Estelle Benbrook was a pronounced brunette.

The girl had steadied since her ordeal. Her hand had no tremble, as it found another key in the desk.
Steadily, Estelle returned to the side door and inserted the key. She found the door locked. The Shadow
had silently attended to that detail from outside. Estelle managed a slight laugh, as she went into the hall
and placed the key in her hand bag.

A puzzled frown appeared upon her forehead. She would have liked to have learned more concerning
this mysterious stranger from the night. She recalled rumors that she had heard this very day, concerning
the raid made last night, by Lieutenant Maclare. There was talk of persons unknown, who had sided with
the law.

Estelle believed that rumor; but she was convinced that one fighter, not a group, had been responsible for
the aid that Maclare had received. Estelle could form that opinion from her own observation. She was
still overwhelmed with admiration for The Shadow's prowess in tonight's battle.

As she closed the hand bag, Estelle smiled. After all, The Shadow had taken the key that she had
offered. That seemed more than courtesy. Sometime - soon, she hoped - the black-clad stranger might
return.

In her thoughts, Estelle pictured this house as a real haven in the heart of Westford, should The Shadow
need the refuge that it could afford. Such need seemed likely to Estelle, when she considered the odds
that this lone fighter faced. Circumstances could arise to make The Shadow's return imperative.

Though Estelle Benbrook did not guess it, such circumstances were already in the making.

                           CHAPTER VI. CROOKS CONNIVE
NOT far from the center of Westford stood a large apartment house that fronted on a boulevard. This
new and pretentious edifice had supplanted part of a row of old brick houses. The remnants of the row
began at the side of the apartment house and continued to a corner. Deserted and dilapidated, they were
ready for demolition.

The front windows on the second floor of the apartment house were heavily curtained, all in the same
style. They gave the impression that they belonged to one apartment, which they did. That apartment was
the residence of Stephen Ruthley, the wealthiest man in Westford.

Ruthley called the apartment his town home; and he considered an entire floor necessary for comfort,
although his family seldom occupied the apartment with him. They preferred a country house, some miles
from Westford. They lived there during the short intervals when they came home from Newport, Florida,
or Europe.

Hence, Stephen Ruthley lived alone, except for a retinue of servants; and he liked this second floor
apartment near the heart of Westford.

Recognized as the city's most prominent citizen, Ruthley enjoyed his prestige. He gained acclaim for his
philanthropies and his constant stand for reform. His real pleasure, however, lay in the fact that never a
whisper had passed concerning his actual capacity. None but his most trusted lieutenants knew that
Stephen Ruthley was the real political boss of Westford.

Beginning with half a million dollars gained from honest enterprise, Ruthley had increased his fortune to
ten times that amount by backing graft and crime. He had covered this procedure by expanding his
legitimate businesses and making them look prosperous, though they cost him more than he gained.
Ruthley considered this essential. As overlord of Westford, he maintained his security by keeping his real
activities unknown.

There were two reasons why none of Ruthley's associates had ever dared to expose his game. First,
because no one would have believed them; second because they were in too deep. Ruthley took care of
his tools; saw to it that they gained their share of the spoils. That kept them satisfied, and maintained their
loyalty to their evil chief.

ON this night, soon after The Shadow had rescued Estelle Benbrook, Stephen Ruthley had a visitor. The
caller was a stuffed-shirt henchman, who was at present Ruthley's most useful figurehead. He was Elvin
Marclot, mayor of Westford, whom Ruthley had carried into office on a sweeping wave of so-called
reform.

The pair were seated in Ruthley's den, a room that had windows only at the front, for it was the side of
the apartment that was buttressed by the side wall of the first house in the row.

Ruthley's den was a cross between an office and a clubroom. It had a desk in the corner, along with a
filing cabinet. Except for those articles of office equipment, it was furnished with deep-cushioned chairs
and couches, thick rugs, ornate tables.

The side wall showed a pair of large bookcases, set apart; between them was a huge, life-sized painting
that depicted Aramis, of the "Three Musketeers." The bottom of the full-length picture was less than two
feet from the floor; the heavy mahogany frame was flush against the wall.

Ruthley was seated in an armchair, smoking an expensive cigar. Marclot was opposite him, watching him.
In appearance, as well as manner, the two formed an absolute contrast.

Stephen Ruthley was elderly, yet active. His face was calm, pleasant, almost fatherly. His eyes, though
searching, carried a twinkle; his gray hair added to his genial look. All this was a mask that Ruthley had
worn for years; he seldom dropped it, even when he had no need for pretense. In fact, Ruthley prided
himself upon the fact that when his temper rose, he could play his friendly, reassuring part to real
perfection.

Elvin Marclot was portly, pompous and round-faced; serious of expression, he was ever ready to draw
himself up and blubber in righteous indignation. He used that method to cover his crooked nature; it
worked well in public, but it was useless in Ruthley's presence. The boss always had the mayor at a
disadvantage; for Ruthley's calmness seemed natural, while Marclot's self-importance did not.

Tonight, if Ruthley chanced to be nervous, he did not show it. Marclot, however, was jittery, and could
not cover the fact. He had already reported important news; all that he could do was repeat it.

"They've finished Dunson by this time, Steve," insisted Marclot, in a tone that was almost a whine. "Kirk
Borman called me, like I told you. I thought I'd better be here when the news came -"

THE telephone bell rang. Marclot trembled as he reached for the telephone, which was on a mahogany
table near the door. Ruthley stopped him.
"Let Haija answer it," ordered Ruthley. "He always does."

Marclot sank back in his chair, A Japanese house-man entered, picked up the telephone and spoke in
mechanical fashion. He turned about and held the instrument toward Marclot, with the statement:

"Call for Honorable Mr. Mayor."

Marclot took the telephone shakily; gulped as he spoke. Ruthley listened intently to the conversation.

"Yes..." Marclot, always a faker, pretended to be astonished. "What is that, director? A murder?... Not
our friend Prescott Dunson?... This is terrible! Terrible!... Yes. It would be wise for you to come here at
once..."

Haija took the telephone as soon as Marclot hung up. The Japanese replaced the instrument on the table
and stalked from the room. Marclot spoke to Ruthley in a trembling tone.

"They got Dunson!" the mayor quivered. "Borman's on his way here."

"How soon will that be?"

"He said within five minutes."

Ruthley and Marclot dropped their conversation. Just as Ruthley flicked another length of ashes from his
cigar, Haija entered to announce that the police director had arrived. Kirk Borman was ushered into the
den. As soon as Haija was gone, the sharp-faced police director talked business.

"They chopped down Dunson in front of Judge Benbrook's house," stated Borman. "But there was a lot
of fireworks afterward. Some sharpshooter began to pick off the men in Lance's cars; just like last
night."

"Interesting," remarked Ruthley. He puffed at his cigar; then reached for a box and offered a smoke to
Borman. Then he asked: "Did the Flying Squadron take care of the troublemaker?"

"They arrived too late to get him," returned Borman, in a rueful tone. "They had to fake a chase after the
thugs; and it was tough to bluff it, for they were crippled pretty bad, the thugs were. I thought the whole
game was going to be a cinch when Dunson was reported in that trolley; but it wasn't.

"Anyway, Dunson is done for. The Flying Squadron took his body over to the morgue. I saw him laid out
there; and I found out something that's worth knowing. Wait until I show you the letter that was on
Dunson's body."

Borman began to fumble in his pockets. Marclot took advantage of the lull.

"This will make trouble," insisted the mayor. "Maybe not for us; but suppose that public indignation seeks
out Lance Gillick? He is one of us. We have to protect him."

"We shall," stated. Ruthley, with a smile. "Quite easily."

"But how can we laugh off Dunson's charges?" continued Marclot. "He claimed that he could prove
corruption in Westford."

"I shall handle the matter," returned Ruthley, still smiling. "Quite easily, Marclot."

Borman had found the letter. The police director was opening it. The paper was reddened at one corner;
that stain had come from Prescott Dunson's blood. The fact did not annoy Borman; he was too anxious
to divulge the contents of the letter.

"This was from a man named Shaw," he began. "Evidently the fellow had written to Dunson before -"

"Wait!"

STEPHEN Ruthley had heard a slight sound that came from behind the panting on the wall. He arose;
went to the picture and pressed a hidden catch in the side of the frame. He swung the picture inward, in
doorlike fashion.

Two men stepped over the sill, to join the conference in Ruthley's den.

The foremost was Lance Gillick, sleek in his evening attire. The big-shot gambler indulged in one of his
suave smiles. He stepped aside to let his companion enter. The other man was short and squatty; his
leering face showed crossed scars on its left cheek. The man looked like a murderer; and he was.

Lance's companion was "Beezer" Dorsch, the mobleader who was supposed to be at odds with the
sleek gambler. As Lance had mentioned to Borman the night before, the two were actually in league.
Because of that, Lance had brought Beezer to this conference.

The ring of crime-makers was complete. Stephen Ruthley, king of villainy, sat smiling as he viewed the
faces of his four lieutenants. With Elvin Marclot to play the part of a pompous mayor; with Kirk Borman
to pose as an efficient police director, Ruthley held two aces for a start.

This other pair were quite as essential to his schemes. Lance Gillick served as hidden lieutenant who
commanded henchmen from the underworld, while Beezer Dorsch took charge of action in the field. In a
sense, Lance and Beezer corresponded to Marclot and Borman. One pair represented the law; the other
pair, crime.

The second duo of aces gave Stephen Ruthley the full hand that he wanted. All were his, to take his
commands. Tonight's action had been the murder of Prescott Dunson. The kill had been made. Ruthley
was prepared to order further measures to cover up the crime.

                          CHAPTER VII. THE FINGER POINTS
ELVIN MARCLOT and Kirk Borman were not at all annoyed by the arrival of Lance Gillick and
Beezer Dorsch. The mayor and the police director had long since come to recognize those two as
companions in arms. There was, in fact, a reason why both Marclot and Borman felt pleased when they
learned that Ruthley had summoned his representatives in the underworld. Until tonight, neither Marclot
nor Borman had made the actual acquaintance of Beezer Dorsch.

Nearly all contact between these pairs of lieutenants had been when Kirk Borman had visited Lance
Gillick, on pretense that he was looking into the gambler's affairs. Marclot and Borman paid their own
visits to Stephen Ruthley; but they always entered by the front door. When Ruthley needed to see Lance
or Beezer, he had those outlaws come in through the secret entry.

The picture that served as a door covered a passage through the deserted house at the end of the row.
Lance and Beezer reached it by entering the old house from a narrow, blind alley, well hidden from the
lights of the front boulevard.

Tonight, it was apparent that Lance and Beezer had brought news. Therefore, Kirk Borman postponed
his own report. He pocketed the letter that he had found on Dunson's body and settled back in his chair
to listen. Lance Gillick picked out one of Ruthley's cigars, while Beezer Dorsch produced a cigarette and
lighted it. Lance gave a nod.

"Spill it, Beezer," he ordered. "The boss will want to hear what went sour."

Beezer turned directly to Ruthley.

"I was going to tell you about last night," he began. "Only I got more dope to spring, the way things has
happened. We muffed that Maclare job, on account of a guy who queered our set-up. I was wise to who
he was. He was The Shadow! And it was him again tonight!"

For an instant, Stephen Ruthley's eyes showed a hard glint. The boss had heard of The Shadow; for he
had delved deeply into the lore of crime.

Ruthley turned to Borman.

"Too bad your Flying Squadron was slow," purred the boss. "They could handle this trouble-maker, if
they went after him."

"They'll have orders to bag The Shadow," returned Borman, grimly. "When I tell them to look for The
Shadow, they'll find him!"

LANCE and Beezer smiled hopefully. Ruthley settled back in his chair to ponder over the facts that he
had heard. During the lull, Mayor Marclot suddenly reverted to his former subject.

"We can't forget Dunson," pleaded Marclot. "Something has to be brought to light, to cover the stir he
has made."

Ruthley smiled blandly. He arose and went to the filing cabinet in the corner. Opening a drawer, he
produced a folder filled with papers. He brought them back to his chair; laid them upon a table.
Motioning for silence, he spoke in calm, authoritative tone.

"Prescott Dunson is dead," announced Ruthley. "He was murdered because he threatened to make
important revelations concerning graft and crime. The public will want facts; therefore, the public shall
have facts. Those facts, however, will be to our own choice."

Smiling, Ruthley opened the folder and brought out the papers. As he spread them on the table, he spoke
further.

"First," he declared, "some killer must be blamed for the crime. Very well; we shall name the man who is
actually responsible. There he is" - Ruthley pointed to Beezer - "all ready to take the blame."

"Sure," snorted Beezer, "I'll be the fall guy. Great stuff, boss! Me and Lance is supposed to be on the
outs. That'll cover him."

Lance chuckled.

"I already have an alibi," he remarked. "The best in the city. Just at the time when Beezer was rubbing out
Dunson, who do you think dropped in to see me? I'll tell you. It was Lieutenant James Maclare. He
wanted to see if I had any roulette wheels up my sleeve, so I showed him all around the joint. He drew a
blank; wouldn't even take a cigar when I offered it to him. Maclare knows where I was when Dunson
was chopped down. Being honest, he'll admit that I was right in my own night club."

Smiles of approval were exchanged throughout the group. Chuckles stilled as Ruthley resumed.

"Beezer will disappear," explained the boss. "The city will be scoured for him. A nation-wide search will
begin, with Beezer called a public enemy."

Beezer looked uneasy, until Ruthley added:

"All the while, Beezer will be comfortably located in the one place where no one - not even Lieutenant
Maclare - will look for him. He will live in your apartment, Lance."

LANCE nodded his approval. The others joined with nods. They knew the location of Lance's
apartment; off the passage that led from his private office. Since Maclare had raided the Club Adair and
found no gambling devices, there would be no more raids.

Ruthley made a sweeping gesture with his right hand.

"The matter of a murderer is settled," he declared. "We must, however, consider the subject of
corruption. Marclot" - he eyed the mayor steadily - "do you remember those contracts you signed for the
proposed exposition buildings?"

"Certainly," nodded Marclot. "Adam Woodstock gained the contracts. He has already received a million
dollars of city funds. He gave us our half of the money."

"That was a swell kickback," put in Lance, in an admiring tone. "I'll bet, though, that it doesn't show on
Woodstock's books."

"Of course not," declared Marclot. "Woodstock was careful to cover the entire transaction."

"These papers," stated Ruthley, picking some from his stack, "give a comparison of the actual estimates
and the false ones. Suppose that they were found in Woodstock's safe, along with other incriminating
documents, such as letters signed by Beezer Dorsch -"

Elvin Marclot could not contain himself. Forgetting his pompous pose, the mayor exclaimed:

"People would think that Woodstock was the man higher up! The one who ordered Beezer to murder
Dunson!"

"And the contracts?" queried Ruthley, smoothly. "What would happen with them?"

"I could cancel them," returned Marclot, "on claim of fraud perpetrated by Woodstock. His corporation
would be held responsible for the funds that Woodstock received."

"Precisely," smiled Ruthley. "A million dollars would be returned to the city treasury; and half of it would
be Woodstock's own money. You would then be able, Marclot, to let new contracts to another bidder
quite as discreet as Woodstock."

"Meaning a new kickback," chuckled Lance. "Another easy half million!"

The perfection of Ruthley's scheme suited the bevy of plotters. They saw another half million already in
the bag. One question came; it was from Kirk Borman.

"Woodstock will squawk," phrased the police director. "How will you handle that, Steve?"

"I shall attend to Woodstock," purred Ruthley. "He will never find an opportunity to raise objection.
There is only one detail that must still be considered. That concerns Beezer. We must see to it that he is
actually accepted as Dunson's murderer."

"I can fix that," returned Borman. "I'll have some of the boys in the Flying Squadron swear to it that they
saw him knock off Dunson."

"That will help," mused Ruthley, "but it would be better if some disinterested witnesses could testify to
Beezer's ability as a killer. Charges made by police are sometimes disregarded."

KIRK BORMAN stroked his chin. He was thinking hard; suddenly, he found an answer. Reaching into
his pocket, he whipped out the letter.

"I have it!" exclaimed Borman. "This letter shows that Dunson was working with an investigator named
Shaw. Chances are that Shaw knew as much as Dunson, maybe more."

"Therefore," pronounced Ruthley, "Shaw must be eliminated. Let me see that letter, Kirk."

Taking the letter, Ruthley noted that it was brief. Scrawled in a clumsy hand, it simply promised new
revelations that would be as startling as those previously given. It reminded Dunson to destroy all
correspondence that he had received to date. Ruthley pondered over the scrawled signature.

"Theo D. Shaw," he said, aloud. "Where can the fellow be found, Kirk?"

"Probably at the Majestic Hotel," returned Borman, promptly. "That's where we think Dunson was
headed when Beezer overtook him."

Ruthley turned to Beezer.

"Get Shaw," he purred. "Take good men with you. Let yourself be seen. As for you, Kirk" - Ruthley
swung to the police director - "have your men close on Beezer's heels. Afterward, produce this letter as
proof that Dunson knew Shaw."

"That will pin it on me right," grunted Beezer. He seemed pleased by the prospect. "When I dive out,
they'll think I'm on the lam for sure!"

STEPHEN RUTHLEY arose; his action signified that the conference was ended. Marclot and Borman
prepared to leave by the front door; Lance and Beezer were ready for secret departure. It was Lance
who voiced an afterthought.

"What about The Shadow, boss?" he queried. "Beezer is sure that he was the guy who mixed in the last
two jobs."

"We can attend to The Shadow later," decided Ruthley, "after we have disposed of this informant,
Shaw."

The decision showed that Stephen Ruthley was confident that new murder could be accomplished
without The Shadow's interference. The overlord of crime felt sure that the lone fighter had been too hard
pressed to rally for new effort; that The Shadow would not expect another murderous attempt so soon
after Dunson's death.

Ruthley's four aces shared their chief's belief. Though they knew The Shadow's prowess, they could not
credit him with the ability to be everywhere at once. Not even Beezer Dorsch would grant The Shadow
that much, though Beezer himself had been the one to face the cloaked fighter in actual combat.

Beezer's leering face showed that he did not expect to meet The Shadow again tonight. The murderer
anticipated no opposition when he went to handle the investigator, Shaw. Nor did Ruthley and the others;
they were lulled by Beezer's confidence.
Had Stephen Ruthley and his lieutenants given more careful consideration to facts that they held in hand,
they might have foreseen real trouble from The Shadow.

                        CHAPTER VIII. THE TRAP REVERSED
THERE had been excitement in the Majestic Hotel following the murder of Prescott Dunson, for the
noise of gunfire, plus the arrival of the Flying Squadron, had been sufficient to create high alarm. Later,
the lobby had quieted; but all about were little groups of men who discussed the new crime that had
occurred in Westford.

The consensus of opinion showed approval for the police. It was known that crooks had eluded the
Flying Squadron; but fully a dozen persons were prepared to testify that the law had reached the spot
within five minutes after Dunson's death. Speedy flight by the murderers explained the get-away; no one
could find cause to blame the Flying Squadron for failing in the chase.

One guest at the Majestic Hotel remained apart from the chatting groups. He was a tall, haggard-faced
individual, whose eyes were restless, and who frequently took on a listening attitude as he roamed about
the gaudy lobby. The clerk at the desk recognized him as a man named Shaw. He looked like one of the
many guests who had come down from their rooms to learn the cause of the fray.

After a while, Shaw started for the coffee shop that adjoined the lobby. He stopped at the door,
hesitated, then headed for the elevators. The clerk did not see Shaw go upstairs; but he remembered that
the man had been in the lobby. He proved this later, when a stranger stopped at the desk and inquired
gruffly:

"Where'll I find Mr. Shaw? Theodore D. Shaw is the guy's full name."

"He was here in the lobby, a short while ago," replied the clerk, while he sorted letters. Then, realizing the
toughness of the questioner's tone, the clerk asked: "Why do you wish to see Mr. Shaw?"

As he asked the question, the clerk looked at the man who had approached the desk. He saw an ugly,
scarred face that one who observed was not likely to forget. The clerk was looking at Beezer Dorsch.

"I'll tell Shaw what I want to see him about," informed Beezer. "Is he still here in the lobby?"

The clerk looked about and shook his head. Turning toward Beezer, he noted that the scarred man was
accompanied by a pair of rowdies who matched him for toughness. One of them voiced a growl:

"Get the mug's room number, Beezer."

"A good idea," decided Beezer. "Say, you" - he glowered at the clerk - "where'll I find this guy Shaw?"

"His room number is 304," began the clerk. "Only, he may not be up there -"

The girl at the switchboard offered an interruption. She had heard the mention of Shaw's name; but had
turned around to see Beezer and the others. She did not know that the clerk was trying to stall.

"Mr. Shaw just put in a call," stated the girl. "He ordered supper served in his room."

"That means he's up there," grunted Beezer. "All right. I'll go up and see him."

Followed by his pals, Beezer strode toward the elevator. Hardly had the door closed before a house
detective approached the desk and inquired of the clerk:
"Did that tough guy give his name?"

"No," replied the clerk; "only one of the men with him called him 'Beezer.'"

"Then he's Beezer Dorsch, all right!" decided the dick. "We just got a call from police headquarters to
flag him if we saw him. Where did he go?"

"To Room 304, to see a man named Shaw."

"I'll call headquarters!"

DURING this interim, Beezer and his two companions had reached the third floor. They found Room
304 near the inner end of a short corridor. Beezer tried the door cautiously, to discover that it was
locked. He moved his companions out of the corridor.

"We got to figure some way of getting at the guy," decided Beezer. "Maybe there's a way of reaching a
window -"

"Ps-s-s-t!" One of the thugs interrupted. "Scram, Beezer! There's an elevator door opening up!"

Beezer urged his companions into an alcove. They saw a waiter step from the elevator, bearing a tray.
The attendant went to the door of 304 and knocked. Beezer saw the door open; he spied a haggard face
inside the lighted room. The waiter entered; the door closed.

"I spotted Shaw, all right," whispered Beezer. "He's a sappy-looking guy. He'll be soft. Wait'll the waiter
leaves."

Soon the waiter reappeared; he stopped in the hallway to nod, as he listened to a complaining voice from
the room.

"I told you to bring lemon for my tea," Shaw was objecting. "Not cream. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Return at once and bring the lemon. The door will be unlocked. Knock, however, before you
enter."

"Very well, sir."

The door closed; the waiter returned to the elevator. Beezer grinned and pulled a revolver from his hip
pocket. He whispered instructions to his thugs.

"Stick close," he told them. "Stay outside the door. I'll handle this mug alone; if I want you, I'll call you.
Keep an eye peeled for the waiter, or anybody else that shows up."

Creeping forward, Beezer reached the door of 304; waited until his followers were beside him. Imitating
the waiter's knock, Beezer rapped upon the door. He heard an impatient voice:

"Who is it?"

"The waiter," replied Beezer, in a tone less gruff than usual. "Bringing the lemon you wanted."

Beezer grinned as he gestured with his revolver, for the benefit of his pals. He was bringing a lemon, all
right; one that he fancied would prove more sour than any that Shaw had ever tasted.
"Come in," called the voice within the room. "Don't stand out there in the hall."

Beezer turned the knob with his left hand. He shouldered through the doorway, to find himself in a short
passage that led to the main portion of the room. Shaw's table was out of sight beyond the corner;
Beezer could hear the clatter of dishes. Carefully, he closed the door; then edged forward.

"Where are you, waiter?"

As Shaw's query came again, Beezer bounded forward. He passed the projecting corner, swung straight
for the spot where he believed that the victim would be seated. Stopping short as he gripped his leveled
gun, Beezer stared at a table by the wall. He saw the dishes and the food upon them; but the chair behind
the table was vacant.

