THE THREE BROTHERS
                                by Maxwell Grant

     As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 15, 1939.

     Which of them was the evil one? Only The Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER I

     MILLIONS TO GAIN

      DUSK was settling upon the New Jersey meadows. North of the Skyway, where
glittering lights of automobiles formed a continuous two-way parade, lay
spreading tracts of low wasteland, between two narrow rivers that seemed to
have widened apart to shun that miserable terrain.
      Man had conquered those meadows with crisscrossed railroad lines, where
mammoth freight locomotives were chugging stolidly through the gloom, their
whistles adding a mournful wail to the ghostly pall of dusk.
      Rising like specters to greet the approaching night were huge buildings
that bordered the railroad tracks. These were industrial plants, erected upon
the barren meadows because such sites brought them close to transportation
routes.
      Largest of all such structures was the Jersey works of the Caxter
Chemical
Corporation. It stood, a miniature city in itself, between the elbow of a
river
and the junction of two rail lines. About it were yards filled with freight
cars; on the river's fringe, a line of barges accounted for the raw materials
that would later be shipped, as finished products, to many Eastern cities.
      Once white, the Caxter buildings had become a grimy gray. Blocky, they
formed a pyramid to the central structure in their midst. The only relief in
their drab appearance was formed by a yellow mountain of sulphur piled against
a building wall, plus a few sparkles of light that came from the windows of
the
central tower.
      Those tiny lights, however, were important. The room that they
illuminated
was a remarkable contrast to the dingy outside scene. Under the soft glow of
an
ornate ceiling lamp, men were seated about a mahogany table in an office as
elaborate as any that Wall Street could boast.
      This was the private office of Gregg Caxter, president of the
corporation;
a man whose wealth was conservatively estimated at fifty million dollars.
Gregg
Caxter, himself, was presiding over the meeting; the men seated with him were
directors of the chemical corporation.
      Short of build, Gregg Caxter seemed most impressive when seated. He was a
man of thirty-five; but his sallow, deep-lined face and thin, black hair gave
him an older look. So did his eyes, for their coal-black glint carried an
ambitious desire that indicated long and purposeful effort over a period of
many years.
      Gregg Caxter!
      The very name meant power to the assembled directors. It meant more than
that - tyranny almost, to two others who stood in the background; for they
were
merely employees, and they knew the driving force of Caxter's rule.
      One man, pasty-faced and nervous, stood beside a table in the corner. On
that table was a variety of articles: solid blocks of sulphur, the size of
bricks; bottles of liquids, varying in color; a tiny metal tank, with a valve
attachment at the top; finally, most curious of all, a small crate that
contained a dozen guinea pigs, as stupid-looking as the crowd of directors.
     The man who guarded these exhibits was Walters, one of the many
secretaries who worked for Gregg Caxter. If he had a first name, he had
probably forgotten it; for, like others close to Gregg Caxter, Walters was
constantly addressed by his last name only.
     Across the room, silent in his corner, was a tall, droopy-faced man who
could actually boast a full name. He was Kirk Wydell, a consulting chemist.
Though merely Wydell to Gregg Caxter, the chemist was important enough to be
called Kirk by some of the lesser officials.


      THE silence that gripped the sumptuous office was broken suddenly by the
sharp tone of Gregg Caxter. His voice usually held a harsh tone; but on this
occasion, it was tinged with a note of extreme annoyance. The listeners knew
that G. C., as they termed him, was about to review a subject that he did not
like.
      "When family matters enter into business," announced Gregg, "there is
always trouble. That is why we are balked in our plans to build an Illinois
plant duplicating this one. As you gentlemen know, I have two brothers" -
there
was a touch of contempt in Gregg's tone - "who hold the rights to certain
basic
patents used in our chemical processes.
      "Even though I control this corporation, I cannot proceed to spend five
million dollars without their permission. That was one of the wise provisions"
- Gregg's voice showed sarcasm - "made by my father! He knew that Howard, my
older brother, was a dreamer; that Philip, my younger brother, was a
spendthrift. So he gave me this business, when he divided the estate among us.
      "And yet" - Gregg shook his head - "my father was unwise enough to let
them have a strangle hold on me. He thought that this business had reached its
greatest growth. To curb my efforts to enlarge it, he specially provided that
if I increased the capital stock of the Caxter Chemical Corporation, all
rights
to those patents would be lost."
      Gregg concluded his statement with a hard pound of his fist; a stroke
that
made the mahogany table quiver. One of the directors finally gathered nerve
enough to make a mild objection.
      "You've told us this before, G. C.; but you also said that if your
brothers grant permission, we can expand -"
      "My brothers!" Gregg snarled the interruption. "How can we get anywhere
with them? We sent Payson and Lloyd to see them. What happened? They talked to
my brother Philip first, and that was the last we ever heard of them.
      "I'll tell you what I think happened." Gregg wagged his forefinger.
"Philip bribed them. He paid them large sums, just to spite me; told them to
go
their way and get some fun out of life, instead of sticking in a stinky
chemical
plant. That's the way that fool Philip talks!"
      Gregg sat back, his eyebrows pursed in a glower. The directors showed
serious expressions. The odor of the room, pungent with chemical smells,
proved
that there might be some logic in the remarks that Gregg had attributed to
Philip. But the directors, loyal to G. C. because they hoped for larger
salaries, were very careful to show no sympathy toward Gregg's younger
brother.
      "Then we sent Tyburn," recalled Gregg, harshly. "We told him to go to see
Howard first. Tyburn ran into a different matter. Howard told him that things
weren't right here; that the plant didn't have enough safety measures. He said
that when such improvements were made, he would give his permission to
anything.
     "Tyburn left Howard and called on Philip, who said that it sounded all
right to him. Philip had to agree, after what Howard had said. It's that
ridiculous family situation again: Philip, the youngest brother, sides with
Howard, the oldest. So we had to mark time and install new safety measures,
just to please my precious brothers!"
     The directors looked relieved. After a few moments, the one who had
spoken
previously remarked:
     "That ought to settle it, G. C.; if you send Tyburn back to your brother
Howard, to tell him that the safety measures have been adopted -"
     "Tyburn can't go back," snapped Gregg, sharply. "The first thing the fool
did when he got here, was start an inspection tour of the plant. He walked
right into a leak of hydrogen sulphide; not enough to bother anyone else, but
it got him."
     "You mean, G. C., that Tyburn is... is dead?"
     "Yes!" Gregg came to his feet, leaning his squatty form forward. "What's
more, the news is out. Some reporter heard about it, and tomorrow everyone
will
know it! What's worse, they have taken a look at our pay rolls.
     "They want to know about Payson and Lloyd, two men who are no longer
working for us. What became of them? That is what the newspapers have asked
us;
and what could we answer? Only that we don't know where they are. You know
what
that means. The headlines will say that three men died here; not just one."