QUICKLY, Beezer looked toward the deeper corner at his left; it was toward the front of the room, a
spot that he had passed as he hurried into Shaw's field of vision. As he turned, Beezer was quicker with
his eyes than with his gun. As a consequence, he was forced to halt before he had a chance to aim.

Beezer Dorsch was staring squarely into the rounded mouth of an automatic - a massive weapon that he
was viewing at closer range than ever before. That .45 was a living threat; for Beezer had heard it speak
often during his recent career of crime.

Above the huge weapon were burning eyes, the only features that Beezer could see beneath the shading
brim of a slouch hat. Below was blackness that formed a shrouded shape. Beezer saw cloaked
shoulders; a thin-gloved fist that gripped the steadied gun.

Beezer's revolver slipped from his numbed fingers. It thudded the floor beside the dish-laden table.
Slowly, his hands came up, while he stared at those eyes that seemed to paralyze him with their hypnotic
spell. Through a confused whirl of thoughts, Beezer Dorsch grasped the situation.

There was no man named Shaw. Nor was there need to wonder why the person who used that name
had learned so much of crime in Westford. Stephen Ruthley and his lieutenants had over-looked the
obvious; they had failed to connect the supposed investigator, Shaw, with the one person whose
presence they had actual cause to fear.

The supposed Shaw was The Shadow. The cloaked avenger was the being who faced Beezer Dorsch.
The Shadow had awaited Prescott Dunson outside the hotel; that was why he had been on hand, to
protect the man whom Beezer had murdered.

The Shadow had not forgotten the letter that Dunson held. He had foreseen that Dunson's killer might try
to trap him. The Shadow had arranged for it. He had sprung a snare of his own.

The trap was reversed. The Shadow, arch-enemy of crime, had taken Beezer Dorsch into his toils!

                            CHAPTER IX. THE LAW INVADES
THE SHADOW had arranged his trap with consummate skill. Beezer recognized the fact, as he stared
helpless. Between the table and the corner, The Shadow had placed a floor lamp; he had tilted the shade
upward so that its glare was focused on the room.

In a sense, The Shadow had employed the device which Beezer had used on two successive nights. The
lamp had the effect of a spotlight; the corner behind it, darkened in comparison, was The Shadow's
lurking spot. The position of the lamp explained why Beezer had overlooked the corner when he passed
it. The crook had not recognized The Shadow's ruse.
The lamp's glare outlined Beezer's face; and the sight was not pretty. It showed the mobleader's ugly
profile; his scarred cheek and the knobby, ill-shaped nose that had won him his nickname. Beezer's
features were yellowish in the glow; the snarl that came from his gritted teeth would have befitted a rat.

The Shadow had stepped close enough for Beezer to see him distinctly; that move had been essential to
The Shadow's plan. His position enabled him to scrutinize Beezer closely; to form his own opinion of the
ugly captive that he had snared. A few brief seconds convinced The Shadow that he held the actual
murderer who had given death to Prescott Dunson.

Beezer's face showed it. So did his manner; for his attempt at bravado was a weak one. The yellowish
tinge upon Beezer's face represented the closest that the murderer could come to actual paleness.

Perhaps The Shadow already knew of Beezer's part. The murderer could not tell; but he learned
promptly that The Shadow had gained information concerning persons more important than this prisoner.
That became apparent when The Shadow spoke; his tone was an uncanny whisper that produced a
shudder in Beezer's squatty frame.

"State who sent you here!" ordered The Shadow. "Name all concerned in your present move!"

It was a command, not a question. Beezer realized the full significance of The Shadow's words. Chances
were that The Shadow knew who had sent the killer here; Beezer could see trouble for himself if he lied.
The crook tried to snarl an answer; his voice was incoherent. Quailing, he resorted to a whine.

"I didn't put the finger on you," he protested. "Honest, I wasn't sent to make no trouble! It was on
account of -"

BEEZER stopped, knowing his whine to be useless. An interruption rescued him; the sound was a
cautious rap at the door of the room. Beezer glanced nervously toward The Shadow. Hidden lips issued
a command.

"Answer it!" ordered The Shadow, his whispered tone low. "Tell your pals to join you!"

Beezer gulped; then called hoarsely:

"Come in, you guys!"

"Move toward the table," ordered The Shadow. "Keep your arms high!"

Beezer obeyed while the door was opening. He saw The Shadow step back behind the focused lamp.
Footsteps clumped inward from the door; one of Beezer's cronies questioned:

"Did you croak him, Beezer?" There was no reply from Beezer. The thugs stopped as they saw their
leader, against the wall, his hands above his head. They swung about, looking for an enemy; their hands
tightened on their guns, then loosened.

Beezer's pals had heard a sinister whisper. They stared toward the corner; like Beezer, they saw The
Shadow. He had stepped into the light; both his fists were equipped with automatics. One .45 held
Beezer motionless; the other covered the two thugs. They acted as Beezer had. Two revolvers thudded
the carpet together.

Pointing with his guns, The Shadow huddled the three mobsters together at the end of the room. His
unseen lips formed a mirthful whisper, as ominous as the strident laugh that crooks had heard earlier upon
this night. The meaning broke suddenly upon Beezer Dorsch, as he saw The Shadow put away one gun.
A telephone was in easy reach of The Shadow's free hand; his single automatic was sufficient to hold the
clustered trio at bay.

"He's going to give us to Maclare!" gulped Beezer. "The guy we tried to croak last night! We're in
Maclare's precinct; there ain't a chance for us when he gets us!

As he gave this news, Beezer started forward. He halted at the threat of The Shadow's gun muzzle.
Neither of Beezer's pals had nerve enough to back him in a break for safety. Beezer saw The Shadow
reach for the telephone. A second interruption halted the gloved hand.

Another knock was sounding at the door. It became a violent pounding. The Shadow knew that it was
not the waiter; so did Beezer. The murderer strained forward, itching to make a spring. A loud voice
sounded from beyond the door:

"Open! In the name of the law!"

ONE part of Stephen Ruthley's game had, as yet, escaped The Shadow. That was the big-shot's plan to
make Beezer Dorsch a fugitive from justice. Hearing the voice from the corridor; noting the ugly triumph
that suddenly appeared upon Beezer's face, The Shadow caught the idea.

He knew that the man who had shouted for entry was not an officer from Lieutenant Maclare's precinct.
Outside were members of Kirk Borman's Flying Squadron, here to see that murder went through;
prepared to cover the escape of Beezer Dorsch by pretense of a chase.

Instantly, The Shadow whipped out his second automatic. Turning his shoulder toward Beezer and the
pair of thugs, The Shadow covered them with one gun, while he jabbed the other toward the door.
Between two groups of enemies, he intended to hold unarmed men at bay, while he drove back invaders
who would come with ready weapons.

As the door shoved inward, Beezer took a chance. He snarled a command to his pals; this time, they
obeyed. Thinking that Beezer was with them, the two thugs made a desperate dive for The Shadow.
Surging with full fury, they were upon him with a single bound.

The Shadow had only one course. Fading toward the door, he fired as he dropped. His bullets winged
the thugs, sprawled them to the floor. Beezer dropped with them; but his fall was a foxy one. His pals
had shielded him; Beezer still wanted them between himself and The Shadow.

That was scarcely necessary. The Shadow had no more time to deal with Beezer. Spinning toward the
door, he whirled straight into a trio of policemen, who were clad in khaki, the distinguishing uniform of the
Flying Squadron. Had there been a bluecoat in their midst, The Shadow would have let that man dive
away. All, however, were khaki-clad. Director Borman had chosen those uniforms, that crooks might
know their friends. The Shadow treated them alike.

His long arms were lashing; his heavy guns clipped heads beneath visored caps and sent the trio sagging.
In the corridor, The Shadow ripped quick shots at three more members of the Flying Squadron; winged
one and sent the others diving for cover. As The Shadow sprang past an elevator, the door clanged
open; four members of the squadron saw him and charged. They swung their revolvers; this time, The
Shadow was in the midst of a slugging throng.

BACK in The Shadow's room, a shot was fired. One of Beezer's wounded pals had taken a pot shot at
Beezer himself. It was in payment for his cowardice, in letting his pals bear the brunt of The Shadow's
quick defense.

That shot went wide; it was Beezer who fired the next ones. Savagely, the killer drilled both of his pals,
sprawling them dead upon the floor, to leave no witnesses who might proclaim his treachery throughout
the underworld.

Springing to the hall, Beezer arrived to see The Shadow wheeling away from four foemen. Beezer dived
for a stairway; The Shadow paused to deliver halting shots. A khaki-clad foeman pounced upon him;
knocked down his gun arm. The Shadow whirled away to avoid a clinch. Shaking off another attacker,
he reached the door of a fire tower.

All along the hall were members of the Flying Squadron, coming to hands and knees, groggy from
strokes that they had received. There were others who had dodged The Shadow's attack. They opened
fire from corners of corridors. The Shadow saw the fire tower as a vantage point. He took it, slamming
the door behind him. Hardly was he on the tower before he realized the value of his move.

Sirens were screeching from below. The entire squadron was out, surrounding the hotel. The Shadow
knew what prolonged battle with these disguised thugs would produce. It would bring out the full police
force; Lieutenant Maclare first, with the men who patrolled this precinct. They would side with the Flying
Squadron. The Shadow wanted no battle with such loyal men.

To avoid that inevitable result, The Shadow hurried down the fire tower. He reached the bottom just in
time to see Beezer Dorsch dash from a side door of the hotel. The Shadow had no time to aim for the
murderer; Beezer was ducking behind an automobile, pointing to the fire tower as he dived for cover.
Two squadron men saw him; they let Beezer go and headed for the tower.

The Shadow swung out upon them. As their guns came up, his came down in two long swings. One man
took a blow upon the head; the other dodged, but received a glancing stroke that made him stumble.
Hearing shouts from men who had rounded the front corner of the hotel, The Shadow sprang off
between parked cars. Dodging back and forth, he reached a coupe and boarded it.

Another car had pulled away from the other side of the parking lot. The Shadow heard the whine of its
gear and knew that Beezer had made his getaway. That flight was by arrangement with the law. The
Shadow had no such pleasant prospect. Trouble began anew, as he sped his car toward the street.

A SQUADRON car shot in to block The Shadow's coupe. The Shadow tongued a quick blast from his
automatic; to avoid the fire, the driver of the squadron car veered. The Shadow wheeled away from
bright lights; as his coupe roared past Judge Benbrook's house, three khaki-clad men on motorcycles
took up the chase.

The Shadow veered left at the trolley tracks; rounded the block, sped his car through an alleyway. A
patrol car sighted him; it followed. Another block, two policemen in blue uniform saw the chase and
commandeered a sedan to join the pursuit.

Again, The Shadow turned his course, headed back toward the city's center. Finding a side street, he
took it, to avoid another squadron car that was coming straight toward him.

As The Shadow whizzed past a corner, he went by an automobile that had pulled up to the curb. The
man behind the wheel of that car sat watching, as police cars and motorcycles sped by. When the wild
parade had faded in the distance, that watcher slid from his car and shuffled toward an alleyway that
offered direct access to the rear door of Lance Gillick's Club Adair.

A street lamp gave a momentary glimpse of the shuffler's ugly face. The man was Beezer Dorsch, grinning
from ear to ear. He had expected a pursuit before he could head back to Lance's perfect hide-out. With
so many dumb cops in Westford, there was always a chance of trouble, as Beezer viewed it.
Circumstances had turned out well for Beezer Dorsch. He could forget the fact that he had failed to
murder Shaw. After all, Shaw was The Shadow; and others could take the job of bagging him. As
Beezer recalled it, Mayor Marclot and Police Director Borman had agreed to handle that particular task.

They had made a good beginning. The pursuit that Beezer had witnessed was a real one. The Shadow
had put himself in wrong with the law. He had made Beezer's fake flight an easy one; and had given the
Flying Squadron a real trail, for a change.

Beezer Dorsch was hopeful that the Flying Squadron would show its real ability tonight.

                              CHAPTER X. THE LOST TRAIL
THE chase that Beezer had witnessed was actually a hot one. The Shadow realized it as he sped toward
the city limits, picking a course through the winding streets of one of Westford's suburbs. Pursuers had
spread out, picking parallel streets. At every corner, The Shadow heard sirens that told of foemen on
both sides.

Horns were honking from a hundred yards behind. They represented commandeered cars. More of the
regular police had joined in the hunt. Like the members of the Flying Squadron, they would give The
Shadow plenty, if they gained the opportunity. Questions and explanations would come afterward.

The Shadow's coupe was no speedier than the cars of the pursuers; but he knew this section of
Westford. He had chosen it on that account. At intervals, The Shadow chose short-cuts, where angled
streets afforded quick routes to other thoroughfares. These shifts put him farther ahead of the cars upon
his trail.

Making a quick turn at a corner, The Shadow threaded through a maze of streets and gained a highway
that led from the town. Speeding toward the open road, he saw the glare of two sets of headlights,
coming straight toward him, side by side. Instantly, The Shadow knew that a radio call had been given.
Patrol cars on the city's outskirts were heading in to block him.

Quickly, The Shadow chose the first side road that offered itself. The coupe jolted over bumpy paving;
then came a muddy lane where a pair of ruts offered the only progress. Taking it at rapid speed, The
Shadow saw the end of the road. He stopped the coupe on the very fringe of a small pond. Dropping to
the ground, he looked back along the lane. He saw headlights bouncing as cars took the ruts. Half a
dozen automobiles had neared this finish of the chase. One minute more would bring them to the spot
where The Shadow stood.

High above, off to the right, The Shadow saw a glow of light. It came from the top of a huge water
tower, its rounded bottom forming a bowl upon long, spindly struts. With long strides across scraggly
ground, The Shadow covered the distance. He reached the bottom of the tower just as the police cars
pulled up beside his abandoned coupe.

The glow from the tower came from lights beneath a projecting flange around the top. There, lights were
concentrated to display a sign painted on the tower, stating that it belonged to the Westford Electric Co.
A platform at the base of the tank itself cut off the light, so that all beneath was darkened.

Stopping by the first steel leg, The Shadow found that the support was equipped with a ladder. Without a
moment's hesitation, he began an upward climb.

FORTY feet up, the ladder ended. In its place, The Shadow discovered a catwalk that led to the center
of the tank, ending directly underneath it. Probing farther in the darkness, he discovered a side ladder that
went to the top of the tank; but he chose the catwalk instead. His choice was a good one. Some of the
pursuers had come over toward the tower and were flashing electric torches from the ground.

Reaching the end of the catwalk, The Shadow felt the bottom of the tank. He discovered supporting
girders, shaped to the tank itself. Gripping the edges of a girder with his hands, The Shadow swung his
feet upward and gained a toe-hold. Crawling face upward, he followed the outside of the huge bowl, until
he was halfway to the platform that girded it. There, The Shadow paused; bracing his arms, he clung
motionless.

Pursuers were coming up the ladder. Some reached the catwalk; followed its downward curve to the
center of the tank. Others went around the platform. A few ascended the second ladder and flashed
lights on the smooth surface of the conical top. The search took several minutes; it covered everywhere,
except the under curve of the water tank, on The Shadow's side. No one suspected that a person could
hide on that precarious portion of the tank.

Clangs from the ladder told that the police were making their descent. Slowly, The Shadow reversed his
course along the girder. His arms and legs were tired, but the course was downward and required less
effort than his climb. He reached the catwalk and settled to its surface.

From his high lookout, The Shadow watched the search along the ground. At least twenty men were
beating the brush, as they circled the shores of the pond. Flashlights bobbed in the direction of a house,
two hundred yards away. Lights appeared in the house itself. The Shadow knew that the police had
roused the occupants, to make a search inside.

It was nearly an hour before the hunt ended. Even then, the terrain did not clear entirely; a few watchers
were posted along the ground. None was near the tower; The Shadow moved along the catwalk and
descended silently by the ladder. There, he waited in darkness, watching the blink of flashlights. Soon a
pair came in his direction.

Sidling away from the tower, The Shadow listened while two men went up the ladder. They were
choosing the very lookout that The Shadow had occupied, so that they could keep in contact with the
men below. Evidently, the police intended to keep guard all night.

A clouded sky had rendered the darkness almost complete. That suited The Shadow. Silently, he made
his way toward the house. He paused close beside the building while muffled feet tramped past him. A
flashlight blinked, but did not turn in his direction. When the guard had passed, The Shadow crept to the
wall of the house.

THE building was a frame structure; a trellis showed vaguely in the darkness. The Shadow used it as a
ladder and made a quiet climb to a kitchen roof. He found a darkened window above; used it to reach a
ledge. He was outside a third-story window; the shape of the roof indicated that this story of the house
was an attic.

The window was a round one, on a pivot. The Shadow swung it to a horizontal position, using his cloak
to muffle any sound. Head first, he wriggled through the half opening; came to the rough, unfinished floor
of the attic. Using a tiny flashlight in guarded fashion, The Shadow studied the room, foot by foot.

The attic had been searched by the police. Pieces of old furniture had been shoved about; trunks had
been pulled away from the wall. The Shadow reached a flight of steps; crept downward, to a door that
was locked from the other side. This discovery pleased him. As long as that door remained locked,
neither the house-owners nor the law would bother with another search. This attic could be The
Shadow's refuge as long as he chose.

Eventually, he would have the choice of two exits: the window by which he had entered; or the door at
the foot of the stairs. Though the door was locked, The Shadow could easily open it. His picks,
lock-opening instruments expertly handled, had overcome barriers that were far more formidable than
that lower door.

Back in the attic, The Shadow made himself comfortable. He found an old couch that was
thick-cushioned, despite its shabbiness. Opening a trunk, he discovered blankets. Rolling one as a pillow,
he used the other for bedding; and stretched himself upon the couch.

From where he lay, The Shadow could see through the window. He watched the motion of flashlights
through the darkness. They would continue until dawn; then there would be a search by day. That hunt
would cover many places; but it would not reach this attic, except by some freak of chance. If the search
came here, The Shadow would be ready. If not, he would remain in the attic throughout the day.

For The Shadow expected no more trouble in Westford until tomorrow night. His present policy was to
let matters cool there. Word would go around that Beezer Dorsch had fled the city; the same would be
said about The Shadow. Crooks would be bluffing when they spoke of Beezer; they would think that
they told the truth, in the case of The Shadow.

Thus the stage would be set as The Shadow wanted it, when he returned. Again, he could thrust from
darkness; meet crooks and stagger them. To date, The Shadow had steadily progressed. He had saved
Lieutenant Maclare; only Prescott Dunson's own mistakes had spoiled The Shadow's efforts toward a
second rescue.

Likewise, chance had favored Beezer Dorsch, when The Shadow had trapped the murderer. The same
chance had driven The Shadow to this place of refuge; but he had not lost ground in his battle against
crime. Every fight had crippled more foemen; always, The Shadow had come through unscathed,
departing into darkness.

Tomorrow night, The Shadow's plans called for a greater thrust; a move to the very place where crime
was fostered. His investigations in the city of Westford had given him close knowledge of all who were
concerned in crime.

Unfortunately, The Shadow had not been present at that conference between Stephen Ruthley and his
four associates. The Shadow's absence from that meeting had caused him trouble when he trapped
Beezer Dorsch. It was due to provide him with more difficulties when he again went into Westford.

HAD The Shadow gained an inkling of the next move that Stephen Ruthley intended, he would not have
considered it wise to remain in this secluded attic. His policy would have been to slip the cordon of
watchers and return to Westford on this very night.

As yet, The Shadow had dealt only with those lieutenants who served the overlord of crime. He had not
encountered Stephen Ruthley in action; nor did he expect to meet the master villain on the move. Ruthley,
as The Shadow sized him, was a cunning brain who could sit back and let others follow his command.
Past events had backed The Shadow's opinion. The future, however, could tell another story.

Stephen Ruthley, at this very moment, was completing a plan of crime that would give The Shadow new
and different evidence of the master villain's ways.

                           CHAPTER XI. WITHIN THE LAIR
EARLY the next evening, an automobile stopped in front of Stephen Ruthley's big apartment house. The
man who parked the car appeared to be a privileged person, for the curb where he pulled up bore the
sign: "NO PARKING."
Entering the apartment house, this visitor walked up a broad flight of stairs to the second floor. He rang a
bell, at the imposing door that formed the entrance to Ruthley's apartment. Haija answered the ring; the
Jap bowed when he saw the visitor.

"Good evening, Honorable Mr. District Attorney," said Haija. "Honorable Master expect you."

The district attorney followed the house-man to Ruthley's den. Ruthley received him with outstretched
hand; the gray-haired boss accompanied the gesture with his most genial smile.

"Good evening, Wilderton!" greeted Ruthley. "Sit down; have a cigar. Make yourself right at home."

Louis Wilderton took a chair opposite the portrait of Aramis. The glow of a floor lamp showed the
prosecutor to be a man in his thirties; a serious chap who tried to appear older than he was. Wilderton
was frail of build; light-haired and peaked of face. His pointed nose supported a pair of large spectacles
that gave him an owlish expression.

"Trouble, Wilderton?" Ruthley purred the question in a fatherly tone. Wilderton nodded.

"Don't worry about Dunson's death," remarked Ruthley. He picked up a copy of the Daily Banner and
pointed to the headlines. "It's up to the police to arrest this killer, Dorsch. When they once find him, you
will have no trouble convicting him of murder."

"I know that," vouchsafed Wilderton. "It's something else that bothers me, Mr. Ruthley. Prescott Dunson
intended to run against me, for district attorney. People haven't forgotten that."

"He would not have gained the support of the reform party," remarked Ruthley. "You have proven
yourself competent, Wilderton."

"Thank you, Mr. Ruthley. Just the same, Dunson had many supporters, chiefly those who expected him
to make startling revelations. That puts it up to me."

"To do what?"

"To disclose the facts that Dunson promised to reveal. I must find the man higher up; the one whom
Dunson intended to attack."

Stephen Ruthley nodded in commending fashion. Approaching Wilderton's chair, he clapped the district
attorney upon the shoulder.

"You have a great head, Louis," approved Ruthley. "I admire your foresight. Yes, you must make every
effort to find the man who ordered Dunson's death."

LOUIS WILDERTON produced a sheet of paper and handed it to Ruthley. It bore a list of names,
written in pencil.

"This is confidential," stated Wilderton, in a strained tone. "I have written down the names of a dozen
men, any one of whom might have had reason to fear Dunson. I would like your opinion on it, Mr.
Ruthley."

Ruthley studied the list solemnly. As he expected, his own name was absent; so were those of Elvin
Marclot and Kirk Borman. Even Lance Gillick's name was missing; for, today, Lieutenant Maclare had
openly testified that he had raided the Club Adair prior to Dunson's murder and that Gillick was there at
the time the killing took place.
The names on the list were those of small-fry politicians; also a few local contractors. Ruthley suppressed
a pleased smile as he noted the name of Adam Woodstock.

"Understand, Mr. Ruthley," remarked Wilderton, "I have no evidence whatever against any of these men.
I have merely assumed that someone in Westford must have wanted Dunson to die."

"I understand." Ruthley placed the paper on his desk. "Wilderton, I think that the best course is to wait.
This matter will smooth itself."

"How so?"

"If one of those men is responsible," returned Ruthley, indicating the list, "he will soon lose his nerve.
Dunson's murder has raised a huge cry. The fact that the police so promptly identified Dorsch as the killer
will make the man behind the murder feel uneasy. He will do something that will prove his part in crime.
Your problem will be solved."

"I hope that you are right, Mr. Ruthley."

"I feel confident that I am right. Be tranquil, Louis. Sit tight - let us say for the next two days - and if
nothing has occurred within that time, come to me again."

Wilderton arose. He smiled wanly; pleased by Ruthley's reassurance. Glancing at his watch, the
prosecutor remembered an appointment. Ruthley showed him to the door.

AS soon as Wilderton was gone, Ruthley returned to his desk. He picked up the list; chuckled as he read
it. The names were written on a sheet of paper that bore Wilderton's name, printed in the upper left
corner. Ruthley turned the paper downward. He picked up the telephone; stroked his chin as he tried to
remember a number. He put the telephone back on its table, picked up the directory instead.

Turning to the "W's," Ruthley found Woodstock's number. He repeated it aloud: "Marvin 6384." He was
about to reach for the telephone when he heard a ring of the doorbell; Haija's prompt footsteps followed.
Ruthley stepped to the desk, and made a notation on the back of Wilderton's paper.

The memo that he wrote was: "Woodstock. Marvin 6384."

Haija appeared, to announce Kirk Borman. The police director entered. Ruthley leaned against the desk,
to hear what he had to report. Borman was both prompt and brief.

"Just gave another interview to the Daily Banner," said the police director. "Stated that we are looking for
Theo D. Shaw, as an accomplice of Beezer Dorsch. Our theory is that Shaw lured Dunson to the
Majestic Hotel, so that Beezer could kill him on the way."

"Good business," approved Ruthley. "What else?"

"Finding Shaw's note on Dunson," continued Borman, "the police went to question the man. Found that
Beezer Dorsch was there ahead. Surprised Beezer and Shaw in conference. Both made a get-away; but
we bagged two of their accomplices."

"Fine!" chuckled Ruthley. "Beezer was wise to get rid of those fellows. Go on, Kirk."

"Still searching for Shaw out by the water tower. The Flying Squadron is watching for him, as well as for
Beezer. They know that he is The Shadow; but they're keeping that to themselves."

"You've added more men to the squadron?"
"Yes. Lance Gillick brought in a new bunch today. We gave them the phony examination, to qualify them.
It gives us a force of forty."

Another chuckle from Ruthley. One of the smartest moves in the master crook's game had been the
formation of the Flying Squadron. To a man, that outfit was recruited from thugs whom Lance Gillick had
called to Westford. All gave false addresses, pretending that they came from this locality.

Director Borman, in his call for "picked men," invariably gave these camouflaged thugs a high mark when
he examined them. Other applicants were always rated low; thereby rejected.

"They'll chop down The Shadow, if they see him," declared Borman. "Too bad we didn't guess that he
was Shaw, last night."

"We should have," purred Ruthley, his eyes showing a glint. "Look at this, Kirk."

STEPPING to his desk, Ruthley picked up a pencil. Beneath Woodstock's telephone, he printed the
name: "Theo D. Shaw." Crossing out letters in irregular fashion, he spelled the name: "The Shadow."

Kirk Borman whistled.

"I get it!" exclaimed the police director. "He faked that name for Dunson's benefit. So that if Dunson
began to study it closely, he would catch on to the idea. No wonder Dunson trusted Shaw. He must have
guessed that he was The Shadow."

"Just as we should have guessed it," returned Ruthley. He glanced at the paper. "Wait a minute, Kirk,
while I call Adam Woodstock."

Noting the telephone number again, Ruthley made the call. He completed a brief conversation; crumpled
the sheet of paper and tossed it into an empty wastebasket.

"Woodstock is waiting to see me," Ruthley told Borman. "I called him this afternoon; told him to stay at
home tonight, and see to it that he was alone."

"Is he?"

"Yes. His family has gone out. By the way, did you get those notes I wanted?"

Borman nodded; he pulled folded papers from his pocket.

"I went to the Club Adair right after dinner," he stated. "My pretext was to make a final check on Lance's
alibi. I gave him a clean bill of health. I saw Beezer, in Lance's office, while we were alone. He had the
notes all ready."

Ruthley pocketed the notes. He nudged his thumb toward the door.

"You go out the front way, Kirk," he told Borman. "I intend to use the secret passage. I have a car
parked in the back alley."

"Good luck to you, Steve. I'll be at my office in city hall, ready for any phone calls."

Kirk Borman departed, out through the front door. He descended the stairs and reached the street. He
stepped aboard his official car. The chauffeur drove away.

THE front of the big apartment house was recessed and, therefore, dark, except at the door, where two
lights glowed. Kirk Borman had glanced casually along the front wall, as his car rolled away; but he had
noted nothing unusual. It was after the director's car had gone that the unusual occurred.

Blackness moved from the darkened building front. At a moment when no cars were passing on the
boulevard, a shrouded figure stepped in front of the lights by the door. For one second only, a complete
shape was revealed. The lights showed The Shadow, cloaked in his garb of black.

With quick glide, The Shadow entered the lower hallway of the apartment house. No attendant was on
duty; even had one been present, he could easily have failed to spy the intruder. Though the large hall
was lighted, its walls were dark-paneled and therefore dim. The Shadow's silent course was along the
wall. He seemed no more than a mammoth blot, as he moved toward the stairs.

Reaching the second floor, The Shadow stopped by the door of Ruthley's apartment. He set to work
with a pick; he performed his task with nicety, although it required several minutes to properly probe the
lock. At last the door yielded; The Shadow stepped into the apartment and closed the barrier behind
him.

Beyond a dim hallway, he saw the half-opened door of a lighted room. Advancing noiselessly, The
Shadow reached that goal; he drew an automatic from beneath his cloak as he peered into Ruthley's
lighted den. After a few moments, The Shadow stepped across the threshold.

The room was empty. The Shadow had reached Stephen Ruthley's lair, only to find that the master crook
was absent.

                        CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S CLUE
THOUGH The Shadow had anticipated a meeting with Stephen Ruthley, he was not disturbed to find the
master villain gone. It merely meant that the meeting would be postponed; to a degree, that would prove
to The Shadow's advantage.

Through various forms of investigation, The Shadow had labeled Ruthley as the master of crime in
Westford. Until tonight, he had considered it good policy to wear down the forces at Ruthley's
command; to weaken them, in preparation for a final conflict with Ruthley himself.

The death of Prescott Dunson had partly altered The Shadow's decision. He knew that other victims
might be slated for the spot; therefore, it was no longer wise to hold back a final stroke. Moreover, The
Shadow's own position had become precarious last night. Hunted by the law, he had needed his most
stealthy tactics to leave the house by the water tower tonight.

Coming into Westford on foot, The Shadow had seen many signs of the increased Flying Squadron that
was covering all portions of the city. He knew that the number of his enemies had been increased. Hence
he had ventured onward, to strike directly at Ruthley, knowing that if he boxed the master of crime, the
whole evil structure would collapse.

Since Ruthley was absent, The Shadow intended to remain until he returned. Meanwhile, he had an
excellent opportunity to gain new facts regarding Ruthley, through an examination of the latter's papers.
The desk and the filing cabinet offered possibilities, if searched. Stepping past an armchair, The Shadow
reached the desk, to begin there.

As he placed his hand upon the handle of an upper drawer, The Shadow saw the wastebasket beside the
desk. Conspicuous within the basket was a crumpled sheet of paper. Stooping, The Shadow picked out
the paper and smoothed it. He saw immediately that he had made a find.

The paper was stationery from the office of Louis Wilderton; The Shadow recognized the district
attorney's precise handwriting, for he had seen it on official documents. Studying the list of names, The
Shadow understood their significance. These were persons whom Wilderton wanted to investigate. The
prosecutor had come to Stephen Ruthley for advice on the matter.

Turning the paper over, The Shadow saw the penciled notations on the back. Again he recognized a
handwriting that he had seen before: Stephen Ruthley's. The Shadow read the notation: "Woodstock.
Marvin 6384." Below it, he saw the name, "Theo D. Shaw," with the letters crossed by lines. The
Shadow's lips phrased an almost inaudible laugh. He had supposed that by this time Ruthley would have
guessed the significance of the signature of Theo D. Shaw.

Most important was Ruthley's notation of Woodstock's name and telephone number. Knowing that graft
was rampant in Westford, The Shadow had held suspicions of all persons who had undertaken city
contracts. Woodstock's name, however, had been but one of several.

The Shadow had seen no reason to investigate the contractor, in preference to others. This notation,
however, showed clearly that Ruthley intended contact with Woodstock. Since Ruthley was absent, it
followed that he could have gone to Woodstock's home.

HAVING seen Kirk Borman leave the apartment house after a definite visit, The Shadow knew that
Ruthley must have been at home while the police director was here. Therefore, Ruthley must have chosen
another exit.

For the moment, The Shadow did not consider the large painting on the wall; for it seemed likely that
Ruthley could have gone out by a back door of the apartment itself. The Shadow decided to look for
such an exit. Before he did so, he went to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialed Woodstock's
number.

The only response was a busy signal. It meant either that Woodstock was talking over the telephone or
that the contractor had taken his receiver from the hook. Hanging up, The Shadow went out through the
hallway of the apartment, to begin a stealthy search for another outlet.

The Shadow had not proceeded far before he found reason to abandon his search. As he turned the
corner of a hallway, he heard the creep of footsteps. Gliding through the doorway of a darkened room,
The Shadow found another opening and reached the hall near Ruthley's den. Again, he heard a guarded
creep.

Someone had heard the click of the telephone dial when The Shadow had used it. That person had
visited the den following The Shadow's departure. His presence known, The Shadow had need of
strategy. His best course was to return to the den, since the vigilant guard had already been there. The
Shadow crossed the hallway. His tall form threw a long silhouette upon the floor, almost to a corner
beyond the door of the den. Gliding into the lighted room, The Shadow neared the desk, intending to
pass beyond it. A sound made him wheel; he faced the doorway just as a wiry attacker sprang into
view.

It was Haija. Almost as stealthy and as observant as The Shadow, the keen Japanese had spotted the
silhouette upon the hallway floor. Coming from beyond the corner, he had reached the doorway of the
den. Seeing The Shadow, Haija was leaping to prompt attack. The fact that The Shadow swung to meet
him did not perturb the speedy Jap. Haija was grinning as he came.

With nimble hands, Haija caught The Shadow's right arm, as it swung toward the front of the black
cloak. Haija thought that The Shadow was reaching for a gun. His guess was wrong. The Shadow had
recognized a jujitsu thrust; his move was a bluff to counteract it.
As Haija performed a back-spin, expecting to speed The Shadow over his shoulders, a gloved left hand
hooked cross-arm, to clutch the Jap's neck. Haija jolted short. The Shadow whipped backward; his long
arms were like tremendous levers, as they hoisted Haija from the floor. Releasing his grip, The Shadow
let Haija hurtle over an armchair; shoulder foremost, the Japanese bashed against the side of the heavy
framed painting that adorned the wall. The canvas quivered from the thud; instantly, The Shadow
recognized that it served as a door.

HAIJA lay motionless on the floor, stunned by a bump his head had taken when he sprawled. The
Shadow stepped to the telephone; again, he dialed Woodstock's number, to get another busy signal.
Hardly had he finished with the dialing when he heard sounds from elsewhere in the apartment. Ruthley
had servants beside Haija. They had heard the crash of the Jap's fall; they were coming to learn its
cause.

For a moment The Shadow paused, ready to begin new fray. His gloved fingers, dipping beneath the
cloak, crinkled the paper that he had placed there.

The Shadow changed his plan. Stepping over toward Haija's prone body, he tried the edge of the picture
frame. He found the catch; shoved Haija aside with one foot as he drew the portrait toward himself.
Listening, The Shadow noted that there were no approaching steps. Probably the servants were
conferring among themselves, reluctant to advance until they knew more.

Leaving the big portrait ajar, The Shadow hurried from the den. He reached the hallway; gained the outer
door and opened it, making a clatter as he did so. Giving the door a slam. The Shadow wheeled back
toward the den. As he passed the unconscious form of Haija, he heard the pound of footsteps.

Servants knew at last that there was an intruder in the apartment. They thought that the unknown visitor
had fled by the front door. With courage gained, they were making a pursuit. Calmly, The Shadow
stepped through the opening behind the portrait; closed the doorlike painting and heard the catch click
automatically.

Stephen Ruthley, when he returned, would never guess that The Shadow had found the secret exit. Haija
would testify to a battle in the den; the other servants would swear that an invader had fled through the
front door. As for the crumpled paper that he had gained, The Shadow doubted that Ruthley would even
remember it. The master crook had considered it of no importance.

THE SHADOW however, regarded the paper as valuable. He pocketed it securely, as he picked his
way by flashlight through the interior of the vacant house. That paper was evidence of a sort that could be
used, when the proper time arrived. There was a chance, though, that it might never prove necessary.

For The Shadow was taking a shortcut to reach Stephen Ruthley. He was convinced that the master
crook had gone to the residence of Adam Woodstock. Knowing Ruthley's ways. The Shadow was
positive that he would find the rogue engaged in secret parley with the contractor. If the two were
hatching a new scheme of graft, it would be worth The Shadow's while to listen; then deal with Ruthley
afterward.

Reaching the blind alley in back of the row of houses, The Shadow followed devious turns until he
reached an obscure garage that was well away from brightly lighted streets. An attendant was dozing in
the office; he did not awaken when The Shadow entered a small roadster and coasted the car to the
street.

This was a reserve automobile, that The Shadow had purchased from a "used-car" lot in Westford. He
was employing it to reach Adam Woodstock's home, on the other side of town. The Shadow knew the
location of the contractor's residence; it was one of the largest houses in Westford.
All that disturbed The Shadow was the fact that it had taken him a dozen minutes to reach the garage
where he had placed the old car. That interval had delayed his start to Woodstock's. There was a chance
that the conference might be ended before The Shadow arrived at the contractor's home.

Had The Shadow learned the real purpose of Stephen Ruthley's visit to Adam Woodstock, he would
have realized that the odds were badly against him. Though he was to profit by his present mission, The
Shadow was faring into new and greater hazards than those that he had previously faced in Westford.

                         CHAPTER XIII. DEATH'S FALSE TALE
EVEN before The Shadow's combat with Haija, Stephen Ruthley had reached the home of Adam
Woodstock. Admitted by the contractor himself, Ruthley had gone to a room on the second floor, there
to confer with the man he had come to see.

Adam Woodstock was a dreary-faced individual; his bloodless countenance was almost as gray as the
thin fringe of hair that surrounded his bald head. Seated at a desk in the room that he called his study,
Woodstock assumed a listening attitude while Stephen Ruthley spoke. Woodstock had an odd habit of
tilting his head to the right; Ruthley noticed it particularly tonight.

Across the desk from Woodstock, Ruthley was purring a persuasive story. It concerned the contract on
which Woodstock had already paid back the half million dollars that had been required of him.

"There are several of us in this deal," confided Ruthley. "Marclot and I are not alone. That is why I have
come to see you, Woodstock. These papers explain the situation."

Spreading the documents that he had brought from his own files, Ruthley chose one and passed it across
the desk to Woodstock.

"This is the most important one," declared Ruthley. "It contains an itemized statement that you gave to
Marclot. The bottom line lists five hundred thousand dollars under the head of excess profit."

"Quite right," returned Woodstock, in a drawly tone. "I listed my own profit as one hundred thousand;
ten per cent of a million. The five hundred thousand represents the amount that I turned over to
Marclot."

"We know that," nodded Ruthley, "but some of my associates have doubted the authenticity of the
figures."

"But Marclot received the half million -"

"True. Nevertheless, we have only his word for it that your figures are correct."

Adam Woodstock blinked. In unbelieving tone, he questioned:

"Do you mean to say that someone has suggested that Marclot and I might have worked a side deal of
our own?"

"Just that," replied Ruthley. "Of course, it sounds ridiculous. I said so myself. But the others did not think
so. They had a reason for their doubts."

"What could that be?"

"The fact that you did not sign the statement."
Woodstock delivered a short laugh. Head still tilted, he reached for a pen that lay beside his desk
telephone. Ruthley noted that the telephone was off its stand. He had suggested that Woodstock leave it
so, in order not to be troubled by outside calls.

"I typed this statement myself," asserted Woodstock. "I have no objections to signing it."

Woodstock flourished the pen; he hesitated before applying his signature. His drawly tone was troubled
as he remarked:

"This may be a mistake after all. I can't sign this statement, Ruthley. It would become an incriminating
document if I did."

"Hardly," smiled Ruthley. "Not while it remains in my hands, Woodstock."

"I did not pay the money to you."

"You paid it to Marclot."

"The statement does not say so. It indicates that I could have retained the funds myself."

Ruthley reached for the statement. He studied it; nodded his agreement with Woodstock's opinion.
Observing the contractor's typewriter on a table, Ruthley inserted the statement in the machine. At the
bottom of the sheet, he typed two dotted lines, one an inch and a half below the other.

Here." Ruthley spoke briskly, as he laid the paper on the table. "Let me have your pen, Woodstock. I
shall sign the statement also, to give it my approval."

He took the pen; it slipped slightly between his fingers. Ruthley tightened his grip; signed his name on the
lower line. He handed the pen to Woodstock, who placed a much-used blotter upon the signature; then
prepared to sign his own name, by taking the pen from Ruthley's grasp.

In order to sign the lower line, Ruthley had come over beside the contractor. He stood there, one hand
upon the table, while Woodstock signed the upper line.

Ruthley was on Woodstock's right. He thrust his hand into his right coat pocket as Woodstock was
reaching for the blotter. His head still tilted to the right, Woodstock did not spy Ruthley's move. The
contractor simply planked the blotter upon the statement; pressed it firmly with his fingers.

There was a glimmer as Ruthley's hand moved upward. Coming from cover was a .32 revolver. Taking
advantage of Woodstock's tilted head, Ruthley jabbed the gun muzzle squarely against the contractor's
temple and pulled the trigger. He stepped away as he felt the slight recoil of the weapon.

For a full second; Adam Woodstock's body remained rigid; blood seemed to hold back from the gaping
wound that the bullet had blasted in his temple. Then the tilt of Woodstock's head began to overbalance
him; he sagged in Ruthley's direction. Stone dead, Woodstock would have sprawled to the floor, had
Ruthley not intervened.

WITH his left hand, Ruthley thrust Woodstock's right shoulder in a forward direction, so that the dead
man slumped upon the desk. As Ruthley expected, Woodstock's right hand shoved out ahead of him.
Ruthley waited until the motion had ended. In deliberate fashion, he placed the revolver in Woodstock's
hand, carefully clamped the dead man's fingers about the weapon.

Ruthley was not disturbed by the noise that the gun shot had made. Woodstock's house was isolated; the
windows of this room were closed. Nor did Ruthley bother about wiping the handle of the revolver to
remove fingerprints. He knew that there were none of his own prints upon the gun.

This was explained when Ruthley held his hands palms upward in the light of the desk lamp, to give them
brief examination. The glow made the murderer's finger tips look glassy.

Ruthley chuckled. Before beginning this expedition, he had taken the precaution to dip his fingers in
collodion. That liquid had dried, leaving a smooth, gelatine surface upon the fingers. The presence of
collodion explained why the pen had slipped slightly from Ruthley's grip. With larger objects, especially
the revolver, the collodion did not matter.

Stepping to the far side of the desk, Ruthley reached across and whisked away the statement that he and
Woodstock had signed. The paper slid easily from beneath Woodstock's left hand; but the blotter could
not be so easily gained. It was beneath Woodstock's elbow.

Ruthley observed the projecting blotter edge; decided not to disturb it. The blotter was an old one, its
upper surface showed enough ink smears to cover any recent marks.

Coming around beside Woodstock's body, Ruthley opened a desk drawer on the dead contractor's
right. There he found objects that he wanted. The first was a long pair of scissors, that served as paper
shears. Ruthley used these on the signed statement; he carefully clipped off the lower portion of the
paper, just beneath the line that bore Woodstock's signature. Ruthley's own signature was removed with
the clipped-off portion.

Crumpling the strip of paper, the master crook tucked it in his vest pocket.

From the desk drawer, Ruthley took a ring of keys. He walked across the room and stopped in front of
a metal strong-box, where he knew that Woodstock kept important papers. Unlocking the box with the
proper key, Ruthley found a suitable pigeonhole into which he tucked the signed statement.

Returning to the desk; Ruthley gathered other papers that he had brought with him. He pocketed some;
carried others to the strong-box and placed them there. From another pocket, Ruthley drew a small wad
of letters. Checking them over, he smiled as he noted Beezer Dorsch's signature. Choosing another
pigeonhole, Ruthley planted the fake letters. He closed the door of the strong-box and locked it.

THE murderer's task was almost finished. Ruthley went back to the desk, replaced the scissors and the
keys. He picked up the telephone and put it on its stand.

Ruthley looked around the room; smiled in pleased manner as he observed the drawn window shades.
He made a last survey of Woodstock's position at the desk; in precise fashion, Ruthley shifted the dead
man slightly, so that his position would better suit the killer's design.

The set-up was perfect. Adam Woodstock looked as if he had braced himself for an ordeal; then
pressed a revolver against his right temple. Assuming that Woodstock had been leaning forward, a bullet
from his own hand would have produced the present result. It looked like a positive case of suicide.

Two details more; Ruthley attended to them. One was the matter of the pen, which had dropped from
Woodstock's hand. Ruthley replaced it on the rack. The other was the drawer, that Ruthley had closed.
Carefully, the murderer opened it again. From his pocket, he brought out a small box of cartridges, to
match those in the death gun. He buried the cartridge box deep in the drawer.

Ruthley left the drawer open, to create the impression that Woodstock had reached into it for the gun.
No other details were necessary. The suicide picture was complete; an examination of Woodstock's
strong-box would fully support it. The signed statement; the letters from Beezer Dorsch would be as
good as a written confession.

After a long, cold glance toward Woodstock's crumpled body, Ruthley turned and left the study. In a
darkened hallway, he chose a flight of stairs that led to the back of the ground floor.

Descending, Stephen Ruthley went out by a side door.

The master crook was deliberate, even in his departure. In fact, he had almost decided to linger a while
longer upon the scene of his crime; for he was confident that no intruders would arrive until he wished
them.

Though Stephen Ruthley did not guess it, luck favored him immensely when he made his chance decision
to depart. Had he stayed two minutes longer, his false tale of death would have been rendered useless.

For Stephen Ruthley had unwittingly left a trail that led to this very house. The Shadow, master of
vengeance, was close upon it.

                    CHAPTER XIV. ON THE SCENE OF CRIME
ADAM Woodstock's large house fronted upon a broad, but little-traveled, avenue. It stood well back
from the street, and was almost surrounded by trees. Access to the house was gained through a broad
driveway that began at the front avenue.

A small roadster had halted across from the entrance to the driveway. Keen eyes saw an empty lot,
directly opposite Woodstock's house. Relaxing the clutch pedal slowly, the driver of the roadster urged
his car between two trees; parked it in the lot and alighted.

All this was done in darkness, with the roadster's lights extinguished. As the arrival from the roadster
crossed the avenue, he was silent and invisible. His feet did not even crunch the gravel when he entered
Woodstock's driveway.

The Shadow had staged a perfect arrival at this house where crime had struck. Advancing on foot, he
intended to make a stealthy entry; he was choosing the front door because it was nearest. It was not until
he was almost to his objective that The Shadow halted.

He had heard the sound of a motor, throbbing on the other side of the house. It was followed by the
muffled whine of a high-pitched second gear, a sound that faded almost instantly. For a moment, The
Shadow expected to see an automobile come around the corner of the house; then he detected that the
car had driven in an opposite direction.

Swiftly, The Shadow skirted the house. He glimmered a tiny flashlight upon the gravel of the driveway.
The light showed that the driveway formed a circle; it was one that afforded two exits. In addition to the
drive that came up from the avenue, there was another that led to a rear street. It was in that direction
that the car had gone.