     DIRECTORS were exchanging furtive looks as Gregg settled back in his
chair. Perhaps they were thinking that the newspaper theory actually accounted
for the disappearances of Payson and Lloyd. Gregg's sharp eyes raked the group
in challenging fashion. The directors stiffened.
     "We must send another man to see my brothers," announced Gregg, tersely.
"He must talk to them - Howard in particular - before this scandal breaks. He
must explain that Payson and Lloyd simply left us; that Tyburn's death was an
accident, due to conditions that have been rectified.
     "I have chosen Wydell for this mission" - Gregg turned and beckoned to
the
tall man in the corner - "because he is a man who knows the situation
thoroughly. I have talked to him and he is willing to go through with it. Am I
right, Wydell?"
     Wydell had stepped toward the table. He cleared his throat with an
apologetic cough, then said:
     "Quite right, Mr. Caxter."
     "And the matters which I have mentioned," prompted Gregg. "The fact that
Payson and Lloyd left us; that Tyburn's death was accidental - do you agree
with those statements?"
     "Absolutely, sir!"
     There was a buzz among the directors, with approving mention of "Good old
G. C.," which brought a smile to Gregg's sallow lips. In his plans for
increasing his huge wealth, Gregg did not care if the directors had doubted
his
word until Wydell substantiated it. They were at last convinced; that fact
satisfied him.
     "You have your car here, Wydell?"
     The chemist nodded, in response to Gregg's question.
     "Then start at once," Gregg ordered. "Drive to Pennbury and call Howard's
house from there. He lives only a few miles from town; he might see you
tonight. If not, stay at the Pennbury Inn and make an appointment as early as
possible tomorrow."
     Wydell looked toward the table where Walters stood.
     "Never mind the exhibits," said Gregg. "It won't do to waste time showing
Howard any products from the plant. He'll only want to see more, and I haven't
assembled all that I wanted. It is better to take none than only half."
     Wydell nodded. He took his hat and coat, which were on a chair in the
corner. Gregg waved him toward the door, voicing a harsh farewell:
     "Good luck, Wydell!"
     Gregg Caxter had risen, so the directors also stood. They saw the chunky
corporation president look around; then heard him demand:
     "Where's Walters?"
     One of the directors had seen the secretary go into another office. Gregg
gave a shrug, decided he didn't need Walters after all. The group left by the
same doorway that Wydell had taken.
     Hardly had Gregg Caxter, last to leave, closed the outer door behind him,
when Walters peered in from the other office.
     No longer was the pallid secretary nervous. His face was eager; its
twitches were a gloat. He was holding a telephone, the receiver to his ear,
waiting for a reply from a number that he had already called. As Walters
listened, a voice came across the wire - a voice that he recognized.
     Quickly, the secretary gave the details of all that had happened at the
conference, concluding with the fact that Kirk Wydell had been sent to see
Howard Caxter. When asked if Wydell was to visit Philip Caxter later, Walters
answered in the affirmative.
     Wydell, as Walters understood it, was to do exactly the same as Tyburn,
the previous emissary who had called on the two brothers. After that, Wydell
would return to the plant and report to Gregg Caxter. Finished with that
explanation, Walters asked if there were any instructions.
     Orders came across the wire; as he received them, Walters indulged in an
evil grin. Any instructions pleased him, for he regarded all commands as moves
against Gregg Caxter, the employer whose tyranny he hated.
     Evil was afoot tonight, and Walters, the traitorous secretary, was
pleased
because he had been ordered to play a hand in it!


    CHAPTER II

    DEATH FROM THE CLIFF

     BELOW the central building that housed Gregg Caxter's palatial offices,
the ground was black, almost cavernous. Sheltering walls of the surrounding
buildings produced narrow confines that seemed remote from the wide expanses
of
the outlying meadows.
     Darkness had become complete in those lower crannies. Even the building
walls could not be seen in the gloom. The ground, strewn with odd pieces of
junk, was the sort where prowlers could easily stumble, unless they used a
light; which, in turn, would normally reveal them quite as noticeably as any
blunders in the dark.
     There was a figure, however, that moved through those lower stretches
with
untraceable silence. The light that this observer used was a tiny torch; its
thin, silvery beam was muffled, in part, by the folds of a black cloak.
     Even against the gray of a building wall, his cloaked shoulders were
obscure, as was his head, which was topped by a slouch hat. This unseen
visitor
to the Caxter Chemical domain was The Shadow.
      Where crime threatened, The Shadow followed. A deadly foe to crooks, The
Shadow possessed the uncanny faculty of ferreting out men who dealt in evil.
His visit here told that he had come upon one of his accustomed missions.
      The Shadow was not the only lurker in the darkness. There were others -
mobbies from Manhattan, who had sneaked into the shelter of these grimy walls.
Whatever their purpose, The Shadow intended to learn it and frustrate their
plans. At this moment, as he moved about through obscure channels, he could
have picked out the exact position of four men, thugs who had no knowledge of
The Shadow's presence.
      A shaft of light broke from a lower doorway in the central building.
Gregg
Caxter stepped into sight, accompanied by the departing directors. Shrouded in
a
sheltering corner, some fifty feet away, The Shadow was ready with muffled
flashlight and drawn automatic to pick out any crooks who offered trouble.
      No trouble came. Skulkers kept to their posts, while Gregg Caxter and his
companions went to their parked cars. Soon, limousines were in motion, to take
their passengers across the meadows in the direction of the Skyway, which
offered the short route to Manhattan, by way of the Holland Tunnel.
      A flashlight was moving, off past a building. One man who had come from
the tower offices was not leaving in a limousine. Perhaps he was the quarry
sought by crooks. Gauging his own course by the flashlight's glow, The Shadow
moved through darkness, following the lone man.
      The fellow was Kirk Wydell. The Shadow saw the chemist's droopy face,
when
Wydell stepped into a shabby sedan and turned on the dome light. Wydell's car
was parked in a space used by employees; a few other automobiles were nearby.
Wydell didn't notice those other cars. He was busy consulting a road map.
      The dome light went off before The Shadow could approach close enough to
observe Wydell's road map. Headlamps and taillights glittered suddenly; by the
glow of the latter, The Shadow saw that Wydell's car had New Jersey license
plates. Moving away, to be out of sight when Wydell turned the car, The Shadow
glanced upward to the tower.
      Whether or not chance had inspired The Shadow's gaze, the result that he
gained was important. The lights of the upper offices switched off.
Immediately
afterward, a flashlight began to blink. Its signals were all dots, indicating
that the man above was flashing a number, not a name. By the time the second
figure had been blinked, The Shadow knew what the signal indicated.
      Someone in the suite of offices was giving the very number that The
Shadow
had seen upon Wydell's license plate!


     THERE was a stir in the darkness, as soon as Wydell's car had swung
about.
Men were moving, none too guardedly, toward a long, low-built touring car
parked
in an obscure corner of the lot.
     Wydell didn't notice them, for his car had swung away. But The Shadow
knew
their purpose. They were the hoodlums that he had watched; they had just
received a tip-off to follow Wydell's car.
     Rolling out through an open gateway, Wydell's sedan took a different
direction than the limousines which had left a few minutes before. He was
choosing a road that led northward to some through highway. Probably his
destination was somewhere in New Jersey, not New York.
     Hardly had Wydell's taillight bobbed from view beyond a railroad
crossing,
before the rakish touring car poked through the same gateway, to take up
Wydell's trail. When the thug-manned vehicle had disappeared, another car
joined the caravan. The third automobile was a high-speed roadster. Its driver
was The Shadow.
     For a few miles, The Shadow used precautions resembling those of the car
ahead. When a through highway was reached, the trail required no great care.
All that The Shadow had to do was keep the touring car in sight, while its
driver checked on Wydell.
     The course was northward; whether it continued in that direction, or
veered to the west, was a matter of small consequence. Whichever way Wydell
went, The Shadow intended to follow.
     His plan came to a sudden obstacle a few miles farther north. The touring
car made a sudden swing to the side of the highway; it was halted there when
The Shadow drove past. Speeding around a bend, he saw no sign of Wydell's car
ahead, so he chose a convenient spot of his own and pulled in there.
     With lights extinguished, The Shadow waited. Soon, he saw the touring car
roll by at moderate speed. Behind it came another machine, a coupe, that
seemed, by its actions, to be following the thugs. Again The Shadow started
his
car, and became the third in line.
     Then came another element of the unexpected. At a crossroad, the touring
car swung eastward, taking the one direction that The Shadow had not foreseen.
The coupe followed suit, proving The Shadow's impression that it was following
the touring car. Apparently, Wydell was out of the picture, so The Shadow's
only course was to trail the other cars and see what happened.
     They were too far north to make a straight line for the George Washington
Bridge, which offered a route into Manhattan. The cars were closer to the
vicinity of Englewood, but if they kept to their present course, they would
eventually reach the boulevard running along the Palisades above the Hudson
River. There, again, would be a choice of direction; but once more, the
unexpected occurred.
     Just short of the boulevard, the two cars swung into a byway. Following
them, The Shadow cut off his lights and picked the road by watching the two
taillights ahead. The cars had come to a stop, apparently at a dead end, and
were halted side by side.
     Suddenly, the red glows vanished. Easing his car to the side of the road,
The Shadow applied the brakes and cut off the low-throbbing motor. Easing to
the road, he advanced on foot.
     The growl of voices guided him straight to the two darkened cars. Men
were
standing between them, and as The Shadow pressed into the space, the flicker
of
a match revealed a rough, unshaven face.
     The man with the match lighted a cigarette, then flicked away the flame.
He was facing the open window of the coupe; The Shadow heard him address the
car's driver.