Noting a side door, The Shadow entered the house. There were no lights on the ground floor; but faint
rays from a stairway indicated illumination on the second story. The Shadow ascended; arrived at the
half-closed door of Woodstock's study. Peering inward, he saw the dead contractor slumped across the
desk.

The Shadow entered, to examine the grim result of Ruthley's conference with Woodstock. Even to The
Shadow, this outcome was something of a surprise; but its purpose dawned upon him the moment that he
saw the scene of crime. The Shadow had foreseen that Stephen Ruthley would take measures to cover
his own misdeeds; but he had not expected the master crook to deal in actual murder.

In fact, The Shadow had supposed that Ruthley had come here to ask Woodstock's aid in the important
matter of quelling public sentiment regarding the death of Prescott Dunson. In a sense, Ruthley had done
just that; but he had made Woodstock give aid without request. It did not take The Shadow long to
recognize that Woodstock had become the scapegoat, upon whom would be placed the blame for
Dunson's death.

CLOSE beside the desk, The Shadow studied the set-up of Ruthley's perfect crime. It looked like
suicide; it would pass as such. The opened desk drawer was an excellent touch. Any ordinary
investigator would have decided that Adam Woodstock had reached into it to bring out his own
revolver.

Keys shone from within the drawer. The Shadow plucked them up, examined them. He saw the
strong-box; went to it and unlocked it. Stooped before the metal container, he began a search for planted
evidence. He found it. The very items upon which Ruthley banked so heavily were the ones that won The
Shadow's immediate suspicion.

The letters from Beezer Dorsch were pointed. They referred, in crudely veiled words, to a "job" that
would be done as ordered. That meant the death of Dunson. One note spoke of "D," declaring that he
would be no trouble. The Shadow left these letters where he found them.

Woodstock's signed statement explained still more. It gave The Shadow immediate knowledge of
Ruthley's double-edged plan. The public would fall for the idea that the half million "excess profit"
represented Woodstock's own harvest; but The Shadow knew its exact significance. That money was
graft, paid back to Stephen Ruthley and the fake reformers who ran the present city administration.

Woodstock's corporation would have to disgorge the sum from its own funds. There would be a new
contract; new graft, managed by Mayor Elvin Marclot who would raise his hands in amazed horror when
he learned how Woodstock had tried to "swindle" the city of Westford.

One detail of the statement caught The Shadow's eye. The paper was slightly shorter than a usual
typewriter page. Holding the paper to the light, The Shadow examined its texture; he saw its odd,
wavy-lined watermark: the letter "W." It was a special bond paper, that Woodstock had evidently
ordered direct from the manufacturers.

Approaching the desk, The Shadow found other paper in the drawer. It was of the same bond; but the
sheets were of normal length. Placing one blank sheet in Woodstock's typewriter, The Shadow tapped a
few keys to observe the peculiarities of type and ribbon color. He saw at once that Woodstock's
statement had been typed upon this machine.

Comparing the big shears with the statement, The Shadow saw how its lower edge had been clipped. He
noted that the space was very slight below the line that bore Woodstock's signature. The Shadow
laughed softly; he had gained an inkling of how Ruthley had induced Woodstock to sign the statement.

THE SHADOW replaced the statement in the strong-box; he locked the heavy door. He kept the sheet
of paper that he had typed; placed it beneath his cloak. He dropped the paper shears into the desk
drawer, along with the keys. Looking over the flattened shoulders of Woodstock's huddled body, The
Shadow saw the much-used blotter that projected from beneath the dead man's arm.

Inch by inch, The Shadow worked the blotter free. He saw at once why Ruthley had left it on the desk.
The blobby surface of the blotter could afford no clue. When The Shadow turned the blotter over,
however, he made a simple discovery that had totally escaped Ruthley's notice.
The blotter was double surfaced. Woodstock, until tonight, had used the upper side. Tonight, he had
begun with the blank side of the blotter. Its fresh surface showed only two marks. One was Woodstock's
own signature, reversed; quite plain, for the contractor had pressed heavily with his pen. The other was
lighter; but The Shadow recognized it. The second mark bore a distinct resemblance to Stephen
Ruthley's signature.

The master crook had overlooked one small item in his arrangement of the suicide scene. Just as he had
left evidence at his own apartment, indicating that he had gone to visit Woodstock, so had he left a clue
which proved that he had actually come to the contractor's home. This blotter could nullify the evidence
that Ruthley had planted in Woodstock's safe.

Ordinarily, The Shadow would have left the blotter on the desk. Circumstances caused him to do
otherwise tonight. The Shadow had gauged Stephen Ruthley too well, to believe that the murderer would
leave anything to chance. Though Ruthley thought his crime was perfect, he would certainly count upon
the opinion of a man well qualified to judge.

This crime would be discovered. Police would arrive; with them, Police Director Borman. Knowing
Ruthley to be the perpetrator of crime. Kirk Borman would be on the lookout for every minor detail. If
Borman found the blotter, he would promptly dispose of it. As evidence, the blotter would never serve, if
left upon the scene of crime. Therefore, The Shadow kept the blotter; he placed it beneath his cloak,
along with other items that he had acquired upon this night of investigation.

The Shadow was ready for a return visit to Stephen Ruthley's apartment. He knew that he could enter
there, through the secret passage, to surprise Ruthley in the latter's own den. Almost ready for departure,
The Shadow paused on the far side of the desk, to lean across and make a last inspection of
Woodstock's body. It was while The Shadow stood in this position that he heard a sound from
somewhere in the house.

BOARDS were creaking, as though invaders were creeping up the front stairs. Wheeling from the desk,
The Shadow crossed the room. He gained the hall and reached the top of the back stairs, to listen for
sounds from the front. Audible whispers reached The Shadow.

"Maybe it was a crank call," came one comment. "The guy that phoned headquarters may have just
thought he heard a shot."

"We can't take any chances, though," was the response. "Director Borman said to move in, softlike, and
investigate."

"Yeah. He's outside, too, waiting for us to report."

"That's why we'd better take a gander into that lighted room."

The approaching men were detectives from headquarters. A call had been made there, reporting a
gun-shot heard within Woodstock's house. Probably, Ruthley had made that call, soon after his
departure. Kirk Borman had been at his office, expecting it. Since Borman was outside, it was likely that
members of the Flying Squadron were with him.

The Shadow decided upon stealthy departure, in order to head for Ruthley's without trouble on the way.

The two detectives went past. As they neared the door of Woodstock's study, The Shadow began his
descent of the back stairs. He was only half-way down when a shout came from above. The dicks had
discovered Woodstock's body. They were pounding out into the hall, to raise a loud alarm.
Instantly, there was a response from below. Footsteps clattered near the bottom of the back stairs. There
was a click; a flashlight gleamed upward; the light was furnished by another detective, who happened to
be near the back stairs when he heard the shout. He, too, raised a cry.

The dick below had made a discovery of his own. Straight in the path of his upward glare, he saw The
Shadow. The detective's shout was spontaneous. He told all, as he cried:

"There's a guy on the back stairs! Get him!"

More footsteps below, as new arrivals hurried to join the detective who held the light. Shouts from
above, as the two who had found Woodstock's body reached the back stairs to see The Shadow against
the brilliant glare.

The Shadow's chance of stealthy departure was ended. Trapped between two forces, he was faced by a
situation more pressing than the one he had encountered the night before.

                            CHAPTER XV. FOILED HOUNDS
ONE factor favored The Shadow. Though trapped, he had been found by men who were not of a
criminal sort. Director Borman, knowing that Adam Woodstock's body was to be discovered, had used
smart policy. He had sent ordinary detectives into the contractor's house; men who had long been on the
Westford force. He had decided that their preliminary reports would be better than those of the outsiders
who formed the Flying Squadron.

As yet, The Shadow had not clashed directly with any of the city's loyal police. Bluecoats had joined the
khaki-clad squadron men in last night's chase; but The Shadow had been speeding away when the
regular police took up the chase. Hence, he was an unknown factor to the real supporters of the law in
Westford.

These headquarters men were like the police of Lieutenant Maclare's precinct. They were capable, but
slow-witted. Director Borman preferred such officers. The Shadow knew that fact; he took advantage of
it. Despite his trapped position, he saw chance for a quick getaway.

As usual, The Shadow did the unexpected. His natural course lay downward; but he spurned that route.
His prompt decision was based on the fact that men were better prepared below; moreover, there was
no way to guess instantly their number. Above were but two men; they were in the throes of a second
surprise, for they had just found Woodstock's body. They did not expect The Shadow to come in their
direction.

That direction, however, was the one that The Shadow chose; and he took his course with amazing
speed. Wheeling on the stairway, he came upward with long bounds, swinging his arms high; each hand
held an automatic. The detectives were drawing guns; but they ducked as The Shadow came upon them.
Sweeping his arms sidewise, The Shadow carried the pair half across the hall.

He was clear of the light from below. The startled dicks were sprawled; despite the fact that The
Shadow avoided damage with his sweeping blows. One headquarters man took the back of a gloved fist
upon the chin. That swing, weighted with an automatic, was a knock-out punch.

The other detective swung at The Shadow, missed him in the darkness and fired two wild shots at
nothingness. A swinging forearm staggered him to the top of the back stairs, where he did a downward
dive, into the arms of men who were dashing upward.

The Shadow sped down the front stairway, turning the landing just as the flashlight stabbed in his
direction. A detective fired two useless rounds. The Shadow was gone before the fellow tugged the
trigger.

THE SHADOW had made a perfect start; but he knew that it was but preliminary to the struggle that
was to come. Revolver shots had been heard outside; shock troops were prepared to answer the alarm.

As The Shadow hurled the front door open, a spotlight glared full upon him. The shouts that went up
were delivered by hoarse-voiced members of the Flying Squadron.

Nearly a third of that outfit was on hand. Those sharp-shooting thugs were dangerous with their guns.
Knowing it, The Shadow did not pause to fire at the focused light; instead, he sprang off toward a front
corner of the house, getting away from the glare in an instant.

The light swung about; it did not show The Shadow. He had cut in back of thick, intervening shrubbery.

Guns began to bark; bullets whistled through foliage, thudded the house walls. A challenging laugh
sounded from off beside the house. Raucous-voiced crooks shouted harsh epithets, as they heard The
Shadow's weird mockery. They fired toward spots whence they thought the sinister mirth had issued.
Their bullets were wide by yards.

No one could place The Shadow's laugh in blackness. Those who tried, merely rendered their gunfire
useless, as The Shadow wanted it. The real tokens of The Shadow's position came when automatics
tongued streaks of flame, straight for men who had revealed themselves by the spurts from their own
revolvers. Groans, not bullets, answered The Shadow. In four shots, he scored two hits.

The Shadow was on his way again, circling off through darkness while his enemies fired blindly. A loud
command was issued; it was in Kirk Borman's voice. The police director recognized the futility of the
tactics that his thugs had taken. He was ordering them to follow a better method.

Khaki-clad thugs spread away, toward the hedges that formed the boundaries of Woodstock's property.
There were patrol cars in the avenue and on other streets. Each automobile served as a base; men with
flashlights passed from car to car.

Borman joined the detectives inside the house; he put men on guard at each door. A few of the Flying
Squadron lugged in the pair of wounded men whom The Shadow had clipped; after that, they hurried to
carry out Borman's latest orders. Those were instructions for the cordon to close inward.

SOMEWHERE in the darkness was The Shadow. He had paused, expecting the move that came. It
suited him; for his intention was to find an opening and depart while his enemies made futile search. That
was possible, if he moved at the right time.

Two minutes passed, while surrounding men crept closer; searchlights began to sweep from patrol cars,
like a barrage above the head of the advancing men.

Wisely, the men in the cars kept the lights high, hoping to disclose The Shadow without revealing the
positions of the men who closed in upon the cloaked fighter. The Shadow saw his opportunity and took
it; close to the ground, he moved rapidly outward, just before a flood of light came in his direction. He
escaped the path of the gleam.

The cordon could not function fully until it tightened; the creeping men were expecting The Shadow to
lurk until he neared them. One lone fighter, sought by many, would ordinarily have let the circle close
about him. The Shadow's tactics were different. He was actually on a line with the closing men; beneath
the gleaming lights, like themselves.
The Shadow, however, was moving in an outward direction. Moreover, he had chosen the simplest path
as the one that would be least guarded. He was creeping along the driveway to the avenue.

The Shadow was almost to the gate before he was discovered; even then, he was noted by accident.
Reinforcements had come up; among them, men on motorcycles. One of these was ordered to ride
through to the house; to form new contact with the police director. Obeying instructions, the man on the
motorcycle chugged for the driveway. As he took the curve, his headlamp threw a glare inward from the
gate.

Squarely ahead, the rider saw The Shadow rising in his path. The man gave a shout; whipped a revolver
from his holster as he applied the brake. He gained no chance to fire. The Shadow was launching
forward; as the fake cop's gun came up, The Shadow hurdled the handle-bars in a long plunge.

The Shadow's left arm clamped the man's shoulder; as the fellow spilled to the gravel, The Shadow came
with him. The Shadow's right hand clutched a .45; it was poised for a swing, if the foeman made trouble.
No blow was needed; the rider struck on the back of his head and rolled over, just away from his
toppling cycle.

The Shadow sprang to his feet; he was just in time. The cry had been heard; searchlights were flooding
toward the driveway. Men on the lawn heard shouts, as those in the cars spied The Shadow. All wheeled
about to begin a barrage. Through sheer speed, The Shadow escaped them. He was leaping through the
gate as the fusillade began.

Guns barked from the patrol cars; but the bullets were scattered. The men in the cars had the double task
of keeping The Shadow spotted with light and continuing the fire until their companions arrived. They
were not equal to the twofold effort. The Shadow was across the avenue before guns ripped away in
earnest.

BOUNDING into his old roadster, The Shadow pressed the starter. The motor roared as he sped the
car off between two houses. His lights blinked into view; the men from the cordon saw the roadster
careen to another street, headed away to flight. Shouting, the khaki-clad thugs boarded their patrol cars
and started in pursuit.

The Shadow reversed last night's procedure. Though pressed by swift cars and motorcycles, he headed
into the city instead of making for the limits. The roadster lacked speed, but it was ideal for the tricky
course that The Shadow took. He whizzed the small car around the sharpest corners; shot it through
driveways, past houses, out through hedges. Three times he cut back upon his course, like a hare
outrunning the hounds.

Shots ripped every time pursuers spied him; and The Shadow answered with bullets of his own. He
crippled the driver of the closest patrol car and put that machine out of the chase. He picked another
foeman from a motorcycle, just as the pursuer sped in from another street to block The Shadow's turn.

The Shadow knew that if he could outrun these foemen, he could reach the goal that he sought. If he
arrived at Ruthley's to confront the master rogue, The Shadow could force the big-shot to call off his
hounds, under threat of instant death.

As the pursuit continued, The Shadow gained more distance; but new factors intervened to offset his
purpose.

By heading toward the heart of Westford, The Shadow was running into new details of the Flying
Squadron. Radio calls were humming through the ether. New units came in view at nearly every block.
Sheer nerve was all that saved The Shadow from disaster; twice he ran the gantlet of cars and
motorcycles that sought to head him off, relying each time on quick stabs from his own guns to make the
opposing marksmen falter.

Each time it worked; for the thugs who served as members of the Flying Squadron knew the identity of
their dread foe. Drivers instinctively changed course when The Shadow's big guns tongued. Crooks
could not fire accurately from their veering cars.

At last, a double circuit brought The Shadow to the railroad tracks. He sped the roadster across,
planning a last dash in the direction of Ruthley's apartment house.

Then came the trouble that The Shadow had hoped to avoid. Shots flashed from a side street; to elude
them, The Shadow drove into an alleyway. New guns barked from straight ahead. All came from men on
foot. The Shadow had entered Maclare's precinct. The lieutenant and his bluecoats were answering the
alarm that they had received just prior to The Shadow's arrival.

THE SHADOW jammed the roadster against the curb. He dropped from it; darted back into the street
that he had just left. He saw an alleyway opposite; he took to it just as a burly man in uniform opened fire
from beneath a street light. It was Lieutenant Maclare; The Shadow could easily have dropped him
where he stood. But The Shadow's quarrel was not with loyal men.

Maclare bawled an order to his men. Though he did not realize it, the lieutenant was shouting for the
death of the very fighter who had saved his own life two nights ago.

Bluecoats responded; they chased along the alley that The Shadow had taken. The Shadow had outrun
them, but two police cars spotted him in the next street. Recognizing these as belonging to the Flying
Squadron, The Shadow stopped to deal with them.

He halted the first car with well-directed bullets; but he could not stop the second. Bullets hailed from its
windows; The Shadow gave a last volley, put away his emptied guns and dived for a space between two
buildings. A bullet clipped him as he sprang. The thugs in the police car saw him falter. They leaped to the
ground; chased into the alley where The Shadow had gone.

More of the Flying Squadron arrived; so did the regular police. Khaki uniforms mingled with blue;
flashlights lighted space to show a blind alley that terminated in a high board fence, topped with barbed
wire. There were boxes and packing cases stacked all about; any of them might conceal The Shadow.

Lieutenant Maclare arrived to shout an order for men to advance and rout out the fugitive. Before the
order was obeyed, it was countermanded by a higher authority. Director Borman had arrived; in harsh
tones, he ordered the police to riddle the boxes at the end of the blind alley.

While bluecoats hesitated at the murderous order, Borman's khaki-clad henchmen opened fire. Guns
echoed between walls; bullets sprayed through boxes toppled stacks of them from in front of the fence.

With Maclare following, Borman strode forward. He knew that The Shadow had been wounded; he
expected to find the cloaked fugitive dead. Nearing the fence, the director grabbed up the lowermost
boxes and hurled them aside. He stared, as Maclare's flashlight showed a jagged hole in the corner of the
fence.

The Shadow had dived beyond those boxes; with one good arm, he had bashed the decayed boards at
the lower left corner of the fence. He had sledged those blows with an automatic; a few powerful strokes
had done the necessary work. The Shadow had shouldered through, while his pursuers had massed at
the entrance of the alley.
Blobs of blood stained the cement at the bottom of the fence. Those marks were new proof that The
Shadow had been crippled. Kirk Borman restrained a snarl as he turned to his men; in booming tones, he
gave an order for a prompt search throughout the district.

Eyeing the bloodstains once again, Kirk Borman indulged in a sharp smile of triumph. He was certain that
The Shadow could not have traveled far; he knew also that the crippled fighter would not be able to put
up a fight, when discovered.

Kirk Borman was sure that he would have good news for Stephen Ruthley tonight. News that the
menace of The Shadow existed no longer.

                               CHAPTER XVI. NEW REFUGE
MORE than an hour after The Shadow's disappearance, the first show ended at the Criterion Theater,
one of Westford's most elaborate motion picture houses. Among the throng that filed from the theater
were Louis Wilderton and Estelle Benbrook. The district attorney was speaking apologetically, when
they reached the sidewalk in front of the theater.

"I'm so sorry that we couldn't stay to the beginning of the feature picture," stated Wilderton, "but I am
terribly rushed with work at the office, really, I shouldn't have come to the theater at all tonight."

"I understand," said Estelle. "I do not mind, Louis. Come; let us walk over to the house. You can leave
me there and pick up your car."

As they walked along, Estelle added an afterthought:

"Your work is your most important duty, Louis. It will continue to be, until you have brought the
murderer of Prescott Dunson to justice."

Wilderton blinked in owlish fashion; then formed a slight smile.

"You spoke like your father, Estelle," be remarked. "Do you know, people often speak of the fact that
you so resemble him. They hold a high opinion of Judge Benbrook in this city."

The statement pleased Estelle; Wilderton saw it; he questioned suddenly:

"What is your father's real opinion of me? Does he favor my re-election? Or was he partial to Dunson's
candidacy?"

"Father expressed no preference," replied Estelle, soberly. "He said, however, that Westford needs a
man of courage in the office. A man who can do more than wish for results; one who can gain them."

Wilderton winced. The words were a criticism of his own ability, or lack of it, but he was aware that the
statement was justified. When he spoke again Wilderton's tone was sincere.

"I could step aside for the right man," he declared. "I could not have dropped from the contest on
Dunson's account; but if a man of greater prestige should run for the office -"

"Such as my father?"

"Yes, Estelle, a candidate of your father's caliber would help Westford. I would not run for re-election, if
he sought to become district attorney."

"Unfortunately, father cannot return to public life," remarked Estelle, ruefully. "He seems wearied; it takes
a physician's care to preserve what strength he still has. I appreciate what you have said, Louis; so will
father, when I tell him."

"Your father was always a champion of reform," reminded Wilderton. "The name of Judge Martin
Benbrook would sway the public. Such ardent reformers as Stephen Ruthley; such men as Mayor
Marclot, Director Borman, and others of this fine administration - all would support Judge Benbrook's
candidacy. I repeat again, Estelle; your father is one man for whom I would gladly postpone my ambition
to remain as district attorney. If -"

WILDERTON paused. They were at the corner opposite the Majestic Hotel. People were halting at the
sounds of sirens. A police car whizzed by; two motorcycles whirred and chugged as they swung the
corner. Everywhere were the khaki uniforms that denoted Westford's Flying Squadron.

"It looks like a man hunt!" exclaimed Wilderton. "Possibly they have caught the trail of that murderer,
Dorsch. Wait here, Estelle, while I inquire."

Two bluecoated policemen were searching doorways. Wilderton approached them; they recognized the
district attorney and saluted. After a brief parley, Wilderton returned to where Estelle stood. He
explained the situation while they continued toward the girl's home.

"Trouble at the home of Adam Woodstock," said Wilderton. "He was found dead, Woodstock was,
apparently a suicide. The coroner is out there. When the police arrived however, they found someone in
the house. They think that it was Shaw, the accomplice of Dorsch."

"Did they capture him?" inquired Estelle.

"No," returned Wilderton. "They say the fellow was rigged up in some kind of attire that helped him hide.
He dashed away from Woodstock's. They pursued him into town; trapped him in a blind alley."

"He was cloaked in black?"

Wilderton looked puzzled as he heard Estelle's strained tone. Nodding, he replied:

"Yes, of course, he was in black. That was why he managed to escape. They riddled the blind alley with
bullets -"

"To shoot him in cold blood?"

"Why not, Estelle? That was the way Dunson was slain. He never had a chance for life, poor chap."

Estelle tightened her lips, resolved to say no more. Wilderton concluded with the final information that he
had gained from the policemen.

"Somehow, the fugitive managed to slip from the trap," declared Wilderton. "He was wounded, though;
here and there, they found bloodstains on the sidewalk. The fellow must have been shrewd enough to
stanch his wounds, at least temporarily. The trail of blood was lost. So they are making a general
search."

Wilderton and Estelle had reached the girl's house. The young prosecutor started to accompany the
judge's daughter through the side gate. Estelle stopped him; pointed to Wilderton's car, parked in front of
the house.

"You have work to do, Louis," she reminded. "These new events may push you even more. You must
hurry to the office. I have my key; I can enter the door without trouble. Good night, Louis."
As Wilderton headed for his car, Estelle hurried along the passage to the door. Her hand trembling, she
tried to insert the key in the lock. It slipped from her fingers and clanked to the bottom of the steps.

Estelle leaned down to hunt for the key. Her fingers encountered moisture.

With a gasp, Estelle tugged a handkerchief from her hand bag; placed it upon the cement and pressed it
to absorb the stain that she felt sure was blood. She found the key during the process. Hurriedly, she put
it in the lock, to find that it would not turn. The door was already unlocked.

Estelle opened it, stepped into the entry. She saw the dim light of the hall and was ready to start for it.
Then she remembered to lock the door.

That done, Estelle moved toward the hall. She stumbled across something on the floor; caught herself as
she tripped forward. There was a candlestick on a hall table, with a few matches beside it. Shakily, she
lighted the candle and returned to the entry.

The long, wavering flame showed the sight that Estelle had dreaded. Huddled face downward on the
floor was a black-cloaked figure, as silent as if dead. The rescuer of the other night had returned. Hunted
by hordes who sought his life, he had found this last haven. Here, his strength had failed him.

Was The Shadow dead?

For the moment, the girl feared the worst. Then, bravely, she determined to learn. Estelle Benbrook was
resourceful; she had proven that in the past, by caring for her invalid father without the aid of servants.
Experience as a nurse had also brought her knowledge of how to aid the injured.

Estelle lifted The Shadow's head; his slouch hat fell away, to reveal a hawkish visage, pale despite its
masklike contour. The Shadow's face was well-formed, distinguished in appearance. Yet Estelle scarcely
observed it.

Her hands had found the blood-soaked shoulder of The Shadow's cloak. Easing away the black cloth
folds. Estelle discovered the nature of the wound. A police bullet had winged The Shadow's left shoulder;
but not badly enough to halt him. Loss of blood had overcome the wounded fighter, after he had gained
this refuge. A wadded handkerchief showed that The Shadow had managed to stanch the flow; but only
in temporary fashion.

THE SHADOW stirred as Estelle tried to lift him. His eyes opened wearily; he sensed his surroundings.
With the girl's aid, he managed to come to his feet. Estelle supported him as he wavered, through the
hallway, into a dim front room, where the girl guided him to a couch.

Estelle went out; she returned with scissors, bandages and a basin of water. Placing chair and table
beside the couch, she set to work to attend The Shadow's wound.

The task was a painful one, although The Shadow gave no indication of the pangs that he suffered. When
Estelle had finished the work, The Shadow's left shoulder formed a white-bandaged expanse. The girl
had drawn away his cloak; she had cut apart the cloth beneath, in order to apply the bandage.

She noted that The Shadow's eyes were looking beyond her; that his thin, straight lips were about to
move, as if to ask a question. Before The Shadow could speak, Estelle heard a footfall. She turned
about, uttered a startled cry as her father stepped into the room.

Judge Martin Benbrook was a man of seventy. He stood square-shouldered and erect, despite the fact
that he leaned his weight upon a heavy cane. His face was rugged; his features, though overlarge, were
distinctive, for they were as firm as if chiseled by a sculptor. Flowing gray hair added to the judge's fine
appearance.

He was dressed in attire that suited him well. An old-fashioned frock coat matched his cuffless trousers;
his shirt was stiff-fronted, set off with a low-cut waistcoat. A large four-in-hand tie accompanied the
wing-tipped collar beneath his smooth-shaven chin.

The judge's eyes were brilliant as they stared toward The Shadow. A responsive glint came from The
Shadow's eyes. Those were flashes of mutual recognition; each was a fighter who could tell another of his
kind. Estelle saw the exchange of silent greetings. A glad smile wreathed her face. Rising, she
approached the judge.

"Father," said the girl, "this is the stranger whom I spoke about. The one who rescued me from death -"

"He is no stranger." Judge Benbrook pronounced the words as solemnly as he had given verdicts from
the bench. "He is a person who stands for right. As such, he is our friend."

With slow but steady stride, the judge approached The Shadow. In his same solemn tone, he added:

"I have read beyond the headlines in these reports of crime. I have known that someone, here in
Westford, stood for justice against overwhelming odds! You are wounded; but in whatever battle you
fought, yours was the right cause!"

AS HE finished this pronouncement, Judge Benbrook began to sway. Estelle hurried to him; helped her
father to the chair beside the couch. The judge smiled; gave a slight nod to indicate that the spell had
passed.

"Stay here, father," said Estelle. "I shall bring your medicine."

As the girl left, Judge Benbrook spoke quietly to The Shadow.

"You have seen the reason for my inactivity," he declared. "Each day, my strength seems to return. At
evening, it fades. My malady perplexes me; I cannot understand it. Nevertheless, it prevents me from
waging the battle that I should like to undertake."

Pausing, the judge eyed The Shadow closely. He saw the pallor of the wounded fighter's face.

"Your pain is great," declared the judge. "You must rest. Sleep will aid you, until I summon my own
physician to -"

Estelle had returned in time to hear her father's words. She interrupted with a cry of alarm that halted
Judge Benbrook's statements. The girl shook her head as she placed a bottle of pills upon the table,
along with a glass of water.

"No father!" she exclaimed. "We cannot trust Doctor Lunden to preserve silence. I have often asked you
to choose another physician. Your own condition has not improved under Doctor Lunden's treatments."

Judge Benbrook motioned for silence. The Shadow's lips had moved. In low, but steady tone the
wounded fighter spoke:

"Telegraph to New York. Summon Doctor Rupert Sayre -"

The Shadow paused, closing his eyes; but both Estelle and her father nodded. They understood that
Sayre must be The Shadow's own physician.

The Shadow's eyes opened; they met Judge Benbrook's gaze. At close range, The Shadow noted a
largeness of the judge's pupils; a certain fixation in his stare.

Estelle was tipping three capsules from the medicine bottle. The Shadow reached forward with his right
hand.

"Give me two," he requested. "One only for Judge Benbrook."

Estelle looked puzzled; but she followed the request. The Shadow swallowed each pill in turn, following
with gulps of water from the glass which Estelle handed him. His head performed a slight nod, to indicate
that he had made a correct supposition.

"These pills contain an opiate," declared The Shadow, looking toward Judge Benbrook. "As such, they
will relieve my pain. They explain why your strength has failed you."

"You mean that I have been doped?" claimed Judge Benbrook. "That the increased dosages, given to me
by Doctor Lunden have been keeping me an invalid?"

The Shadow nodded.

"Take only one," he repeated. "Ask Sayre about them when he comes tomorrow. He will reduce the
dosage. Say nothing to your own physician."

JUDGE BENBROOK took a single pill and swallowed it. Watching The Shadow, he saw proof of the
latter's statement. The Shadow's eyes had dulled; his eyelids closed. A relieved smile showed upon the
thin lips. Judge Benbrook arose from his chair, faced his daughter with a triumphant gaze.

"He will sleep!" exclaimed the judge. "Soon, he will be well. Meanwhile, my malady will end; for this true
friend has discovered its real cause. We shall handle Lunden wisely, Estelle. We shall keep him ignorant
of the fact that we have learned his treachery."

Proudly, the old judge walked to the door of the room; turned to survey The Shadow, who was deep in
a drowse. In imposing tone, Judge Benbrook spoke for himself and The Shadow.

"Together," he predicted, "we shall win this struggle! Truth shall prevail in Westford! When it does, crime
will end!"

Those prophetic words must have reached The Shadow, just as he was sinking into a comfortable
lethargy. Estelle Benbrook, watching beside the couch, saw thin lips form another smile.

                            CHAPTER XVII. THE BOMBSHELL
FIVE days had passed since the tempestuous night when The Shadow had found refuge in Judge Martin
Benbrook's home. All had been quiet during those days.

Doctor Rupert Sayre had come from New York. During a brief visit, he had put two patients on the road
to recovery. He had attended The Shadow's wound. He had reduced the opiate dosage that Judge
Benbrook had unwittingly been taking. This, Sayre accomplished through a prescription of his own.

Outside of the judge's house, other matters had reached a settlement. The coroner had declared the
death of Adam Woodstock to be suicide. His verdict had been based on definite evidence; the papers
found in Woodstock's strong-box stood as clear proof that Woodstock had been the man "higher up"
who hired Beezer Dorsch to slay Prescott Dunson.

The coroner was an honest official, though an unimportant one. He did not belong to Stephen Ruthley's
ring; but he had been bluffed by the master crook's game.

Prescott Dunson had promised to reveal truth concerning corruption linked with crime. Apparently, all
could be laid upon Woodstock. The dead contractor's own statement proved that he had swindled the
city of Westford. All this evidence had been placed in the hands of Louis Wilderton.

The young district attorney had stated that he would force Woodstock's company to disgorge its half
million of excess profit. The corporation was wealthy; it had promptly paid up without argument. Thus
Mayor Elvin Marclot had received the fund in question; it was back in the city treasury. Money that did
not belong there; but which would not stay long. Marclot was already looking for another fat corporation,
headed by another of Woodstock's ilk; a man who would "play ball" and kick back the required graft in
return for the contract.

One thing had caused trouble. The Shadow's presence at Woodstock's had made the coroner hesitate in
his verdict of suicide. Director Borman had handled that; he had talked headquarters detectives into
swearing that The Shadow had been entering the house when they trapped him. Hence, he could not be
blamed for Woodstock's death. The crooks would have relished a decision that classed The Shadow as
a murderer; but they preferred to have Woodstock's death pass as suicide.

None of the headquarters men had gained a good look at The Shadow; nor had Lieutenant Maclare or
his bluecoats. Only the fake cops who formed the Flying Squadron knew who it was that they had
fought. They testified that the intruder had been the mysterious man called Shaw. Thus it was decided
that Shaw had served as go-between for Adam Woodstock and Beezer Dorsch.

Like Beezer, Shaw was wanted; and neither had reappeared. Ruthley and his fellow crooks decided that
The Shadow had gained his fill of Westford. Nevertheless, Lance Gillick expressed the view that The
Shadow might some day return. Ruthley decided to take no chances. Through Borman, the master crook
had arranged for members of the Flying Squadron to keep guard about his apartment house.

Ruthley did not know that The Shadow had found the secret entrance through the adjacent house;
nevertheless, he wanted absolute security. The Shadow's path to Ruthley's was blocked, even if he
should choose to use it.

Beezer Dorsch was hiding out in comfortable fashion at Lance Gillick's apartment. Popular belief had it
that Beezer had fled Westford, the night of Dunson's death.

WHAT most concerned the quieted city on this particular day was a meeting of the Civic Club, the chief
reform organization in Westford. That meeting was scheduled for late afternoon, in the club's own
headquarters. When the hour arrived, the place was thronged. The chairman was Stephen Ruthley
himself.

Standing on the rostrum, Ruthley beamed at the audience. In dulcet tones, he commended the city
officials for their successful war against crime and graft. There were plaudits from the crowd; bows from
Mayor Marclot and Director Borman, who were seated on the platform behind Ruthley. Finally,
Ruthley's tone became sorrowful; he began an eulogy for Prescott Dunson.

"We must not forget one man who stood for a cause," droned Ruthley. "That man was Prescott Dunson!
Though he had not fully gained our support, we were prepared to give it, in return for his promise to end
corruption. I believe that our present district attorney" - Ruthley turned to Wilderton, who was seated
near by - "would have stepped aside for Prescott Dunson. As it is, Dunson's work has been completed.
He was a martyr to the cause of reform!

"Fearing Dunson, the man who was behind corruption overstepped his bounds. I refer to Adam
Woodstock, who hired murderers to do his evil bidding. Woodstock himself weakened under the strain.
His suicide was the result. It has cleared the atmosphere. All is well in Westford.

"We can carry on as we have in the past, our courage strengthened by the noble example that Prescott
Dunson set for us. Someone must hold the office that Dunson sought. I can think of no one better than
Louis Wilderton, the present incumbent. I call upon you for unanimous support -"

Stephen Ruthley halted, disturbed by a commotion at the rear of the auditorium. His words were
drowned. Men were rising to cheer an unexpected arrival, a man whose entry came as a bombshell to
Stephen Ruthley.

Striding down the center aisle, step firm and carriage erect, came a man with keen face and flowing hair.
Like a crusader from the past, his very appearance awoke thunderous applause. Wildly, the reformers
were cheering Judge Martin Benbrook.

As the judge reached the platform, Ruthley stepped aside, bowing and smiling; for he knew that he must
side with enthusiasm. As the judge stepped forward, a hush fell upon the audience. In brief words, the
elderly jurist announced his purpose.

"I have come," he declared firmly, "to announce my return to public life. I intend to be a candidate for the
office of district attorney!"

The crowd went wild again. Judge Benbrook waited for the enthusiasm to end. Stephen Ruthley retained
his forced smile. Mayor Marclot and Director Borman restrained their nervousness. As the hubbub
ended, the judge added:

"I hold high regard for the present district attorney." He turned toward Wilderton as he spoke. "Yet I feel
that he has been handicapped through adverse conditions. My experience on the bench will enable me to
carry through thoroughly the functions of the office. As my foremost assistant, I shall need Louis
Wilderton."

Roars of approval. Wilderton was on his feet; shaking away from Ruthley, the young county prosecutor
sprang forward and clutched Judge Benbrook's hand. The pact was sealed; Ruthley's hopes were
spiked. As champion of reform, his part was to uphold such accord.

When new silence came, Judge Benbrook began a speech. His statements were mild at first; gradually,
they carried veiled accusation.

"The death of Prescott Dunson was the cause of my decision," the judge told the reformers. "He
promised to reveal the truth of crime and corruption. He promised to drive them forever from Westford.
Have we proof that Dunson's hopes have been fully accomplished? No! You would like to hear the
reason; therefore, I shall give it.

"There is laxity in our city government." The judge paused to let his words carry home. "If it had
functioned to its full, crime and corruption would never have gained a foothold. Where were our police,
when they allowed murderers to infest this city? What happened with our higher officials, when they
permitted such contracts as Adam Woodstock's to be signed?"

The words were indictments of Mayor Marclot and Director Borman. The two officials winced; looked
uneasy as they shifted in their chairs. Judge Benbrook drove home a final statement.

"As district attorney," he announced, "I shall make a full inquiry into every department of our
administration! I know that our honest officials will welcome such investigation. They were elected on a
reform ticket. I trust that they have stood by their pledges and done their utmost to further good
government."

Cleverly, the old judge had softened his impeachment. His words gave Marclot and Borman a chance to
regain their tottering favor. Both were too jittery to see the opportunity; but Ruthley was quick to grasp
it.

Smiling in his best fashion, the master crook started a new round of applause, lifting his hands to bring the
audience to its feet. He managed a nod to Borman, who nudged Mayor Marclot. The two came up,
joined enthusiastically in the tribute to Judge Benbrook.

OFF in the judge's own home, The Shadow was seated in the parlor, listening to a radio hook-up that
brought Judge Benbrook's voice to his ears. The meeting of the Civic Club was being broadcast
throughout Westford. The tumults of applause told their own story of the reception that the judge had
gained.

The Shadow turned off the radio; ascended the stairs to the second floor. Judge Benbrook had followed
a course as outlined by The Shadow. It had brought results. Through the judge's cooperation, The
Shadow had thrown confusion into the ranks of crime.

THE meeting had ended at the Civic Club. Mayor Marclot and Director Borman were the first to shake
Judge Benbrook's hand, hoping thereby to prove that they were foremost of the honest officials whom he
had mentioned. Stephen Ruthley pressed forward; commended the speech in flowery tones. As members
of the audience thronged the platform, Marclot and Borman made an inconspicuous departure.

They headed for Ruthley's apartment. They were there when the boss arrived, to announce that he had
left Judge Benbrook still surrounded by enthusiastic admirers. Ruthley stopped their questions with
impatient gestures.

"I called Lance on the way back," he told them. "I asked him where the slip-up was. Doc Lunden was
supposed to keep the old judge on the shelf."

Marclot and Borman nodded, worried. "Something went sour," purred Ruthley, maintaining the pose that
he could keep best when angered. "We'll have to find a way to amend the new situation."

"Before the old judge talks too much," put in Borman. "He nearly spilled the beans today, Steve."

"He knows more than he told," asserted Marclot, fearfully. "He is holding back real information; though
how he gained it, I cannot guess."

"We can handle this," announced Ruthley, "through Lance Gillick. He provided the way by which we
reached Doctor Lunden. That kept Judge Benbrook on the shelf for a long while. Lunden has failed us;
but that was his fault, not Lance's.

"Remember, we have kept Lance in the clear. He had a clean bill of health; we have strengthened him by
our policy of pinning crime on Beezer Dorsch. Lance will be here within an hour. I shall confer with him,
alone. Meanwhile, keep up the front that you have used so well in the past."

Stephen Ruthley waved his hand in dismissal. Marclot and Borman steadied themselves, made their
departure with new confidence. Ruthley had reassured them; they were positive that the big-shot had
picked the right way to stave off threatening disaster.

Ruthley watched his lieutenants depart. His smile was one of actual confidence.
Possibly, the master crook's smile would have vanished had he known that The Shadow was the
motivating force behind Judge Benbrook's appearance from retirement. Ruthley would have been
troubled further had he guessed that The Shadow had also foreseen that Lance Gillick was the one man
upon whom the big-shot could at present depend.

                  CHAPTER XVIII. LANCE FINDS THE ANSWER
SOON after Stephen Ruthley had broken the bad news to Mayor Marclot and Director Borman, a
package was delivered at the home of Judge Martin Benbrook. Estelle received it; she knew that it was
intended for The Shadow. The girl carried the package upstairs; she knocked at the door of a front
room. A quiet voice told her to enter.

Dusk had fallen; the room was almost dark; but against the window, Estelle saw a cloaked figure. As the
girl entered, The Shadow turned; he stepped toward Estelle and took the package. He laid it upon a
chair and beckoned the girl to the window.

The Shadow drew two envelopes from his cloak. He gave them to Estelle; then told the girl, in whispered
tone:

"These are for your father. He is to open the smaller envelope and read its contents. It will explain the
nature of the evidence which I have placed in the large envelope."

Estelle nodded; took the envelopes and hurried downstairs to meet her father. The judge was shaking
hands on the front steps; he waved good-by to the reformers and entered the house with Estelle. The girl
gave him the envelopes; entering the parlor, the judge opened the smaller one and read its contents.

His eyes lighted. He crumpled The Shadow's note and tossed it into a fire that was burning in the
fireplace. Looking about, he chose a music cabinet as a place to keep the larger envelope. He unlocked
the cabinet, put the envelope in the lower drawer.

"It will be safe there," the judge told his daughter. "Later, I shall turn it over to Louis Wilderton and
explain its contents. Perhaps" - the judge looked toward the stairway - "yes, I believe that I should confer
with our friend upstairs, even though he explained matters quite completely in his message."

Before the judge could follow his plan to visit The Shadow, there was a ring at the front door. Thinking
that members of the reform club had returned, the judge waited while Estelle answered the door. A
moon-faced man entered, removing his hat to display a baldish head. He saw the judge and bobbed
forward with an exclamation.

"Ah, Judge Benbrook!" ejaculated the arrival. "You have again gone contrary to my advice. I must insist
that, as my patient, you refrain from new exertion -"

"Come, come," snorted Judge Benbrook. "You forget yourself, Doctor Lunden. I have paid you to make
me a well man. You have succeeded. I need no more advice."

"But the medicine that you have taken -"

"Has proven beneficial. Let me see, doctor; I recall that you once told me that my improvement would be
remarkable. You stated that when my weary spells ended, I would be free to exert myself again."

"Provided that you kept on with the medicine," added Estelle, nodding toward her father. "That was what
Doctor Lunden told you."

Lunden winced. He remembered that he had made such optimistic statements.
"Very well," he decided. "But I warn you, judge, if you experience another turn of illness, I cannot be
held responsible."

UPSTAIRS, The Shadow was busy before a mirror. He had donned a new suit from the package that
Estelle had brought him; the attire was garish, but it did not conflict with The Shadow's countenance. He
had taken another object from the package: a small, flat make-up box. With deft hands, he had already
altered his face.

The Shadow's new visage was long, blunt-nosed and coarse. He had filled his eyebrows so that they
hung heavy, and gave him a permanent glower. The window was open; The Shadow heard a slam of the
front door. He peered out into the dusk, to see Doctor Lunden making his departure. The Shadow's
thick lips moved, as he whispered a significant laugh.

Placing a brace of automatics in holsters under his arms, The Shadow donned hat and cloak. He picked
up a small hand bag, carried it with him and went downstairs.

Judge Benbrook and his daughter had returned into the parlor. The Shadow heard Estelle laugh, as she
congratulated her father on the way he had managed Lunden. The Shadow passed the doorway and
made a silent exit. His course led out into the darkness, through the side door to which he had a key.

Doctor Lunden had walked away from the house. Had he glanced behind him, the physician might have
suspected that someone was on his trail. That is, if Lunden had been keen enough to note a strangely
flitting streak of blackness that occasionally glided beneath a lamp light. Few persons, however, had the
keenness to detect such a silent token of a follower; and Lunden, at present, was too intent with his own
thoughts even to suspect that his trail had been taken.

The physician reached the Club Adair. He entered, went to a table near the far door. He signaled to the
head waiter, who nodded.

Lunden was ushered through to the gaming room, which was doing business. The baldish physician eyed
the roulette wheel eagerly; then curbed himself and went to the door of Lance Gillick's office. He
knocked briskly. The door opened.

LANCE smiled sourly when he saw his visitor. The sallow-faced gambler beckoned Lunden into the
office; closed the door and snarled unpleasantly.

"Well, croaker," he questioned, "how did you make out?"

"No luck, Lance," whined Lunden. "The judge won't listen to advice."

"No? All right, sawbones. That means you're through. No chance of any dough for you."

"But I owe you twenty thousand -"

"That's written off. I got orders tonight from - well, never mind who gave them. Anyway, your gambling
debt is cancelled. You don't get a bonus, that's all."

"Then I can leave town?"

"You'd better. You've bluffed the medico fake too long. If it hadn't been for me fixing things, they'd have
questioned your phony license long ago."

Lunden seemed relieved to know that he was getting out of his uncomfortable situation. He stepped
toward the door; Lance stopped him.
"Just a minute," said Lance. "You've given me the real lowdown on that dope gag, haven't you?"

"I swear it, Lance!" returned Lunden. "Three tablets were the absolute maximum. More would be fatal; if
Judge Benbrook died, the coroner would surely learn the cause of his death."

"Then the old boy simply got used to the big dose and shook it off?"

"That seems the only answer. He is still taking his prescription. With a man of his age, the drug habit is
not easily formed. The effects of a drug that is regularly administered may be lost. Nevertheless, I could
not risk a greater dosage."

"O.K. You've got your walking papers. Take them."

"But if anything happens to Judge Benbrook -"

"You won't be blamed for it. Anyway, you'll be on the lam. Better start tonight."

AS soon as Lunden had gone, Lance returned to a task on which he had been working. That was the
wording of a telegram, addressed to a man named Roger Callister, otherwise "Trig" Callister. Lance had
mentioned that individual to Police Director Borman. Tonight, in conference with Stephen Ruthley, Lance
had again spoken of Trig.

In fact, Lance had just returned from Ruthley's, with instructions to bring Trig Callister back to Westford.
Trig had been around a lot, just before crime's heaviest outbreak. He had left Westford prior to the night
of Lieutenant Maclare's raid on the Mississippi Hotel. Lance had intended to bring him into town again;
but had postponed that plan because it had seemed unnecessary.

Right now, Trig would prove most useful, chiefly because he had been absent from Westford during the
recent episodes. That meant that Trig would have a clean slate when he returned.

Just as he was finding the right words for the telegram, Lance heard a knock at the door. He thrust the
telegram into a drawer, called for the person to come in. The door opened and closed; Lance turned
about in his swivel chair. His sallow lips emitted a pleased ejaculation. The man who had entered was
Trig Callister himself.

Trig was long-faced and blunt-nosed. His eyes had an habitual glower; yet his manner had a certain
smoothness that offset those characteristics. Though he bore a reputation as a killer, Trig was recognized
chiefly as a smooth swindler - a confidence man who could handle the most wary dupes.