     "I'M Red Felgin," gruffed the man with the cigarette. "Your name is
Walters, ain't it?"
     "Yes." The voice from the coupe carried annoyance. "But you were supposed
to tail the car that went out first. I flashed you the license number."
     "Yeah, we know that. But the guy shook us."
     "You can pick up the trail again. The man in the car is named Kirk
Wydell.
He's going to a place called Pennbury. If you cut west from here -"
     Red Felgin interrupted with a guffaw. He must have nudged one of the men
beside him, for a flashlight suddenly gleamed. It showed the pale face of
Walters, half from the coupe window; then into the glow came a gun, gripped by
Red's hairy fist.
     "We ain't tailing Wydell," sneered Red. "We're taking you for a one-way
ride! Get it, double-crosser?"
     "But... but" - Walters was nervous in his stammer - "you're working for
the same man that I am -"
     "Sure! But he don't trust nobody that pulls a double cross. Get it? He
used you while he needed you, but he don't need you any more! Shove over,
Walters. I'm going to wheel your car."
     It was apparent to The Shadow that two men of that assembled group could
give real information regarding the big shot who ruled them. Those two were
Red
and Walters. The former was a notorious mob leader; the latter a traitor.
     Both were crooked; if Red murdered Walters, as scheduled, the loss would
not be great. But such a deed would end The Shadow's trail. This moment was
the
time to intervene.
     A fierce laugh shivered the darkness between the two cars. There was a
snarl from Red, as he wheeled away from the coupe. The thug who glimmered the
flashlight upon Walters came about, hoping to spot The Shadow with the glow;
for every startled crook knew that a challenge from the darkness, uttered with
such weird mockery, could come only from the black-cloaked fighter that all
mobland feared.
     Red's gun barked. With its echoes, the gleam of the flashlight sliced
mere
space. The Shadow had vanished; like his shivery laugh, he seemed a thing of
nothingness, until he bobbed up suddenly from the ground where he had
flattened.
     Flung forward in his dive, The Shadow was among the startled crooks. His
gloved fist took Red's wrist, shoved the mob leader's gun hand upward. With
his
other hand, The Shadow brandished an automatic into the faces of Red's huddled
followers before the crooks could scatter.
     Then came the spurt of another revolver, from the coupe. Walters had
grabbed a gun, had chosen the closest target: the skull of Red Felgin, just
outside the window. The bullet settled the mob leader; he jounced sideways in
The Shadow's clutch. With a gleeful snarl, Walters poked farther from the
window. Quite impartial when it came to murder, the traitor wanted to take a
shot at The Shadow.
     With a quick swing of his gun fist, The Shadow bashed the revolver from
his foeman's hand. Walters shrieked, as the heavy automatic mashed his
fingers.
Dropping behind the wheel, he shoved the coupe in gear, drove it forward
through
the detour barrier that made this road a temporary dead end.
     The flashlight was gone. Thugs had scrambled into their car. One, trying
to ward off The Shadow, took a slugging blow that dropped him in the rear of
the touring car. A moment later, the hoodlums were away, leaving Red dead in
the road behind them. They were as anxious as Walters to escape The Shadow.
     Reaching his own car, The Shadow started in pursuit. He swung across a
bumpy stretch of road, took a turn that led toward the boulevard. The cars
that
he pursued were still in sight, tearing for the highway. Then came the shriek
of
brakes. Too late to prevent catastrophe, they were the announcement of new
tragedy.
     Walters, slicing across the boulevard, had lost control of his coupe. The
car struck a heavy rail that bordered the Palisades, but its momentum was too
great for the barrier to withstand. Amid a splintering crash that drowned out
other sound, the coupe catapulted through a shower of debris, to cross the
brink of a cliff that offered a sheer drop of three hundred feet.
     Like Red Felgin, Walters had found a deserved doom. Both men who held the
key to crime were gone. Watching, The Shadow saw the thugs in the touring car
escape disaster as they veered safely into the lighted boulevard. There was no
need to pursue that car farther. Its small-fry occupants could tell nothing.
     The Shadow's course lay elsewhere. From tonight's adventure, he had
learned the name of Kirk Wydell, the man who had gone to the town of Pennbury,
some thirty-odd miles northwest of Manhattan. There, perhaps, The Shadow could
obtain further clues that he required.
     With a grim, whispered laugh, The Shadow turned his car about. Thwarted
by
double death, he was choosing a new trail, hoping to solve the riddle of
hidden
crime.


     CHAPTER III

     TWO MEN AGREE

      IT was late the next afternoon, when Kirk Wydell left the little Pennbury
Inn and started his old sedan in the direction of Howard Caxter's estate. Last
night, Wydell had telephoned too late to make an evening appointment; this
morning, he had learned that Howard Caxter was busy and could not see him
until
afternoon.
      He had been told to await a call from the Caxter mansion, and it had not
come until nearly five o'clock.
      All day, Wydell had been making occasional long-distance calls to the
Caxter chemical plant, where Gregg had been chafing away the business hours
waiting to learn how Wydell made out with his brother Howard.
      With every call, Wydell had been reminded that if he had any luck with
Howard, he was to go straight to New York and seek an interview with the
youngest brother, Philip.
      Fortunately, Philip Caxter did not have Howard's habit of retiring early.
As for Gregg, he could be a night owl when occasion demanded. He promised
Wydell that he would remain at the plant, with the directors, until Wydell's
return.
      Several of Wydell's telephone calls had been overheard in their entirety
by The Shadow, for he had taken an adjacent room at the Pennbury Inn. But The
Shadow was no longer in the little hotel when Wydell started his drive to
Howard's mansion. The Shadow had started ahead. Outside the big gate that led
into the huge grounds, he watched Wydell's car roll through.
      It was almost dusk. The Shadow, free from observation, began a short cut
through the trees. Though he was traveling on foot, his route promised him
access to the mansion soon after Wydell arrived there; for the driveway took a
roundabout course to reach Howard's front door.
      In fact, Wydell was rather amazed to find that he had driven a mile from
the gateway before he reached the mansion. A building of magnificent
proportions, Howard Caxter's home looked like a kingly palace, while its
grounds, Wydell estimated, probably covered half a county. On sober
reflection,
Wydell decided that such circumstances should not cause surprise.
      Old Theobald Caxter, father of the three brothers, had divided his wealth
equally among them. Only a few years had passed since the father's death;
hence
Howard, also Philip, should each be worth about fifty million dollars, the
same
as their brother Gregg.
      After ascending a flight of marble steps and passing great pillars of the
same stone, Wydell reached the front door. He was admitted by a servant
dressed
in drab livery, then conducted through a great hall decorated with statuary.
There were vast rooms on either side; finally, short steps of marble. At the
top, they reached a small garden entirely inclosed with glass.
     There was a tinkling fountain in the center, with a pool filled with fish
as rare as the plants that stood beside the windows. There were stone benches
among the plants, except at one side, where a door opened to an outer garden,
and at the rear of the glass-walled room, where another door led to a wing of
the immense house.
     Above was a dome-shaped skylight, at present dark because of the dusk;
but
the indoor garden was illuminated by lamps set in corner pillars. The whole
effect was one of indirect lighting, and the glow was as soft, as pleasant, as
the gentle tinkle of the central fountain.
     A slender man, dressed in dark gray, stood leaning on a cane, one hand
extended in greeting to Wydell. A glance at the greeter's face told the
visitor
that he was meeting Howard Caxter. Though gaunt and thin-featured, with
complexion tawny rather than sallow, the man had the keen eyes and firm lips
that were characteristics of his second brother, Gregg.
     "I expected Tyburn," spoke Howard, in a tone that was dry yet with none
of
the sarcasm that Gregg so frequently used. "That is why I postponed this
appointment. I could not understand why Gregg had sent another man instead,
until I learned" - he gestured toward a newspaper that lay on a stone bench -
"that Tyburn died several days ago."
     "It was an accident," assured Wydell. "I am positive of that, Mr.
Caxter."
     Howard's eyes were searching, but not unkindly so. They seemed to sense
that Wydell's statement was sincere.
     "And these others?" questioned Howard. "What were their names" - he
reached for the newspaper - "the two who have so strangely disappeared?"
     "Payson and Lloyd," supplied Wydell. "They went to see your brother,
Philip, before they came here."
     "But they never came here -"
     "That was because" - Wydell hesitated, then blurted - "because, according
to G. C., Philip paid them to forget that they ever worked for the Caxter
Chemical Corporation."
     Howard Caxter did not resent the statement. Instead, he delivered a laugh
as musical as the tinkle of the fountain.
     "That would be like Philip," he said. "He has often wanted to pension off
some of Gregg's employees. You will have a chance to meet Philip tonight, Mr.
Wydell. After that, you can hurry back to G. C., as you term my brother Gregg.
Come!" Turning, Howard pointed his cane to the door at the back of the garden.
"We can chat more comfortably in my study."


     WHILE the two were passing through the doorway, there was a stir at the
side of the garden. It came from the door that led outside. Into the inclosure
glided The Shadow; he glanced about the indoor garden, then approached the
door
at the back.
     The study door was slightly ajar. From the shelter of a semitropical
plant, The Shadow got a partial view of the study, yet retained the advantage
of concealment, should any servants chance to come into the garden from the
main portion of the house.
     The study was lavishly furnished, but done in excellent taste. Its walls
were fitted with bookcases, all filled with handsomely bound volumes. One
corner had a desk; there was a reading alcove at the rear of the room, with a
door beyond it. A large table stood in the center of the room, and about it
were large deep-cushioned chairs that looked unusually comfortable.
     Howard had motioned Wydell to one of those chairs, and the guest was
relaxed deep in the seat, his head reclining against the chair's cushioned
back. Howard, however, was standing close to the central table; the light was
such that he could see Wydell's face very clearly.
     "I told Tyburn," declared Howard, "that I objected to certain processes
in
use at Gregg's chemical plant. One was the practice of utilizing a dangerous
gas
like hydrogen sulphide in the manufacture of sulphuric acid. Tyburn claimed
that
the leakage was insufficient to cause death."
     "He was wrong," returned Wydell, solemnly. "It was hydrogen sulphide that
killed him when he was checking on the process."
     "So I understand. That makes the tragedy all the worse. Therefore I must
know positively" - Howard was rapping the table with his knuckles - "if that
process has been eliminated."
     "It has. We have already received large shipments of raw sulphur, to be
used in future manufacture of acid."
     Studying Wydell's face, Howard decided that the chemist had told the
truth. Then:
     "I also understand," he declared, "that Gregg is producing quantities of
poison gas for the government."
     "Yes," returned Wydell, his tone a bit uneasy. "But I assure you that
every precaution has been taken. Improved valves are used for the tanks. I
understand, too, that a government contract cannot well be ignored."
     "Perhaps not," agreed Howard. "But what about gas masks, which really
benefit mankind. Is Gregg equipped to manufacture them?"
     Wydell shook his head.
     "There lies the trouble," declared Howard, slowly. "Let me express my
views, Mr. Wydell, and I believe that you will understand. My father was a man
with only one ambition: to acquire wealth. That trait, it seems, was passed
along to Gregg.
     "Wealth, to me, is something that should be used to aid humanity. I
learned that lesson" - Howard's eyes took on a reflective gaze, his tone
softened to a sentimental pitch - "from my tutor, Norman Selwood, as fine a
man
as ever lived!
     "I was a weakling as a child. My father disliked my love for study, and
therefore disliked me. He preferred Gregg, who had a flare for business; he
cared for Philip, who was rugged and liked outdoor activities. Fairly enough,
however, he gave us what he thought we preferred.
     "I own this estate, where I can dwell as a recluse, with a huge income at
my disposal. Gregg has the chemical plant and other businesses. Philip was
given the great ranch in Wyoming, where he spends much of his time. But my
father overlooked one fact."
     Howard was smiling, his expression showing fondness for his father's
memory. Quite different, thought Wydell, from Gregg's contempt toward all that
concerned his family. A contrast, too, the fact that Howard felt that family
matters had a bearing on business; a thing that Gregg treated with annoyance.
     "My studies," said Howard, "included chemistry. I know more about that
science than Gregg does, although the chemical plant is under his control. I
have watched the industry's development, and it is my opinion that chemistry
should be used to benefit humanity, rather than destroy it.
     "That applies specifically in the case of poison gases. In my laboratory"
- he gestured toward the door in the rear alcove - "I have made extensive
experiments, not in destructive gases but in those which can neutralize the
effects of poison. Compounds, Mr. Wydell, that would amaze a chemist like
yourself!"


    WYDELL'S gaze was pleased. He was hoping that Howard would take him to
the
laboratory. The eldest Caxter recognized his visitor's interest, but shook his
head.
      "Not today, Wydell," he said. "Later, I should like to have you come here
and aid me in my work. I think that it will be quite possible, because" -
Howard's eyes had a gaze that seemed to picture some vision of the future -
"here are my terms to Gregg.
      "If he will agree to manufacture chemicals for gas masks, or other
neutralizing agents, in equal proportion to the poisonous compounds that he
now
supplies, I shall approve the construction of all the new plants he wants. My
decision, I feel, is only fair to humanity. Do you agree, Wydell?"
      The chemist nodded. His face was sober as he arose from his chair, to
receive Howard's extended hand.
      "More than fair," said Wydell. "It's something that" - his voice was
hesitant - "well, if I may say it, you're offering to go halfway, and that's
something that G. C. won't do if he can help it! But in this case -"
      "In this case," interposed Howard, with his mild smile, "Gregg will have
to go halfway in order to meet me. When you see my brother Philip, tell him
exactly what I have said. I believe that Philip will agree with me, just as
you
have. So you, Wydell, will be the proper messenger to carry the decision back
to
Gregg."
      Shaking hands, Howard and Wydell approached the indoor garden. The Shadow
was gone, through the side route, by the time they arrived. From the front of
the huge mansion, he saw Wydell come out to his car and drive away.
      Cutting through the woods, The Shadow reached his own car. Though he had
witnessed an interesting interview, everything had been quiet here at
Pennbury.
No signs of crooks at the little inn, nor near the mansion owned by Howard
Caxter.
      Nevertheless, The Shadow had forebodings of danger that might strike
later. Trouble for Kirk Wydell, perhaps when he called on Philip Caxter;
possibly, later, when the messenger started the final stage of his journey, to
meet Gregg Caxter at the chemical plant.
      Two men, Payson and Lloyd, had disappeared; another, Tyburn, had died.
All
had gone, at the bidding of Gregg Caxter, to visit his two brothers. Wydell
was
the latest man to undertake that duty. Therefore, The Shadow regarded his case
as a test.
      Deep-laid crime could have played its part in the affairs of those three
preceding messengers. The Shadow hoped to prevent such toils from enmeshing
Kirk Wydell.