Apparently, Trig had just arrived in Westford. He was carrying a hand bag that he planked on the desk.
Lance pulled out the telegram, passed it to his visitor.

"How did you guess I wanted you here, Trig?" queried Lance. "I thought you were going to wait until you
heard from me?"

"I didn't have to be a mind reader," returned Trig, in an even-toned voice. "I read the newspapers,
Lance. I saw that things were hot in Westford. Later on, I learned that they had cooled."

"That's sensible," agreed Lance. "Still, what made you think I'd need you?"

"When I heard that Beezer Dorsch was on the lam," explained Trig. "He was your best torpedo, Lance. I
knew that you would need somebody to pinch-hit for him."

"Beezer's still good," chuckled Lance, "but he has to lay low. I'm hiding him out, here in my apartment.
Listen, though, Trig. Here's the lay."

"WE have to handle an old judge named Benbrook," explained Lance. "We thought he was a has-been,
but he has started to kick up some trouble. We can't croak him; we can't snatch him. We have to coax
him away for a while; long enough to make people lose confidence in him."

"Won't he make trouble when he comes back again?"

"We'll fix him, if he does. Once he's lost his strangle hold on these club reformers, they won't care so
much about what happens to him. Here's the idea, Trig: You're to go and see Judge Benbrook; to talk
him into going somewhere with you."

"Easy enough," decided Trig, promptly. "I know one dodge that will work. These old gazebos always fall
for a request to come to Washington and give expert testimony before a congressional committee."

A pleased gleam reflected itself from Lance's eyes.

"Try it with Benbrook," decided Lance. "Only you won't have to take him to Washington. We'll have a
place all set near here, where you can sidetrack him."

Trig considered; then shook his head. "That won't work, Lance," he objected. "That is, not unless you let
me handle it my own way."

"How do you mean?"

"Keep your bunch out of the picture. Let me bring in some workers of my own. They're smooth; they
look like dudes. Only they can be plenty tough, in a pinch."

"All the better," chortled Lance. "This will be a perfect set-up! We can stage the stunt tomorrow. Duck
out of town tonight, Trig; stay somewhere under a phony name. Call in your outfit; stop back to see me
tomorrow. We'll frame the deal just the way you want it."

Soon afterward, Trig Callister made his exit, carrying his hand bag. Lance Gillick did not remain long in
his office. He left the Club Adair, to pay another visit to Stephen Ruthley; to tell the boss of Trig
Callister's timely arrival.

Lance regarded Trig as a "con man" deluxe. A good estimate, since Trig had duped Lance himself. Not
for an instant did Lance even begin to suspect the true identity of Trig Callister.

Lance would have been astounded had he known that Trig was The Shadow.

Actually, there was no such person as Trig Callister. The Shadow had assumed that character some time
ago, in order to contact Lance Gillick and gain preliminary facts concerning crookedness in Westford.
Knowing that Lance might consider Trig useful at present, The Shadow had wisely assumed the role
again.

Lance Gillick thought that he had gained an answer to a pressing problem. He was sure that his plan of
handling Judge Benbrook, through Trig Callister, would appeal to Stephen Ruthley. The real answer
behind Trig Callister's visit had eluded Lance; therefore, it would escape Ruthley also.

Tonight, Ruthley and Lance would discuss the final details of the game which they intended, making due
allowance for Trig Callister's suggestions. Crooks were playing squarely into the hands of The Shadow.

                             CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW GAME
EARLY the next evening, Lance Gillick again received Trig Callister in his office. Still oblivious to The
Shadow's disguise, Lance came immediately to business. He spread a road map on the desk; pointed out
a route leading to a spot some ten miles from Westford.

"The house lies right here," stated Lance. "It's an old mansion, but a swell one, that's just been fixed up
great. It was for rent, furnished. We took it."

The Shadow nodded, in Trig's style.

"You've got to bluff the judge into thinking it's your place," remarked Lance. "How will you pull that,
Trig?"

"Easy," returned The Shadow, in a boastful tone that suited the part of Trig. "I'm a special government
representative; at least, that's what I'll tell the judge. I've come from Washington to investigate conditions
in Westford. I want the judge to go down there with me; to make a preliminary report."

"All right so far. Go on."

"We start out in my car, the judge and I. Then I suggest stopping at the house that I've rented near
Westford. When we get there, I decide that we ought to prepare a long report. One of my outfit is a
secretary, who can take down everything that the judge dictates."

"How long will that last?"

"A couple of days, at least. I'll be making fake long-distance calls to Washington, getting requests for
more and more details in the reports. I can follow that by getting phony word that the committee meeting
has been postponed."

"Good enough. How long will it take to move your outfit into the house? The place is empty, waiting for
them."

The Shadow picked up Lance's telephone. He put in a call to a neighboring town. When he gained the
connection, he gave terse instructions in Trig's style, naming the location of the house where he intended
to take Judge Benbrook. Finished with the call, The Shadow reported tersely to Lance.

"They'll be there inside a half hour," stated The Shadow. "It will only take them a little while to get
settled."

"Fine," declared Lance. "I'll order all the gorillas in town to get out there an hour later."

The Shadow's eyes glinted. In a gruff tone that suited Trig, he objected:

"You'll queer the dodge, Lance, if you shove in a crowd of tough-looking eggs. They won't fit with my
high-class outfit."

"They won't go to the house," explained Lance. "They'll stay in a couple of cottages near there. They
ought to be out of Westford anyway; and they'll keep a circle around the house, to look out for your
bunch. You know how it is, Trig. We can't tell when some G-men are likely to barge into town."

THE SHADOW knew what was behind Lance's suave explanation. The gambler was acting under
instructions from Stephen Ruthley. Though the boss had liked the idea of using Trig Callister, he was
taking no chances. He wanted Lance, as his own ace, to control the situation.

The Shadow was not surprised by this turn of events; in fact, he had expected something of the sort.
"They'll pass you through, Trig," argued Lance. "What's more, they won't bother your inside crew. It's for
your own good; and it leaves us ready to grab the judge, if we have to get him later on. Just give me the
license number of your car; it won't even be stopped when it comes along the road."

The Shadow nodded his approval.

He wrote the license number on a sheet of paper, and handed it to Lance. The gambler picked up a copy
of the Westford Daily Banner.

"See this?" he queried, pointing to a headline. "It says that the Civic Club will hold another meeting - a
special one. The date hasn't been mentioned yet. The fellow who is going to set it is Steve Ruthley, the
biggest reformer in Westford.

"I guess I told you before that Ruthley is playing a dodge with that reform racket. He's the big-shot in this
whole game. You'll probably meet him later, Trig. Anyway, as soon as you have stowed away Judge
Benbrook, Ruthley is going to call the meeting for the next night."

"So the judge won't be there," remarked The Shadow, with a smile. "Good stuff, Lance! Only one
trouble, though. Suppose the judge wants to see a copy of the day's newspaper, to know when the
meeting is coming off?"

"That will be handled," returned Lance. "Ruthley can fix it to get hold of a fake copy of the newspaper;
just like the regular edition, except that it will carry a phony story about the Civic Club meeting."

"Saying that the meeting won't be held for a while?"

"That's it. We'll deliver a fake copy of the paper, out at the house where you're staying with the judge."

"Better let me come in and get one."

"All right. Any way you want it, Trig. Anyhow, that will satisfy the judge. He'll stay out there with you;
and he'll never get to the meeting. With the judge out, Ruthley can swing that mob of reformers to suit
himself."

The Shadow arose; he glanced at his watch and decided upon a visit to Judge Benbrook. Before starting,
he suggested that Lance go out to the mansion and meet the inside outfit.

"Ask for Vincent," explained The Shadow. "Tell him who you are. He'll fix it so you can see me blow in
with the old judge. I'll hoax him tonight, Lance. You can count on me."

TEN minutes later, The Shadow rang the doorbell of Judge Benbrook's house. Estelle answered; she
stared at the unfamiliar face of Trig Callister. Adopting a smooth pose, The Shadow asked to see Judge
Benbrook. While Estelle hesitated, the judge himself appeared in the lower hall.

"Come right in, sir," invited Benbrook. "My door is always open. I am Judge Martin Benbrook. Your
name, sir?"

"Callister," replied The Shadow. "Roger Callister. I drove here from Washington, judge, especially to see
you."

The judge ushered The Shadow into the parlor and closed the door. Estelle remained in the hallway,
troubled. She was suspicious of this visitor, whose smooth manner so contrasted with his hardened
features. She wondered what The Shadow would think of Mr. Roger Callister.
Unfortunately, The Shadow was not in his room. Estelle had knocked at the door a short while before,
only to find that he was absent.

Twenty minutes passed. The door of the parlor opened. Judge Benbrook came out; his face wore a
beaming look.

"I am leaving for Washington, Estelle!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Callister wants me to address a congressional
committee, on the subject of civic reform. My return to activity seems to have caused national
comment."

The judge started for the stairs, adding that he would pack his bag at once. Unable to stop him, Estelle
turned to The Shadow.

"My father cannot leave here, Mr. Callister," protested the girl. "He has to speak at an important meeting
that may be held tomorrow night."

"The judge told me that," responded The Shadow, in Trig's tone. "I assured him that he will be back for
the meeting, whenever it is held. It is only a few hours drive here from Washington."

"But if he leaves with you, tonight will -"

"He will have a good rest at a Washington hotel; and will be ready to meet the congressional committee
in the morning."

While Estelle was thinking of other possible objections, Judge Benbrook arrived from the second floor.
He had packed a suitcase in rapid time; he was carrying the bag with him. The Shadow took the suitcase,
bowed to Estelle, and conducted the judge out to the street. Estelle watched the two enter a large sedan
and drive away.

LESS than a half hour later, the same sedan reached a dirt road in the country. After a few hundred
yards, it turned between two gates and stopped in front of an old, but well-preserved, mansion. A coupe
was parked beyond the house; it was Lance Gillick's car. The Shadow and the judge alighted; they
entered the house and went up to the second floor.

There, a clean-cut young man met them. The Shadow introduced him as Mr. Vincent, added that the
man was his private secretary. Vincent ushered them into a comfortable-looking study, where a portable
typewriter stood unlimbered on a table.

"This should suit you admirably, judge," remarked The Shadow, in Trig's tone. "Tomorrow, you can
dictate full statements to Vincent. I shall call Washington, to tell them that you will meet the committee on
a later date."

"A good plan. Mr. Callister," agreed the judge. "I can work better here than at home. I shall send a letter
to my daughter, telling her not to be concerned about my absence."

"I can mail it for you, judge. Don't worry about the Civic Club. We are close enough to Westford to get
in there when the meeting is scheduled."

"We must remember to look for a notice in tomorrow's newspaper."

"I shall attend to that, judge."

Leaving Benbrook with Vincent, The Shadow went from the study and closed the door behind him.
Immediately, another door opened; Lance Gillick appeared and joined The Shadow with a grin. The two
went downstairs. At the door, Lance whispered.

"Vincent stowed me in the next room," he told The Shadow. "I heard you hand the hokum to the judge.
He fell for it just the way we wanted. Say - this fellow Vincent looks great! If the rest of your crew is as
good as he is, you've got a swell set-up!"

"They all know their business," remarked The Shadow. "I've used them on plenty of smooth jobs before
this, Lance."

The Shadow's statement was correct, though not in the sense that Lance took it. The men whom The
Shadow had brought to this house were his own agents, who had aided him often in his battles against
crime. Beside Vincent, The Shadow had brought into the house three whom Lance had not seen:
Marsland, Burke and Burbank.

A huge African servant appeared to unlock the door for The Shadow and Lance. The man's size brought
a smile of approval from Lance; he would have liked to have the African as a bouncer in one of his tough
gambling joints. He asked about the man when they stepped outside.

"His name is Jericho," said The Shadow. "He makes a good servant; and he comes in handy if a brawl
starts."

Another man appeared outside the house; he was small, stoop-shouldered and wizen-faced. This fellow
watched The Shadow walk along with Lance to the coupe; then the wizened-faced man sidled to the
front door and knocked for Jericho to admit him. Both he and Jericho were aids of The Shadow also.

"That was Hawkeye," remarked The Shadow. "I told Vincent to keep him outside. He looks too much
like a torpedo. He's too useful, though, to do without."

"What a set-up," chuckled Lance, as he boarded the coupe. "This outfit of yours would be a good one to
have waiting for The Shadow."

"If he comes here," replied The Shadow, in Trig's harsh fashion, "my crew will know it soon enough."

Lance drove away. The Shadow returned to his sedan and followed into Westford. The outside cordon
was set; The Shadow saw signs of lurking men along the dirt road. They let both cars go through; for
Lance had told them that Trig Callister was not to be stopped. He had given them the license number of
the sedan that The Shadow was using.

LATER that same evening, Estelle Benbrook again knocked at the door on the second floor. She had
not heard The Shadow come into the house; but she felt sure that he must have returned.

The door opened; The Shadow stepped out into the hall. He was wearing his black cloak and slouch hat.
Estelle could not distinguish his face, except for the burning glow of his eyes.

In troubled tone, Estelle reported the details of her father's departure. She described Trig Callister as a
man whose sincerity she doubted. The Shadow reassured the girl with quiet, low-toned speech. He told
her not to worry until the next day. He added that he would see to it that no harm came to her father.

Remembering The Shadow's prowess, Estelle was satisfied.

Back in his room, The Shadow indulged in a whispered laugh that was scarcely audible. He had not told
Estelle the facts concerning her father; because, although he knew the judge was safe, The Shadow did
not believe that Estelle would think so. It was better that she should learn the details after The Shadow's
present plan had progressed further.
The Shadow was correct in that opinion. He had chosen the course that offered the least difficulty, so far
as Estelle was concerned. Nevertheless, there was a chance that the girl's ignorance of the situation might
prove a stumbling block.

The Shadow was to encounter real evidence of that fact, before this episode was ended.

                            CHAPTER XX. THE LAW'S TURN
AT dusk, the next day, Lance Gillick was seated at his desk, drumming nervously. In front of him was a
copy of the Daily Banner, effectively faked with a false paragraph that announced postponement of the
Civic Club meeting. Actually, the meeting had been called for this very night, by Stephen Ruthley.

What troubled Lance was the fact that Trig Callister had not yet arrived. To Lance, that meant that
something might be wrong at the country mansion. Lance stopped his drumming, to pick up the
telephone. He intended to chance a call to Stephen Ruthley, though as a rule the boss objected to such
mode of contact.

Before Lance could dial the number, the door of the office opened. Lance grinned as he saw Trig
Callister.

"Wondered where you were, Trig," voiced the gambler. He picked up the faked newspaper. "Here's the
news sheet, ready for you to take out to the judge. Is everything all jake?"

"Just the way we want it," replied The Shadow. "The judge is getting jittery, though. I'll have to hurry the
newspaper out to him."

"Slide along then, Trig."

The Shadow paused, as he folded the newspaper and pocketed it. Lance noticed that Trig had his hand
bag with him. He supposed that Trig had forgotten to take it to the country, the night before.

"There were some cops out front when I came in," stated The Shadow. "They looked me over pretty
closely, Lance."

"Some of Maclare's bunch," snorted Lance. "He always keeps a flatfoot near here. Sometimes two or
three. He's still sore because he never pinned anything on me. He had to give me an alibi once; I guess
he's never gotten over the shock."

"Maybe you'd better steer me out by the back way," suggested The Shadow. "The cops may be
suspicious at seeing me come out so soon. I don't want to be slowed up by an argument with a couple of
dumb harness bulls."

Lance nodded agreement. He opened the panel in the wall; urged The Shadow into the passage beyond
it. They followed along the passage to its end. At the left was a large door that served as the only
entrance to Lance's secret apartment, in an adjoining building. At the right was a stairway. Lance led The
Shadow downward.

There they found a small entry, with a steel door beyond it. The entry was dim; it was guarded by a huge
bruiser who was almost the size of Jericho. In fact, Lance had compared the huge African with this
particular husky when he had viewed Jericho and admired the latter's bulk.

"Open the gate, Boscul," ordered Lance. "Lock it up as soon as Trig goes out."

"So long, Lance," remarked The Shadow. "Don't bother to wait. I'd better come in this way, though,
when I come back."

"Give three quick raps. Then two slow ones. That's the signal, Trig."

With this information The Shadow was quite willing that Lance should wait around. The gambler,
however, followed The Shadow's suggestion and went upstairs. That made it even better. While Boscul
was still drawing back a series of big bolts, The Shadow laid his hand bag on the floor. Tightening in a
crouch, he prepared to spring.

THE lookout must have caught some sign of the attack that was to come. He spun suddenly from the
door; his dull face lighted in a glare. Boscul gave a snarl just as The Shadow sprang forward. With
hamlike hands, the big husky met The Shadow's onrush.

Boscul thought that he was dealing with Trig Callister. That, perhaps, gave him more courage than he
would have shown against a cloaked attacker. Boscul beat back The Shadow's thrust before long fingers
could gain the clutch they wanted. With a fierce cry, he hurled the limber attacker across the entry.

Fortunately, Lance Gillick was too far away to hear that shout. The Shadow had enough to do, handling
Boscul. He managed to ward off a punch that the big lookout swung in his direction. He followed with a
quick jab that bobbed Boscul's head backward, even though it failed to stagger the huge fighter.

The two locked. Boscul's arms tightened like the grip of a python. He hoisted The Shadow from the
floor, intent upon crushing the supposed Trig Callister into submission. Swinging one wrist free, The
Shadow squeezed choking fingers about Boscul's throat. The fellow gurgled; relaxed his fierce grip.

From then on, it was The Shadow's fight. Gaining a footing, he beat off Boscul's clutch; drove the
lookout across the floor with a series of slashing blows. Again, they grappled; this time, The Shadow
clutched Boscul as he had gripped Haija in that fight at Ruthley's.

The husky's bulk was greater than that of the Japanese; but it did not save him from disaster. Like a
mongoose overpowering a cobra, The Shadow whipped his giant antagonist headlong toward the steel
door. Boscul crashed the barrier. He slumped to the stone floor.

Opening his hand bag, The Shadow brought out his black garb. He donned cloak and hat, eyed Boscul
while he added gloves to his attire. The husky was groggily trying to rise. The Shadow spilled him to one
side and opened the door that Boscul had already unbolted. The door came inward; its outer surface
showed only battered wood, not steel.

Viewed from the outside alley, that door excited no suspicion. Its steel-sheeted interior, however, made it
immune to ordinary attack.

The alleyway was darkened. The Shadow was invisible as he edged into its space. Producing an
automatic from its holster, he pointed the .45 upward, fired two quick shots in the air. Immediately
afterward, he swung back into the entry, took quick concealment behind the opened door.

There was commotion in the alley. Pounding from the darkness came half a dozen men; with them was
Lieutenant James Maclare. The raiders were blue-uniformed police. Their presence was explained by
Maclare's own shout.

"Keep going, men!" ordered the lieutenant. "I thought this tip-off was on the level! Those shots were the
signal we were told to wait for! We'll have the goods on Lance Gillick this time!"

Opposition came, as the police surged into the doorway; but it was not long-lived. Boscul had found his
feet; he tried to grapple with the foremost bluecoat. Another officer swung a nightstick; he clubbed the
groggy lookout into insensibility. Maclare and his men dashed up the stairs, never stopping to look behind
the opened door.

They found the passage to Lance's office; reaching the end of it, they saw a glimmer of light through the
back of the painting. Maclare took one look through the peep hole; then ripped through the canvas,
followed by his squad.

SHRIEKS arose from the gaming room, where play had started for the night. Croupiers were trapped at
the roulette wheel; money and chips scattered everywhere as the police rounded up snarling waiters and
frightened customers.

The door of the office opened; Lance Gillick peered at the scene. He bobbed from sight, slamming the
door. Maclare leaped for it, ordered officers to slash the barrier with axes. One of the bluecoats gave a
sudden shout:

"There goes Lance!"

The gambler had opened the office panel, to reach the passage. The policeman had spied him through the
ruined painting. Maclare sprang away from the office door, led the chase with a pair of bluecoats
following. Lance reached the door of his apartment, yanked it open. Peering from the entry below, The
Shadow saw another man spring out to join the gambler.

It was Beezer Dorsch. Lance had feared that the killer would be trapped. The police had passed the
apartment door in order to raid the gambling joint, but their return was imminent. Lance's pressing
thought was to make a getaway with Beezer.

The pair dashed down the stairway, just as revolvers blasted along the passage above. The Shadow
dropped behind the door. He let the fugitives get past, then bobbed out to follow them. He could easily
have halted the two rogues; but he had a reason for permitting their escape.

Dashing along the alleyway, Lance and Beezer ducked through an opening in time to avoid policemen
coming from the front street. The Shadow was close behind the crooks; but the clatter of their own
footsteps drowned the slight sounds of his pursuit. Lance and Beezer reached a garage; they rushed in
and boarded a coupe.

By the time the coupe swung into sight, The Shadow was in a small roadster, much like the car that he
had used in his last flight from the Flying Squadron. He took up the chase; within two blocks Lance and
Beezer knew that they were being tagged.

Recognizing that by the burst of speed that the coupe showed, The Shadow unlimbered an automatic and
dispatched two quick shots after the coupe. Bullets whistled close enough for the crooks to guess who
was on their trail.

"The Shadow!" snarled Lance, as he gripped the wheel of the coupe. "Lucky he didn't bag Trig Callister.
He must have barged in before Boscul had time to lock the back door."

"Yeah," growled Beezer, "and he tipped off Maclare to raid your joint. We gotta shake him, Lance."

"You bet we have to! We don't want him to know where we're headed."

"Where's that?"

"To Ruthley's. Where else would be safe for you to hide out, Beezer?"
Again, Lance Gillick was playing into The Shadow's hands. In this pursuit, The Shadow could have
overtaken the crooks as easily as he could have dropped them on the stairway. His plan, however, called
for their get-away. He wanted them to be at Ruthley's later; for The Shadow intended an end to crime
tonight.

WITHIN the next few blocks, The Shadow was prepared to slow his pursuit; to give Lance the very
chance that the gambler wanted. Once in the clear, Lance would head for Ruthley's apartment house;
duck from his car and take Beezer along with him, straight to the big-shot's lair.

Oddly, luck was to trick The Shadow. Had he ended his pursuit a few blocks sooner, all would have
gone well. However, during the last stretch, Lance Gillick became jittery. He started to express his
worriment to Beezer; then stopped short as he saw a sign that read: "Century Garage."

"What a break!" ejaculated Lance. "Just the place for us in a pinch, Beezer!"

Beezer recognized the sign.

"Yeah!" he agreed. "It's the joint the boss told us about, in case we needed to use it. Head in there,
Lance."

Lance spun the wheel, jerked the coupe suddenly from the street, straight into the open doorway of the
garage. He shouted as he applied the brakes; a waiting garage man caught his words and yanked a lever.
A door slid open at the far wall.

The Shadow reached the front; jamming the brakes of the roadster, he saw the thoroughfare. In that
instant, he thought that the far door had been open when Lance entered the garage; for the coupe was
speeding through it. To give a last zest to his pursuit, The Shadow swung his roadster into the garage,
intending to drive clear through and follow the crooks a few blocks farther.

He realized his error, as he sped his car through the front doorway.

The rear door slid shut before The Shadow could reach it. Jamming the brakes, The Shadow shoved the
gear-shift lever into reverse. Again, he was too late. The front door slithered shut before The Shadow
could back out through it.

Lights showed the garage devoid of cars. A stone-walled room some sixty feet square, it formed a sealed
snare, once the doors had closed; for they were of metal. More ominous still were two small, boxlike
rooms at each side of empty garage. They were sheeted with metal; their closed doors were fronted with
loopholes.