     CHAPTER IV

     PHILIP'S VISITOR

     PHILIP CAXTER lived on the top floor of the exclusive Hotel Beaumont,
where he received callers only in the evening. His visits to New York were
comparatively rare, although he usually stayed at least a month whenever he
came East. Old friends always flocked to see him, and since they liked to stay
up all night, Philip usually did the same.
     It wasn't easy, however, to see Philip Caxter. Anyone who could afford a
suite that spread over half a floor and cost one hundred and twenty dollars a
day was certainly entitled a protective barrier against the general public.
Moreover, the Beaumont had recently been troubled by some minor robberies,
hence its management was very much on the alert.
      They were courteous, though, behind the desk at the Beaumont. Irene
Selwood learned that much, when she inquired for Mr. Caxter. But she also
discovered that the courtesy was a mere device to get rid of unknown callers.
      "Sorry, Miss Selwood," said the clerk, "but Mr. Caxter is not receiving
callers this evening. You may use the house phone, if you wish, and speak with
his secretary, Mr. Emro."
      Irene used the house telephone; it was on the other side of the lobby.
She
talked to Emro, whose silky voice informed her that Mr. Caxter was not at
home.
The girl persisted:
      "But I must talk with Mr. Caxter! With Mr. Philip Caxter -"
      She was speaking into a dead telephone. Emro had hung up in the middle of
her protest. Slamming the receiver angrily, Irene turned about and stumbled
directly against a young man who had entered the lobby.
      "I'm sorry," Irene apologized. "But I... I -"
      "You were trying to talk to Mr. Philip Caxter," interposed the young man,
smiling, "but not having much luck, I take it?"
      Irene nodded.
      "There's a party going on in his suite," informed the young man. "I'm due
there. Come with me and I'll help you crash the gate."
      In the elevator, Irene had a better look at her new acquaintance. The man
looked a bit older than she had first supposed; she decided that he must be
close to thirty. His face was handsome in a rugged way; the smile on his lips,
though slight, was friendly. So were his eyes, despite their searching gaze.
      Clad in tuxedo, the young man was going to a party, as he had said; but
for the present, he was more interested in Irene, and with good reason.
      The girl was unusually attractive. She was a brunette, with eyes that
matched the deep brown of her hair. Her nose was exactly what a nose should
be,
especially when small and lovely lips lay just beneath it. Her chin had a
perfect curve; and the flush of anger that had come to her soft cheek gave a
final touch to her beauty - a loveliness so natural that Irene did not appear
to realize that she possessed it.
      The young man, it seemed, was welcome at the Caxter suite, for he had a
key. When he unlocked the door, he bowed Irene across the threshold and into a
living room where tuxedoed men and extravagantly gowned women were sipping
cocktails.
      Irene stopped short in embarrassment. Her street clothes seemed very much
out of place amid such a throng. Everyone was looking toward the door, smiles
upon their faces, which made it worse, until she realized that they were
concerned not with her, but with the young man who accompanied her.
      Then, just as she regained her calm, new confusion seized her when she
heard a chorus of greeting:
      "Hello, Phil!"
      The young man was smiling broadly when Irene faced him, stammering:
      "You're... you're Mr. Caxter?"
      "Yes. And you are Miss Selwood. I heard you give your name to Emro.
Suppose we go where it is quiet, and you can tell me why you came to see me."


     SHAKING off his friends, Philip conducted Irene into a room that was
fitted out like an office. Near the French windows that lighted the room were
two comfortable chairs, with a small table between them.
     Bowing Irene to one chair, Philip offered her a cigarette from an ebony
box; as he flicked a lighter to supply a flame, he asked:
     "How about a cocktail? Any choice?"
     "None, thanks," replied Irene. "But if you want one -"
     "I'll do without. I am more anxious to learn why a charming young lady
like yourself finds it so imperative to see me."
     Irene puffed her cigarette and studied Philip carefully through a mild
cloud of smoke. She was considering what he had said; whether it should be
taken as a compliment to her, or as conceit on his own part. She wasn't sure;
but she was finding that she liked Philip Caxter and was willing to give him
the benefit of doubt.
     "It's about my father," said Irene. "His name is Norman Selwood. He came
here today to see you."
     "Norman Selwood!" Prompt recollection flashed to Philip. "Of course! I
should have remembered the name. He was my brother Howard's tutor, years ago."
     Irene nodded. Then: "Dad saw you - today?"
     "No," replied Philip. "I wasn't here. I'll call Emro" - he was pressing a
button on an adjacent desk - "and find out what he knows."
     Emro entered. From hearing his voice previously, the secretary was just
what Irene expected. He was dapper, smug of manner, yet shrewd. Irene could
tell that from the quick dartings of the eyes that peered from beside Emro's
pointed nose, the oily purr that came from his lips - a tone that had a
servile
touch when he spoke to his master, Philip.
     "You summoned me, sir?"
     Emro's unnecessary question was a stall. He was sizing up the situation,
guessing that Irene must be the girl who had telephoned the suite a few
minutes
ago. He seemed to be watching, too, for any signal that Philip might give him.
Perhaps one of Emro's duties was to dispose politely of any visitors, when
they
had begun to bore Philip.
     Ignoring Emro's flashes, Philip introduced Irene to the secretary, then
asked him if her father had called that afternoon. The oily man nodded.
     "I talked to Mr. Selwood," said Emro, "and made an appointment for him to
see you tomorrow afternoon."
     "Why not tonight?" demanded Philip.
     "Because of the party, sir," replied Emro. "Perhaps I can reach him,
though. He said that he intended to dine at the Faculty Club."
     "Try there," suggested Philip.
     Emro made the call from another room, evidently assuming that Philip
preferred to be alone with Irene. The girl felt a shiver as Emro left. The
fellow reminded her of snakes that she had seen on the Connecticut farm where
she lived with her father. Philip, however, seemed quite unconcerned regarding
Emro. As soon as he and Irene were alone, he asked:
     "Why would your father come to see me?"
     "I don't know," returned Irene. "Except -"
     She hesitated; then opened her purse and drew out some newspaper
clippings, which she handed to Philip. They were from today's newspaper, and
they bared the facts of death at the New Jersey plant of the Caxter Chemical
Corporation.
     "Father taught college for a good many years," explained Irene. "This is
his sabbatical year, and we have been living in Connecticut while he is
writing
a book on economics. Today, I returned from a visit in Boston earlier than dad
could have expected.
     "He wasn't at home, but on his desk I found a newspaper with these
paragraphs marked. On a pad, he had written the name of this hotel, with its
phone number and your name beneath. I asked the maid where dad had gone and
she
said to New York."