The tiny rooms were pill-boxes - safe spots from which hidden sharpshooters could riddle anyone who
occupied the center of the garage floor. Once the barrage began, it would spell instant doom for The
Shadow.

                         CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S EXIT
IN a single instant, The Shadow sized his situation. Big doors had clanged; to leap from the roadster and
attempt to open them would be the worst move possible. The Shadow knew that machine gunners were
sequestered in the pill-boxes, ready to begin their fire the moment that he bobbed into view.

Even the roadster offered but temporary safety. Bullets would spray it soon. Yet, for some reason, the
opening hail had been delayed. Quick to note that fact, The Shadow looked for the answer; and found it.
A glance from the side of the roadster enabled him to see a scudding man in overalls, making across the
stone floor for the pill-box on the left.

It was the attendant who had pulled the levers to close the garage doors. The fellow was still inside the
garage; the men in the pill-box were giving him time to join them. The door of the pill-box was moving
open, ready to admit the scudding thug.

The Shadow had an automatic handy. He could have dropped the rowdy as he ran. Such a move would
have been futile. If their pal fell, the men in the pill-boxes would have no further need to delay their
machine gun fire.

Nor would The Shadow gain by blazing bullets into the doorway of the pill-box when it opened. Unless
he clipped every occupant, the door would slam again. Even if he did wound that crew of sharpshooters,
the men in the second pill-box would make up for it. Not for an instant did The Shadow forget that he lay
between two bands of murderers.

Without reaching for the .45 that lay on the seat beside him, The Shadow staged a prompt surprise. His
move was totally unexpected; for that reason, it left his enemies momentarily bewildered. The thug who
was dashing for the pill-box had thirty feet to go. The Shadow resolved to block him off; to keep him in a
spot of danger as bad as The Shadow's own predicament.

With his left hand, The Shadow jerked the roadster's wheel. He rammed the gear shift into low, with his
right. His foot thrust the accelerator to the floor. The roadster leaped as if alive, skewed to the left and
roared like a thunderbolt straight for the pill-box, just as the door of that tiny stronghold slid wide.

The Shadow passed the running thug in a split-second. Jamming the brakes, he again yanked the wheel
to the left. The roadster halted with a screech, squarely between the startled thug and the opened door of
the pill-box.

Again, The Shadow pulled a surprise. As the man in overalls heeled about and dashed in the other
direction, The Shadow let him go. Diving to the right, The Shadow banged the roadster's door outward,
with his left hand; while his rightmost grabbed the automatic from the seat. In one continuous leap, he
hurtled onward, straight through the opened door of the pill-box.

Two startled hoodlums, crouched in darkness, saw the cloaked avalanche whirl in upon them. Dropping
their machine gun, they sprang to meet The Shadow. His right arm swished downward; the automatic
smashed a thug's skull. As the fellow sprawled, The Shadow swung a side blow, clipped the second
gunner and rolled him out through the door of the pill-box.

The first thug partly blocked the door. Stopping, The Shadow seized his shoulders and pitched his
senseless body out beside the dazed man who had floundered on the step of the roadster. That done,
The Shadow grabbed the handle of the door and clanged the barrier shut. Safe in the pill-box, he peered
through the tiny loophole.

The Shadow had completely tricked the gunners in the far pill-box. His car had blocked their view of his
rapid action. They learned what had happened too late to defeat it. Their knowledge came when the thug
on the roadster's step suddenly grabbed his unconscious pal and dragged him out in front of the halted
car.

It was stalemate: a trio of crooks in one pill-box; The Shadow in the other. The abandoned roadster
made a barrier in between; but it meant nothing. The Shadow, like the crooks, had a machine gun and
could fire through the open sides of the small car. Volleys would prove useless, however, for both The
Shadow and his opponents were safely entrenched.
True, there were three men somewhere on the garage floor; two of them were now dragging a third
toward the front door. The Shadow could have picked out those crooks and finished them; but they
were unimportant. He needed some way to break this stalemate; to leave the pillbox and be on his way
to other tasks. That was The Shadow's real dilemma.

Had crooks recognized the situation, they would have let matters remain as they were. They, however,
disliked the condition for reasons of their own. They knew the identity of their foeman. They were
incensed because they had let The Shadow nullify their advantage.

Hoarse shouts came from the far pill-box. The words were incoherent to The Shadow, due to the echoes
from the barren walls. To the men who were in the open, the cries were understandable. One dropped
the senseless man whom he was lugging, leaped for a wall and pulled a light switch. The garage was
plunged into darkness.

ON the face of it, this move seemed merely a protection for the men who were still at large. Crooks
naturally expected The Shadow to stay where he was. Instead, The Shadow found the handle of the
pill-box door. He slid the door open, slowly and cautiously. His move was just in time.

The thug by the outer door had found another switch. He pulled it. The result was sensed immediately by
The Shadow. His pill-box began a descent into the floor, lowering like an elevator. The smooth action
was accompanied by the rhythmic hum of hidden machinery.

Had The Shadow still been behind a closed door, he could not have left the descending pill-box; for it
went down into the floor so steadily that the delay of opening the door would have been fatal. However,
The Shadow had already attended to the detail of opening the door. His quick brain caught the need for
immediate action.

With both hands, he grabbed the edge of outside floor when it was just waist-high. With a long, forward
leap from the floor of the descending pill-box, he shot headforemost through the closing space;
performed a quick roll that brought his legs clear, just before the top of the pill-box doorway could trap
them.

The pill-box stopped its descent with a sharp click. Reaching along the garage floor in the darkness, The
Shadow found that the roof of the pill-box was coated with cement; that formed a perfect level with the
floor. He knew that the other pill-box must operate in the same fashion; and the reason was obvious.
With the pill-boxes lowered into their pits, the garage floor would appear quite ordinary; and would
therefore excite no suspicion when not in use as a trap.

Some crook had seen a smart way to render The Shadow's capture of the pill-box worse than useless.
The pull of the wall switch had turned the stronghold into a prison, as close-walled as a tomb. Harsh,
gleeful cries amid the darkness told that men of crime were sure that their ruse had worked. A raucous
voice called for lights.

Quickly, The Shadow rolled beneath the roadster. He lay there, face downward, clasping an automatic in
each fist. The lights came on; crooks piled from their pill-box to join the others on the floor. Together,
they surged to the wall beside the roadster; they tramped roughly on the leveled roof; they bent to shout
jeers that they hoped The Shadow would hear within his tomb.

While thugs made merry, The Shadow prepared to end their revelry. The far side of the roadster was
deserted, except for the one thug who lay unconscious. Three from the pill-box; two from the floor, had
all assembled above the tight-sealed prison where they believed The Shadow trapped. Edging outward,
The Shadow was almost ready to come to his feet, when an interruption sounded.
Someone was pounding at the front door of the garage. For beyond that heavy barrier came the shouted
order:

"Open! In the name of the law!"

THE SHADOW abandoned his plan to surprise the clustered, crooks who stood flat-footed by the wall.
He had recognized the shouting voice. The tone was that of Lieutenant James Maclare. Half to his feet,
The Shadow dropped low again; he edged beneath the roadster as crooks scurried from the wall.

He saw one man reach the door and yank a switch that controlled the far pill-box. It descended; the thug
at the switchboard pulled a lever to open the rear door of the garage. Two crooks picked up the
unconscious thug; the lights went out to cover their departure by the opened rear door. Only two
remained, to pass as garage attendants when they admitted Maclare and his bluecoats to the
innocent-looking garage.

The Shadow had new opportunity in the darkness. He took it. Rolling from beneath the roadster, he
moved swiftly to the rear door. Crooks were away before he reached it; The Shadow slid through just as
the door was closing.

The rear alley was darkened; groping, The Shadow found a passage that led through to the front street,
between the garage and an empty store. He took this route; stopped just before he reached the front.
Peering from the corner, The Shadow was witness to the next scene.

Lights were on again in the garage; the front door had been opened to admit Maclare. The lieutenant had
made a brief inspection; he had called the thuggish attendants out front, to give them a brief quiz.

"Nobody came in here tonight?" demanded the police officer. "You're sure of it?"

"Nobody, lieutenant," replied one of the thugs. "This garage is closed for repairs. We're storin' no cars,
here, right now."

"Humph! Who does that roadster belong to, then?"

"It's my own car, lieutenant."

"All right," decided Maclare. "The men we're after were reported riding in a coupe. Last place we
spotted them was near here. We thought maybe they'd made into your garage.

A siren sounded as Maclare finished. Two motorcycles chugged up; then a police car. Members of the
Flying Squadron stepped to the street. An official car arrived. Director Kirk Borman alighted. He talked
with Lieutenant Maclare.

"I'll take charge here," decided Borman. "Good work, lieutenant! I heard about your surprise raid."

"I meant to notify you, director," stated Maclare, "only we weren't sure of the tip-off -"

"I understand," put in Borman, brusquely. "Results are what count, lieutenant. You gained them. That's all
that matters. Better get back to your precinct. The Flying Squadron will find Lance Gillick."

MACLARE saluted; he departed with his bluecoats. The honest lieutenant was grim. For once, he had
kept back facts that he might have given to the police director. The tip-off that Maclare had received had
specified that no one, not even Director Borman, be informed beforehand. Rather than miss his
opportunity to catch Lance Gillick red-handed, Maclare had agreed to the terms. He had trusted the
mysterious voice that had come over the wire to his precinct office.
Director Borman went into the garage, while members of the Flying Squadron spread out to fake a
search of the area. The Shadow saw chance of new encounter, which he wanted to avoid. In darkness,
he whipped off his cloak and hat and folded them under his arm. Choosing a moment when no
khaki-uniformed men were near, he walked out from his hiding-place and approached Director Borman's
car. He opened the door, tossed his garments into a corner of the rear seat.

The chauffeur turned about; saw only the features of Trig Callister. The Shadow whispered gruffly, stating
that he wanted to see Director Borman. The chauffeur was one of Borman's trusted aids. He knew that
the director had dealings with characters of Trig's sort. He motioned The Shadow into the car.

Kirk Borman returned soon afterward, a pleased smirk on his sharp-featured face. As he entered the
car, The Shadow spoke again.

"I'm Trig Callister," he gruffed. "Say - did they get The Shadow?"

"He's where we want him," chuckled Borman. "Buried alive! We'll leave him there until he croaks! That
won't be long; he's in an air-tight spot."

The Shadow's disguised face was visible by the glow of a street lamp. To Borman, those features
answered Lance Gillick's description of Trig. Nevertheless, Borman questioned suddenly:

"How did you get here?"

"I hopped on the back of Lance's coupe," returned The Shadow with a sight guffaw. "I was in a bad spot
when that raid hit. A worse one, when The Shadow tagged Lance. I had to drop off to keep from getting
hit when he busted loose with those gats of his. I was too busy to yank a rod of my own. It's tough
holding on to the back of a coupe, going the speed Lance was driving that one."

The story clicked. Borman told the chauffeur to drive along. He was not suspicious when The Shadow
questioned:

"How about Lance and Beezer? Did they make it to Ruthley's O.K.?"

"They did," acknowledged the police director. "That's where we are going at present."

"You'll have to drop me on the way," objected The Shadow. "When we get to the place where I parked
my sedan. I've got to get out in the country and keep the old judge bluffed. Tell Lance I made my
get-away. Everything is jake."

BORMAN nodded. Events had worked out better than he hoped. With Lance and Beezer in a safe
hide-out and Trig at large, all was well with men of crime. Maclare's surprise raid had made trouble.
Borman was sure that it had been instigated by The Shadow. The Shadow's return had brought
recompense, however; it had spelled the finish of the black-cloaked warrior, according to Borman's
positive belief.

The Shadow spoke as they neared his parked sedan. Borman ordered the chauffeur to stop; he chuckled
good-by to Trig Callister. He saw his companion alight; but he did not notice the small bundle beneath
Trig's arm. The Shadow was careful to keep his wadded cloak and hat away from the police director's
view.

The Shadow whispered a prophetic laugh as he boarded his sedan. His plans had worked tonight. He
had slipped the trap without losing too much time; and with that exploit, he had left crooks confident that
they had bagged their greatest foeman.
That, in particular, was to The Shadow's liking. The greater the confidence among men of crime, the
greater would be their consternation when The Shadow delivered the final stroke of his campaign.

                      CHAPTER XXII. ESTELLE'S DISCOVERY
DESPITE his quick departure from the toils of crooks, The Shadow had lost many valuable minutes. He
had purposely clipped the time element to a minimum, that he might complete his campaign while his
enemies were retarded. The episode at the garage trap had therefore been damaging to The Shadow's
schedule.

One vital phase of The Shadow's game was a trip to the country mansion - there to meet Judge
Benbrook and bring him back to town. That would be easy; as Trig Callister, The Shadow could pass
the outer cordon of thugs without question. But it was necessary to have Judge Benbrook in Westford
well before the time at which the meeting of the Civic Club was scheduled.

If all went well, The Shadow would have another bombshell waiting for Stephen Ruthley when the
pretended reformer arrived at the meeting. All could still go well; but time was short. A speedy ride to the
country and a rapid return trip had become essential.

Delay, however, had already caused one difficulty. Just when The Shadow was embarking on a free,
swift course, trouble began without his knowledge. The place where it occurred was the one spot where
it was least to be expected: in Judge Benbrook's own home. The person who provided the chance
element was Estelle Benbrook.

The Shadow had foreseen that Estelle would be worried over her father's absence. The night before, he
had mailed her a letter, written by the judge himself. Estelle had received the letter this morning; it had
partly ended her worriment.

Later, though, Estelle had read the true item in the Daily Banner, stating that the Civic Club would meet
tonight. She had prepared dinner for herself and her father, thinking surely that the judge would return.

Judge Benbrook had not returned. Ending a lone repast. Estelle experienced a great increase of alarm.
There was only one person in whom she could confide her fears. That person was The Shadow. On the
faint hope that The Shadow had entered the house while she was eating dinner, Estelle went upstairs to
rap at the door on the second floor.

There was no response. Estelle's spirits sank. She felt hopeless and confused; for once, her usual
self-confidence was gone. The girl pounded wildly upon The Shadow's door. At last, in desperation, she
opened the door. She entered the room and turned on the light.

Hopeful that she might find some message from The Shadow, Estelle looked about the room. She saw a
bureau drawer that was slightly open. Peering into the drawer, Estelle glimpsed a flat box that she
mistook for a writing case. Thinking that it might contain a notebook or some written memoranda, Estelle
nervously drew the box from the drawer. She opened the box; stared with wide-opened eyes.

THE box was a make-up kit-one that showed signs of recent use. It explained to Estelle why The
Shadow's face had seemed so masklike. The girl remembered that The Shadow could not have carried
this make-up kit when he first came to the house. She realized that it must have come in the package that
had been delivered long after his arrival.

Hastily, Estelle looked in the closet; there she saw a dark suit, with torn coat sleeve.

It struck Estelle that The Shadow must have received new clothes; certainly the package had been large
enough and sufficiently heavy to contain a suit. But why had The Shadow needed the make-up outfit?

Estelle was intuitive; moreover, her mind was concerned with her father's disappearance. For the first
time, she felt a sudden doubt of The Shadow, for she remembered that, last night, he had expressed but
little concern over her father's disappearance. Her mind was strained to the point where she could
connect only a few definite thoughts; in that state, Estelle pictured two persons: The Shadow and the man
named Callister, who had induced her father to leave the house last night.

A horrified gasp came from Estelle's lips. Through a chance thought, inspired by her discovery of the
make-up kit, the girl guessed the truth. The Shadow and Trig Callister were one!

Reasoning from a false assumption, Estelle concocted a theory that she promptly accepted as fact. She
thought of The Shadow as a man of crime; one with a lone game, who had run into trouble the night that
Prescott Dunson was slain. True, The Shadow had saved the girl's own life; but there were many crooks
who might have been as gallant, under similar circumstances.

Perhaps The Shadow had foreseen how useful that rescue would prove. It had enabled him to avoid the
law, by entering the house with Estelle. It had won Estelle's confidence; later, The Shadow had found
sanctuary in this house. As Estelle saw it, he had pretended friendliness in order to gain her father's
confidence, as well as his own.

Ready for some crooked game, The Shadow had come here as Callister. He had taken her father as a
hostage. He had some reason to keep Judge Benbrook from Westford. It all seemed a scheme of double
dealing, even though Estelle could not fathom its full purpose.

Firmly, Estelle resolved upon some move. While she tried to find some possible way of counteracting
purposes which she thought were evil, the girl heard the doorbell ring. For a moment, her worries
vanished; she almost dropped the theory that she had built up against The Shadow. Estelle was hopeful
that her father was back; hurriedly, she dashed downstairs and opened the front door.

On the threshold stood Louis Wilderton.

THE district attorney was anxious-faced.

"Where is Judge Benbrook?" he inquired. "I must see him at once, Estelle."

"I don't know," gasped the girl. "What has happened, Louis?"

"Lieutenant Maclare has raided the Club Adair. This time, he found a gambling room in operation. He has
pinned crime on Lance Gillick -"

"But father? Where is my father?"

Estelle fairly shrieked the questions. Wilderton's eves popped. He stammered: "Your - your father isn't
here?"

"No," replied Estelle. "Something has happened to him, Louis!"

"Just before this important meeting?"

"No! It was last night! But it began before that. I have to tell you the whole story, Louis. There was a
man who came here - a man cloaked in black - he was wounded -"

"When was this?"
"The night that Adam Woodstock committed suicide. That was the second time I saw him. That was the
night that he was wounded -"

"You mean Shaw!"

Estelle nodded.

"You took him in here?" demanded Wilderton. "The man who was wanted as an accomplice of the
murderer, Dorsch?"

"This man talked to father," explained. "He convinced father that he was not engaged in crime. He
persuaded father to come from retirement. He acted as a friend - until last night."

"And then?"

"He dropped his masquerade. He came here as another person, a man named Callister. He persuaded
father to leave with him for Washington. He wanted to keep father away from here tonight."

Wilderton raised his hand to halt Estelle's excited utterances.

"You have told me enough," he said. "The man has two aliases. He calls himself Shaw; also Callister. He
has abducted your father. This is a matter for the law, Estelle."

"You will notify Washington?"

"After I have talked with Director Borman. The local police should act first. Borman will send out the
Flying Squadron, to see if your father is still somewhere in Westford."

Estelle started an objection. Again, Wilderton halted her. The girl tried to blurt out a fact that she had just
remembered: the envelope that The Shadow had given her father. Her words were confused.

"This man left an envelope with father," exclaimed Estelle. "One that contained some sort of evidence -"

"Evidence of what?" demanded Wilderton, hoarsely. "No crook would leave a trail behind him. We can
come to that later, Estelle. The pressing matter is to see Director Borman."

"You can call him from here."

"No. I shall see him personally, and come back here later. I know where he is at present; both Director
Borman and Mayor Marclot are at Stephen Ruthley's apartment."

DASHING down the steps, Wilderton jumped aboard his car and drove away. Estelle stood wearily at
the door; then went back into the house. She decided to find the envelope herself. To obtain it, she
needed a key to the music cabinet.

There were keys in a table drawer near the music cabinet. As she rummaged among them, finding none
that she wanted, Estelle discovered a .32 revolver. It was a loaded weapon that her father had long ago
put away and forgotten. Nervously, Estelle gripped the gun; she glanced toward the hallway.

The tension had given her unusual alertness. A sound reached Estelle's ears; it was a key, turning in the
lock of the side door. Acting upon sudden inspiration, the girl hurried upstairs; there, she stepped into a
side room and waited. Soon, her ears again caught a slight sound. It was the opening of the door to the
upstairs front room - the chamber The Shadow had occupied - where Estelle had forgotten to turn out
the lights.
The girl sprang from her hiding-place; she saw the door wide open and reached the threshold. She saw a
black-clad figure in the room. The Shadow had returned.

He was turned away from Estelle; he was removing his slouch hat and dropping the folds of his cloak. He
spun about as Estelle delivered a sharp cry. Face revealed, The Shadow stared into the muzzle of the
revolver that the judge's daughter held.

Estelle's cry ended; her grip on the .32 became firm. She was ready to pull the trigger if The Shadow
made a move. Estelle Benbrook had gained proof of the treachery that she believed had been The
Shadow's.

The face of The Shadow was that of Trig Callister.

                       CHAPTER XXIII. AMENDED STRATEGY
THE instant that he saw the leveled revolver, The Shadow recognized a situation as crucial as any that he
had met in Westford. He had encountered dangers that seemed far greater; but this one carried the worst
possible hazards.

Estelle showed by action that she knew how to manage a revolver; she had aimed the weapon straight
for The Shadow's heart. The girl's frenzied expression showed that she had lost control of her wits. She
was prepared to fire a steady series of bullets on any provocation, real or imaginary.

The Shadow realized the futility of explanations. With her acceptance of fallacies, instead of facts, Estelle
might interpret any statement incorrectly. Mere mention of her father's name might drive her to the wild
belief that The Shadow had killed the judge. One chance thought would be enough. Estelle would fire to
kill.

For one full second, The Shadow met the girl's vengeful gaze. He realized that each succeeding second
would increase the risk; that any moment might be his last. It was a time for astounding action; some
deed as outlandish as Estelle's imaginary beliefs. Knowing it, The Shadow acted in accord.

His cloak was half from his shoulders, retained by his left hand. He was holding the slouch hat with his
right. For a moment, The Shadow seemed to cower; as he shrank away, his body huddled lower.

The move lessened Estelle's vigilance for an instant; then, suspecting trickery, the girl became more
frenzied. She stepped forward, thrusting the revolver ahead. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Huddled, The Shadow spun about; he started a sidelong lunge for a corner of the room. Estelle sped the
gun muzzle in the same direction; as the cloaked form faded floorward, she pressed the trigger and
stabbed quick shots.

The cloak crumpled; the slouch hat bounced on the floor. As Estelle fired again, a lithe shape seemed to
weave up toward her, as if conjured from space itself.

The Shadow had caught cloak collar and hat brim with both hands; he had shoved them away toward the
corner, releasing them as Estelle fired. Reversing his spin, he was swinging back, free from the cloak
before the fatal moment.

It was the skillful move of the matador, who whisks free from his cloak at the moment of the bull's
onrush. The Shadow's twist was far more speedy and better timed than that of any bullfighter. He had to
be away before bullets zimmed in his direction. He was away; and his long, returning lunge was below the
line of Estelle's aim.
The girl did not have time to fire again. Sighting The Shadow, she tried to aim; his quick clutch caught her
wrist and held it numbed. Estelle struggled, still managing to clutch the revolver. As she went backward
toward the door, she heard a cry behind her. Arms other than The Shadow's clutched the girl's.

The Shadow plucked away the revolver as Estelle subsided. Looking up, the girl saw the person who
had seized her. A happy gasp told her relief, as she viewed the whitened face of her father.

BENBROOK'S whole countenance was tinged with alarm.

Estelle began to sob. Judge Benbrook gazed anxiously toward The Shadow; he saw a smile upon the
false lips of Trig Callister. The uncloaked fighter was unhurt. Satisfied on that point, the judge spoke to
his daughter.

"You were mistaken, Estelle" he told the girl. "The Shadow is our friend. How you guessed that he came
here as Trig Callister, I do not know -"

"I found the make-up box," sobbed Estelle. "I thought - I guessed -"

"Your guess was wrong, my dear." Estelle turned about, to see The Shadow regaining his cloak and hat.
He donned the garments; his quiet whisper silenced Estelle as she tried to express her regrets for her
mistaken action. Judge Benbrook delivered an interjection.