     PHILIP was running his fingers through his dark, wavy hair while he read
the clippings. This seemed the first time that the news had come to his
attention.
     "All this is exaggeration!" he exclaimed. "I have met these men, Payson
and Lloyd, and I can't see anything mysterious in their disappearance. I'll
bet
that Gregg fired them; that's all."
     "Why should he have done that?"
     "Because they couldn't make me agree to what Gregg wanted," explained
Philip. "He is anxious to expand the business. Why should he? It's making more
than enough money as it stands. Any of us - Howard, Gregg, myself - can buy
anything we want."
     Irene wondered if the final words were boastful. She watched Philip read
farther through the clipping. Then:
     "I remember Tyburn, too," Philip said. "He went to see Howard, instead of
coming here. He ran into better luck than Payson and Lloyd. Howard agreed to
let Gregg go ahead, provided that safety measures were first adopted at the
plant.
     "With that much gained, Tyburn came here later. About all I could do was
say the same as Howard, because I had previously stated that I would guide my
decision by his. As luck had it" - Philip's face was sober - "Tyburn died from
the very cause that Howard feared: improper safety measures at the plant."
     From Philip's statements, Irene saw immediately that Tyburn's death had
halted Gregg's plans. From that, she concluded that the newspaper reports,
which were very caustic toward Gregg, did not reveal the correct story.
     There was another clipping, which mentioned the death of Gregg's
secretary, Walters, which Philip had not read; but when he spoke, Irene did
not
interrupt him.
     "Your father," Philip told Irene, "was probably alarmed by these reports.
Perhaps he believes that Gregg is actually up to some dirty work. If so, he
may
have felt it his duty to talk to Howard and myself. Knowing how sensitive
Howard
is, and not having seen him for years, your father would naturally have
decided
to discuss the matter with me before taking it up with Howard."
     Laying the clippings aside, Philip arose and stepped abruptly to the
French windows. Swinging them wide, he gestured to a little balcony, beyond
which lay the panorama of New York.
     "A lovely view," smiled Philip. "Let's look at it, while we wait for Emro
to return."
     From the balcony, with Philip beside her, Irene surveyed the glitter of
Manhattan's night. Thousands of tiny sparkles studded the blackness, while a
ruddy ever-changing glow hung above the neon-lighted area of Times Square.
     "It's really marvelous!" said the girl. "Think what those lights
represent: millions of people, some toiling, others at play -"
     "And millions of dollars," put in Philip, dryly. "Invested in those huge
buildings, which block half the sky."
     Again, Irene sensed that there could be conceit in Philip's tone. He had
millions of dollars; she wouldn't wonder if he would prefer to think in terms
of wealth, rather than people.
     "Why don't you ask me to choose one of those buildings?" demanded Irene.
"So you could buy it for me? You said, a while ago, that you could buy
anything
you wanted. Perhaps" - her tone was caustic - "you already own some of those
buildings! A few dozen, maybe, of the biggest ones! But you wouldn't care to
spare one, would you?"
     The flash of Irene's eyes brought a smile to Philip's lips. The girl was
showing the spirit that he had seen before; but this time, it was directed
straight at Philip, not at a telephone.
     "If I owned all those buildings," chuckled Philip, "I'd mow them down!
I'd
make this island like my ranch out in Wyoming, where people would have space
to
roam and really live. Those lights, of course, they're pretty; but I'd supply
others that they can't match.
     "I mean the stars. You ought to see them, Irene - the way they are out
there in Wyoming. You think I like Broadway; that I'm fond of New York night
life. You're wrong. My friends like it; that's all. When I'm in town, which
isn't very often, I find pleasure in watching my friends enjoy themselves."


     PHILIP had stepped farther out onto the balcony. Irene could not see his
face, but his voice carried a warmth of sincerity. To the girl, it seemed that
Philip Caxter had revealed his true self; that he was a man who would actually
exchange all his wealth for the happiness that it could bring to others.
     "Don't think that I intend to squander all I own," cautioned Philip. "It
isn't practical. It doesn't take money to make real people happy. Sometimes I
look down there" - he motioned toward the streets - "and watch as many as a
thousand people, wondering just what each one wants. Wondering, too, how many
would be really happy if they all found what they thought they wanted."
     Leaning on the rail, Irene was looking downward as Philip gestured. Her
elbow slipped as she shifted it; instinctively, she gave a startled,
frightened
gasp. Philip, too, was startled; he acted in a fashion quite as natural.
     His arm came swiftly around Irene's shoulder; with an energy much greater
than he could have intended, he swept the girl back from the rail.
     It came so suddenly, that Irene could scarcely complete her gasp. Philip
had drawn her almost to the French window; his strength and her light weight
had brought her completely into his arms. Held in a protective clasp, the girl
was gazing straight up into a face that showed more than mere concern.
     Philip's eyes spoke his whole story. His silence added emphasis. Words,
no
matter how tender, could not have expressed his emotion. His eyes said that he
cared for Irene more than he himself would have believed, only a few moments
ago.
     Irene, too, had eyes. Lovely eyes they were, for they carried a glow that
was their own and not a chance reflection of Philip's gaze. For Irene Selwood,
to her complete wonderment, was discovering that she loved Philip Caxter.