"You were going to see Stephen Ruthley as Trig Callister!" he exclaimed. "Have you changed the plan?"

"Yes," replied The Shadow. "I believe that Estelle has already disclosed my double identity."

"I have," admitted the girl. "Louis Wilderton was here. I told him my suspicions. He has gone to Ruthley's
- to see Director Borman."

"Our hopes are ruined," groaned Judge Benbrook. "Estelle, this was arranged when The Shadow gave
me that written message. I knew who he was when he came here as Trig Callister."

"You should have told me, father."

"No. It was better not. Had we returned in time tonight, all would have been well. Tell me, Estelle" - the
judge's tone was more anxious than ever - "did Wilderton take the envelope with him?"

Estelle shook her head. The Shadow delivered a whispered laugh that brought immediate encouragement
to Judge Benbrook.

"We need new strategy," declared The Shadow. "Come downstairs. We must first obtain the envelope;
then be on our way."

The judge and Estelle followed The Shadow downstairs. He had the key to the music cabinet; he
unlocked it and tendered the sealed envelope to Judge Benbrook. Noting the clock on the mantel, The
Shadow made quick calculation."

"We are leaving here at once," he stated. "You will both remain in a place of safety until you hear from
me."

Judge Benbrook was puzzled. He could think of no safe spot in Westford. Nevertheless, he beckoned to
Estelle; they followed The Shadow through the side door; thence to the rear street, where they entered
The Shadow's sedan.

"Borman will come to the house," declared The Shadow, as he started the car. "To your house, judge.
Not finding you there, he will hurry to the country. My work lies there; since my part has become
known."

"But you spoke of a place where Estelle would be safe," reminded Judge Benbrook. "One where you
wanted me to wait until I heard from you."

"Here is the place."

The Shadow stopped the car in front of the first precinct station. A light was showing from Lieutenant
Maclare's office. Judge Benbrook gained sudden understanding of The Shadow's plan. He stepped from
the car with Estelle; then asked:

"How much shall I tell Maclare?"

"As much as is necessary," replied The Shadow. "He has already gained an inkling of matters in
Westford. You will find him ready to follow any suggestion that you give him."

With that, The Shadow sped away, leaving Judge Benbrook and Estelle to treat with the one man in
Westford who could command loyal forces that would fight for the law.

AT the time of The Shadow's departure, events were shaping elsewhere exactly as he predicted. Louis
Wilderton had reached Stephen Ruthley's. There, the district attorney had just finished pouring out his
news. Stephen Ruthley, his countenance imposing, was quick to deliver a denunciation.

"We owe you much, Wilderton," affirmed the pretended reformer. "I speak for Mayor Marclot and
Director Borman, as well as for myself. Come, Borman!" he turned to the police director, who was sitting
rigid, in a corner of the den. "You must act at once to find Judge Benbrook!"

"So I must!" exclaimed Borman, coming suddenly to life. "We'll scour the countryside with the Flying
Squadron!"

Rising, Borman strode from the den. Mayor Marclot, also a stunned listener, came to his feet and
followed. Ruthley purred a smooth comment to Wilderton, who had sunk into a chair, too strained to
notice the alarm that had gripped Marclot and Borman.

"No need for Marclot to go also," declared Ruthley. "He should stay with us, to discuss matters. I shall
call him back."

Leaving Wilderton, Ruthley overtook Marclot and Borman at the door of the apartment. The three went
into a quick huddle. Ruthley, as usual, was the brains.

"Get over to the garage," he told Borman, tersely. "If that pill-box is empty, we'll know that Wilderton is
right. If he is, head for Judge Benbrook's, to make sure they haven't rolled in there. The Shadow will be
bringing the judge with him."

"Where next?" queried Borman. "Out to the house where we're keeping the judge?"

"Yes. Lance has already ducked out to call the cottage. He heard Wilderton's blab from behind the
picture. Leave some of the squadron at the judge's house. Take the rest with you."

Borman hurried from the apartment. Ruthley purred calming words to Marclot. The mayor steadied.

"Keep Wilderton bluffed," reminded Ruthley. "He will prove useful to us. Remember, we have Lance and
Beezer covering up. Borman will be back before it's time to go to the meeting at the Civic Club."
Marclot nodded, as they walked back through the hall. He made whispered comment:

"You've got the swag, Steve? In case -"

"It's all in the file cabinet, with the papers. Forget it, Elvin. We've had the best break in the world! The
Shadow slipped us; he thinks he got away with it. That puts him right into our hands - this time to stay!"

Mayor Marclot managed to smile in pompous style, as he came back into Ruthley's den to resume the
talk with Louis Wilderton. That smile was forced; but the one that wreathed Stephen Ruthley's lips was
not. The master crook smiled with real relish.

Often before, Stephen Ruthley had seen his hunches come through. He was confident that another such
result was due tonight. To Stephen Ruthley, The Shadow's finish was a settled matter.

                           CHAPTER XXIV. DOUBLE BATTLE
CREEPING men were closing inward through the darkness. They were the thugs whom Lance Gillick
had sent from Westford, to keep a circled watch about the old mansion that had been Judge Benbrook's
lodging overnight. Audible comments passed among these armed hoodlums.

Word passed along concerning Lance's call to the cottage. The cordon was to tighten; then drive in hard
upon the smaller crew within the house. Crooks knew the identity of the men whom they were to attack.
They were ready with a vengeance, these thugs, to deal with agents of The Shadow.

Some were keeping lookout for The Shadow himself. He had come and gone as Trig Callister; they had
let the sedan ride through. None knew if Judge Benbrook had gone out on that last trip; there was a
chance that he was still within the house. If so, The Shadow would be back. He would fare badly when
he came.

First the agents; then The Shadow. As for Judge Benbrook, the finger had pointed toward him also. This
was to be a massacre; beginning with a surprise attack upon the mansion that stood so silent within the
very center of the creeping horde. The house, itself, was open to attack. Every window would offer entry
for invading thugs.

The tightening process ceased. Evil fighters were ready for command. They were under the leadership of
two whom Lance had deputed to such duty. Those two commanded more than a score of gorillas; the
dregs of the scum who had so long been rampant in Westford. Some of the crew, in fact, had been
members of the horde that had gunned for Lieutenant James Maclare. Brave through power of numbers,
they had boasted their wish for another contact with The Shadow.

It was the moment when a command seemed imminent. Thugs waited for rasped orders. Suddenly, the
stillness broke; but not with the expected commands. From somewhere, like a ghostly taunt, came a
strident, mocking laugh through the darkness.

The laugh of The Shadow!

THE cloaked fighter had arrived. He had left his car a safe distance away; he had slipped through a net
of enemies set to watch for him. He was in the circle itself; and hard upon his mockery came the proofs
of his actual position.

Automatics tongued from blackness; stabbed flame picked out crouching hoodlums. As snarling fighters
spun about, they heard yells from their crippled companions. The Shadow had first located thugs amid
the darkness. His first shots counted.
"The Shadow! Get him!"

As a mobleader roared the command, thugs sought to obey. Twenty against one, they had their
opportunity; they would spot The Shadow if he fired again. They did not realize the purpose of The
Shadow's opening shots; they did not guess that he had withdrawn for the moment. Those shots had
been a signal.

An instant later, floodlights glared from the beleaguered mansion. Crooks were bathed in the brilliance
that came from upper windows. The Shadow had applied the very method that crooks had found so
useful in the past. His agents had set up searchlights, ready to use them when the signal came.

Crooks were as bewildered as Maclare's bluecoats had been, that night at the Mississippi Hotel. Wildly,
they turned toward the house. Remembering The Shadow's marksmanship, they fired for the floodlights.
The brilliant orbs remained unshattered. These searchlights were equipped with bulletproof glass.

Rifles crackled from below the brilliance. The Shadow's agents were at the ground floor windows,
clipping the savage hoodlums who fired back in vain. Like wild tribesmen, thugs started for the house,
thinking to dislodge The Shadow's agents with wide-aimed bullets and curdling yells. The rifles crackled
on, at close range.

Crooks sprawled; as they kicked up the earth, others broke. They dashed for the limits of the lighted
ground, followed by steady shots. Reserves, the ones posted to watch for The Shadow, came up with
encouraging shouts; for they were blanketed by night. They were met by another fire: The Shadow's
own.

The attack was ended. Those thugs who could, went scattering into the night. The Shadow's strident
laugh resounded; it added impetus to the speed of the survivors. It was a signal also; at the sound of the
weird call, the searchlights were suddenly extinguished.

TO fleeing crooks, the darkness brought new dread.

Pursuers might be anywhere, everywhere. Each thug who fled fancied himself the only one who had
escaped; for more than half the horde had sprawled upon the turf. The same had happened with the
cluster of reserves; The Shadow had driven bullets into their very midst. Some thugs found cars; they
sped away from beyond the cottages, heading away from the direction of Westford. The others took to
the brush, making the best time that they could on foot.

The Shadow had classed these toughs as mass fighters only. They had behaved in typical fashion, once
their attack had become a rout. New silence dominated the mansion; then, from a space in front, came a
hoarse whisper. It was "Hawkeye"; he had come out to join The Shadow.

The cloaked chief answered. He gave Hawkeye new instructions. Hawkeye slid back to the house. Soon
men came stealing outward through the darkness. They were The Shadow's agents, ready for new battle.
The first had taken less time than the limit The Shadow had set.

Choosing the banks along the dirt road, The Shadow's agents waited. Their chief had gone somewhere
ahead; again they listened for his signal. Lights appeared; police cars and motorcycles came in caravans
all manned by the khaki-clad thugs who called themselves the Flying Squadron.

The Shadow waited until the last car was abreast of his position. Again, his strident laugh rang forth.

Cars halted at the startling cry. Automatics tongued an opening message. Fake cops wheeled about,
aimed for the spot whence the shots had issued. Again, The Shadow was gone; but his agents took their
cue. From the sheltering embankment, they ripped away with automatics, raking the whole line of the
halted squadron.

Bullets winged tires, windshields. They found the occupants of cars. Khaki-clad men dived from their
machines; left their motorcycles and scattered on foot. This time, floodlights were unneeded. The cars
and motorcycles of the unsuspecting squadron were targets enough.

From the rear, The Shadow pummeled shots along the road. Uniformed crooks ran ahead, hoping to join
the thugs who had once formed a vanished cordon. The Shadow's aids pursued; keeping along the
banks, they harried the newly routed horde and drove them off into the darkness.

Those scattered men would not soon return. When they did, they would find their cars useless. Again,
The Shadow and his half dozen agents had routed more than a score. The Shadow's agents held
together; their task accomplished, they were returning to the house; to hold it in case enough enemies
rallied to attempt invasion.

THERE was one car that had remained unscathed throughout the fray, for the simple reason that it had
been left alone. This automobile had come up behind the others. It had stopped at the command of a man
in back. It was Director Borman's official car. Borman had told his chauffeur to wait.

Fuming, Kirk Borman recognized all that had happened. The pick of his Flying Squadron had been
ambushed. He wanted to get back to town again; to summon other details, particularly the group that he
had left idle at Judge Benbrook's house. With a growl, Borman told the chauffeur to swing the car about.

The chauffeur obeyed; as he swung the big car past the verge of a ditch, blackness rose from the fringe of
the headlights. The chauffeur alone saw it; he yanked a revolver and jabbed it from the window.

A slugging fist came through, swinging an automatic. The chauffeur's cap was bashed down over his
head; the man tilted sidewise; he sprawled to the roadway as the door yanked open.

Kirk Borman made a leap for the front seat. A black-cloaked avalanche came in from space. Springing
past the steering wheel, The Shadow met the fighting police director; gloved fingers found their hold on
Borman's neck. The police director slumped to the floor by the rear seat.

The Shadow picked handcuffs from a pocket in a rear door. They were useful items in a police director's
car; The Shadow had noted them when he had ridden with Borman, in the guise of Trig Callister. He put
the bracelets on the director's wrists. Borman offered no struggle; he was still gasping for air.

Leaving Borman sprawled in back, The Shadow dropped behind the wheel. He stepped on the gas; shot
the big car back toward town. The tires jounced along the bumpy road, while Borman bounced
helplessly about in back, striking his head against the seat and the doors, experiencing new grogginess
every time he started to recover.

One laugh of triumph from The Shadow's hidden lips; then the cloaked victor maintained silence. Sooner
or later, he would meet roving units of the Flying Squadron. They would let him pass, recognizing the
police director's car. The Shadow was traveling far ahead of any reports that would come from the battle
ground where he and his agents had dealt with thugs and false upholders of the law.

In effecting his capture of Kirk Borman, The Shadow had topped off a well-planned campaign. He had
known that his presence would bring the police director to the scene outside of Westford. The Shadow
had counted upon this capture as a final stroke.

Each strategic move had succeeded. Massed hordes vanquished, The Shadow was ready to meet
Stephen Ruthley and his remaining lieutenants; to deal with them as effectively as he had with Kirk
Borman.

                           CHAPTER XXV. WITHIN THE DEN
HALF an hour had passed since The Shadow's victory on the road. Stephen Ruthley was standing in the
center of his luxurious den, eyeing Elvin Marclot and Louis Wilderton. The mayor and the district
attorney both looked troubled; but with different reasons.

"Kirk Borman ought to be back soon," purred Ruthley, staring from a front window to study the lighted
boulevard. "He's taken along all the men that he had posted here."

"Men we posted here?" queried Wilderton. "Why was that, Mr. Ruthley?"

"For the same reason that we should have had men at Judge Benbrook's," returned Ruthley. "Any honest
man is in danger, living here in Westford. I requested guards; Borman gave them to me."

"He offered to guard Judge Benbrook's house," put in Marclot, taking Ruthley's cue. "But the judge
wanted none."

"Director Borman should have insisted upon it," asserted Wilderton. "In spite of Judge Benbrook's
protest."

"Do not blame the police for laxity," retorted Marclot. "If criminals were convicted in this town, we would
have no need for the Flying Squadron!"

Wilderton winced at the reference to the inefficiency of the district attorney's office. Ruthley clapped the
young prosecutor on the back, and smoothed his feelings with honeyed commendation.

"You have done well, Louis," asserted Ruthley. "Which reminds me. We must soon start to the meeting.
If Judge Benbrook fails to arrive, we must do our utmost to preserve the fine spirit that he aroused.
Unfortunately, his absence will bring adverse comment. He will no longer be acceptable as a candidate
for district attorney's office."

"Too bad," remarked Marclot. "It cannot be helped, though. Many persons doubted that Judge
Benbrook could stand the strain of reappearance in public life."

"We still have you, Louis," resumed Ruthley, addressing the district attorney. "You are the right man.
Your support of Judge Benbrook won you many friends. We shall return to our original plan; your
reelection."

Wilderton tried to look pleased, but he was too worried about the references to Judge Benbrook's
absence. At last he decided that Ruthley was right. It would be impossible to depend upon the judge.
Seeing Wilderton's change of expression, Ruthley strolled again to the window.

"Kirk is back!" he exclaimed. "I see his car outside. He must have returned while we were talking. I
suppose the Flying Squadron is still out. I see a few of the precinct police on duty."

The appearance of bluecoats disturbed neither Ruthley nor Marclot. The apartment house was not in
Lieutenant Maclare's precinct. As Ruthley stepped back from the window, the doorbell rang. Ruthley
heard Haija in the hall. The boss stood waiting for Borman to appear.

Suddenly, Ruthley glowered; his glinting eyes denoted perplexity. Mayor Marclot looked in the same
direction and gasped. Louis Wilderton came to his feet with a glad gasp.
Kirk Borman had entered, sober-faced and glum. With the police director was a man whom none
expected. Borman's companion was Judge Martin Benbrook.

ERECT and firm of step. Judge Benbrook strode to the center of the room. While Ruthley and Marclot
looked to Borman for an explanation, the judge drew a large envelope from his pocket. From it, he drew
objects that made Stephen Ruthley gape.

"These are for you, Louis," stated the judge, to Wilderton. "You will recognize this, perhaps. It is a list of
names that you gave to Stephen Ruthley. Turn it over, Louis."

Wilderton took the crumpled sheet of paper, turned it over and saw Woodstock's name and telephone
number. Judge Benbrook commented dryly:

"Ask Ruthley if he recognizes his own handwriting."

A look of understanding dawned on Wilderton's owlish face. He blinked through his spectacles.

"What does this mean?" he exclaimed. "You called Woodstock, after I was here, Mr. Ruthley?"

Ruthley's glower had faded. The big-shot was smoother than ever.

"I do not recall that I ever called Adam Woodstock," he began. "In fact, I scarcely knew the man by
sight."

"Yet you visited him that same night," remarked Judge Benbrook, coldly, "and left your signature upon
the blotter on his desk. Along with Woodstock's own signature."

From the envelope, the judge took the telltale blotter. He gave it to Wilderton, who recognized both
signatures despite their reversed form. Smiling, Ruthley purred his protest.

"Why should I have signed my name in Woodstock's presence?" he questioned. "On what sort of
document would I have placed it?"

"At the bottom of Woodstock's statement," accused Judge Benbrook, in tone of firm denunciation. "The
sheet from which you clipped your signature later; after you had bluffed Woodstock into signing the
statement himself. Take this paper, Wilderton!" The judge unfolded a sheet and gave it to the district
attorney. "It is Wilderton's own stationery; but this sheet is of proper length. Compare it with the clipped
statement that you filed in your office files and -"

Stephen Ruthley interrupted with a harsh challenge. He had no more need for smooth procedure. Judge
Benbrook was an enemy who had to be eliminated; so was Louis Wilderton, now that the prosecutor's
eyes had been opened. Ruthley shot his hand to his hip; he carried a gun there and he intended murder,
expecting the support of Elvin Marclot and Kirk Borman.

The mayor was too dumfounded to make a move; but Borman shot his hand to his own pocket, whipped
out a revolver and covered Ruthley before the boss could pull his gun.

"THE game is up, Steve," croaked Borman, sourly. "You're wanted for the murder of Adam
Woodstock. Marclot and I will have to tell all we know. Don't blame me for it. I'm not acting on my
own."

Kirk Borman's words were suddenly explained. A burly man stepped into view from the hallway; he was
in blue uniform; he carried a police revolver. The man was James Maclare; the grizzled police lieutenant
wore a triumphant expression upon his weather-beaten face. He spoke to Borman; the police director
lowered his gun and let Maclare take charge.

Behind Maclare came three policemen from his own precinct. He had brought them with him, and had
left a squad outside. In that instant, Stephen Ruthley guessed the answer. The hand of The Shadow was
behind this showdown. Ruthley needed no news of the battles that had finished thugs and mowed down
the Flying Squadron. He was too concerned with his own Waterloo.

"The graft money is in the filing cabinet, Maclare," informed Borman through gritted teeth. "Millions of it!
Ruthley bundled it all, in case we had to make a break from town. With the papers, too -"

"You double-crosser!" snarled Ruthley, "saving your own hide by squealing on the rest of us! I suppose
The Shadow shoved you into this?"

Borman caught a glint in Ruthley's eye; one that he understood. The police director's hard lips formed a
smile; he gave a nod to show that he was ready. Ruthley bawled a sudden order:

"All right, Lance!"

The picture on the wall ripped inward. Men from beyond cracked the fastening loose as they hit the
frame with full force. Headlong into the room came Lance Gillick and Beezer Dorsch. With them, they
brought full proof of Stephen Ruthley's guilt.

Though other evidence stood as circumstantial, the presence of Beezer Dorsch, known murderer, in
Ruthley's own apartment was a fact that would stand in any court. It showed Ruthley's complicity in
every crime that had happened in Westford. It marked him as the big-shot of the crime ring, beyond all
denial.

IN that startling moment, however, no one thought of that important detail. Lance and Beezer were
straightening, leveling revolvers that they knew how to use. Maclare and the three officers were wheeling
toward them; intent on dealing with these enemies, they forgot Stephen Ruthley.

The big-shot whipped out his revolver; at the same moment, Kirk Borman rallied with him. Honesty did
not appeal to the police director. Ruthley had guessed that fact; was counting upon Borman to side with
him, using the gun that Maclare had allowed Borman to bring along on promise that he would side with
the law.

The Shadow had arranged all this; through Judge Benbrook, he had approved of Borman's cooperation.
The judge, dropping helplessly toward the wall, gained sudden fear that The Shadow's strategy had
failed. Lance and Beezer, breaking past the picture of Aramis, had equaled the odds of crime against the
law.

Then came the finish. Police guns ripped. Lance and Beezer never had a chance against them. Maclare
and his bluecoats beat the two crooks to the shot; sprawled them with a deluge of bullets before they
could recover from their hasty entry.

Judge Benbrook cried a warning. Ruthley and Borman were coming to a counterthrust. The advantage
that the police had gained was lost. Borman was aiming for Maclare; the director had gained the bulge on
the sturdy police officer.

Death for Maclare - and the others, for Ruthley was a close second with his gun. Such was the intent of
crooks; but their purpose never carried. Before a single gun could bark within the room, an automatic
spoke from the blackened doorway where the full-length portrait had been.

There stood The Shadow. He had entered by the passage, to watch Lance and Beezer. He had let them
crash through; but he was close behind them. He had spared the two, so that the law could have them.
His battle was with another pair. First, the double traitor, Kirk Borman.

The Shadow's first shot was aimed for Borman; a spurt of flame delivered a bullet that found the crook's
heart. Borman sagged to the floor, his gun unfired.

Stephen Ruthley performed the move that The Shadow expected. He forgot Maclare; swung to deal with
his arch-foe, The Shadow.

Two guns spoke at once. The Shadow, as he fired, wheeled away, beyond the edge of the doorway. He
was on the move as he snapped the trigger. Ruthley's quick bullet shot inches wide. The master of crime
never knew that his shot had missed.

For Ruthley had made no feint. Standing his ground, hoping to beat The Shadow's shot, he received what
he had sought to deal. A withering bullet pierced the master crook's chest. Forward, with a long sprawl,
Stephen Ruthley flattened to the floor.

THE handcuffs were on Mayor Elvin Marclot. His pompous pose gone, the last ace of the crime ring
shivered as he eyed the bodies on the floor.

Lance Gillick, his evening clothes smeared with blood, lay sagged across the rough-clad form of Beezer
Dorsch. Kirk Borman's face was rigid in death, scowling its last expression of treachery. Amid them lay
Stephen Ruthley, his profile glaring along the tufted surface of an oriental rug.

Weakling of the lot, Elvin Marclot had survived, to do the task that The Shadow had offered Kirk
Borman: to gain some leniency through a complete confession of all the crookedness in which he and
others had aided Stephen Ruthley.

While Lieutenant Maclare and his loyal men stood stern and motionless, Judge Benbrook turned to Louis
Wilderton. Calmly, the gray-haired jurist reminded the district attorney that the meeting hour had arrived.
It was time for them to depart this scene and carry the news of real reform to honest men who had been
Stephen Ruthley's dupes.

The space in the wall was blank. The Shadow had not returned to it. From somewhere off in the depths
of the adjoining vacant house came a weird, mirthless laugh that might have echoed from another sphere
of space. The eerie tone faded, bringing silence.

That laugh was The Shadow's final triumph.

It marked the end of another life-risking battle against crime, and at the same time it presaged greater
difficulties ahead. The Shadow, who escaped death a million times, was to face a new kind of death, and
a new kind of crime, in Death by Proxy, matching his wits against the wits of a master villain, and stacking
his two guns against the arms of dozens of hirelings. A strange menace hung over an ancient family home;
death struck with uncanny regularity. Into this scene of fear and danger The Shadow must enter; here he
must fight anew that justice would not be misled; that criminals get their deserved punishment - death, real
death, not Death by Proxy.

THE END