    CHAPTER V

    CRIME'S INTERLUDE

     HAD Philip kissed Irene at that moment, he would have felt the touch of
lips that were laden with warmth and sincerity, along with their loveliness.
Yet a kiss, like words, belonged not to the present, but the future.
     Their embrace, the meeting of their eyes, brought full understanding to
both Philip and Irene. Motionless, they felt the scene about them fade.
Instead
of those lights against the lower sky, they could picture twinkles from above
-
as if the entire hotel had vanished, to leave them beneath the Western stars
which Philip had described.
     They had come, it seemed, from an abyss of the past to a time that they
had both unknowingly awaited. The very facts of their chance meeting, the
shortness of their talk together, made the discovery of their mutual love all
the more impressive. The circumstance that had so suddenly brought them into
each other's arms fitted as an incident in which fate had played a hand.
     It wasn't the hand of fate, however, that was rapping at the office door.
The knock was Emro's. Reluctantly, Philip released his arms from Irene's
shoulders and touched her elbow with his fingertips as he turned her inside
toward the chair that she had occupied before.
     Philip, too, was seated, nonchalantly offering Irene a fresh cigarette,
when he called for Emro to enter.
     The overpolite secretary didn't appear to notice that Philip's tie was
awry; that Irene was finding it difficult to light her unsteady cigarette.
Emro
simply announced that he had called the Faculty Club, to learn that Norman
Selwood had dined there and left.
     "Mr. Selwood is staying in New York," stated Emro, "but they do not know
at what hotel. He said that he would call at the club for any messages
tomorrow
evening."
     Philip turned to Irene, asked if she knew what hotel her father would
choose. Irene shook her head; then said:
     "I can see dad tomorrow, when he comes here. I'll stay over with Molly
Graves. She's an old friend of mine; I always stop at her apartment when I
come
to New York."
     That settled, Philip was waving Emro toward the door, when the secretary
supplied another announcement.
     "A man named Wydell is here, sir. He says that your brother Gregg sent
him
to see you."
     "Tell him to drop in on Howard first," suggested Philip, with a smile:
"That seems to be the proper procedure."
     "He has already seen Mr. Howard," informed Emro. "He gave that as one
reason why he came here."
     "Very well. Show him in."
     As Emro left, Philip noticed that Irene was picking up her purse and
gloves.
     "You mustn't go!" exclaimed Philip. "I'll only be a few minutes with this
chap Wydell."
     "But if it's a business conference" - Irene looked troubled - "I oughtn't
to stay here."
     "You don't have to," smiled Philip. "At least, not in the room. Why not
try the balcony again, provided" - his tone became serious - "that you stay
away from the rail."


     IRENE agreed. She stepped out to the balcony, and Philip partially closed
the French windows. For a few minutes, Irene stared at the skyline; but it
seemed very artificial and uninteresting, when she recalled Philip's talk of
Wyoming. She could hear voices from the office, and a sudden thought struck
her.
     It wouldn't be eavesdropping, if she looked in on the conference. Philip
hadn't sent her out to the balcony to get rid of her. The idea had really been
her own. Besides, she was going to marry Philip some day - the thought seemed
very natural; as positive as the fact that the sun would rise tomorrow - and
she certainly had a right to watch her future husband while he was in a
business mood.
     Turning about, Irene gazed through the wide crack between the halves of
the French window.
     She saw Philip Caxter behind his desk; facing him was Kirk Wydell. The
tall, droopy-faced chemist looked a bit nervous; and Philip - much to Irene's
pleasure - was doing his best to make the visitor feel at ease. Emro had
brought them whiskey and soda; though Wydell had declined a drink, he was
accepting a choice cigar that Philip offered him.
     "So Howard has laid down new terms for brother Gregg," remarked Philip,
with a chuckle. "From what you tell me, Mr. Wydell, I approve of them."
      "You do?" questioned Wydell, eagerly. "Then I can tell G. C. that it all
is settled?"
      "Certainly! But I shall sign nothing until Howard does. According to
these
notations of yours" - Philip passed a paper across the desk to Wydell - "that
will not come until Gregg has reorganized his plant. He will have to produce
many things for which there is little sale and no profit. Which means, in my
opinion, Mr. Wydell, that Gregg won't go through with it."
      Wydell looked rueful. Philip, stepping from behind the desk, clapped his
hand upon the chemist's shoulder.
      "If Gregg fires you," said Philip, "come and see me. I've taken care of
other men that Gregg discharged because they were getting too close to a
pension age. The business needed 'new blood,' as he termed it. Probably Gregg
had sucked all the old blood dry!"
      "I'm not worried about my job," expressed Wydell. "I'd just been hoping
that I might have a chance to work with your brother Howard on some of his
experiments to aid mankind."
      "You like Howard, I see."
      "Yes. I found him - well, very human."
      Philip nodded, while Wydell was seeking words to further express himself.
      "Howard is human," said the youngest Caxter. "But whatever his virtues,
he
owes them to the training of one man. Years ago" - Philip's tone became
reminiscent - "Howard had a tutor; a man named Norman Selwood. One of the
finest men, Wydell, that ever -"


     BEYOND the French windows, Irene failed to hear the rest of Philip's
statement. She had withdrawn along the balcony, her face warm from the
embarrassed flush that came to it. She was wondering if Philip had drawn her
father's name into the conversation on the chance that she was listening. Very
possibly, he had.
     Previously, Irene would have felt that Philip had done so to make an
impression upon her. But she was sure that she had already learned to know him
better; that his comments, if deliberately intended, were more logically a
gentle rebuke, had she become an eavesdropper. She felt that she deserved to
be
embarrassed; and she could not be angry, if Philip thought the same.
     The balcony extended to the window of another room, a smaller office,
that
connected with the one where Philip was. Chancing to glance through the
window,
Irene noticed an open door to the hotel corridor. The window was raised,
offering a route that would enable her to leave the suite without Philip
knowing it.
     Irene was suddenly tempted to make her departure; to call Philip later
and
repay him for his rebuke. Even though justly given, such indirect reproval
called for some retaliation. Perhaps it would be best to let Philip feel that
she could be unreasonable if she chose.
     With that thought, Irene started to climb through the window; yet she
could not help but glance toward the door of Philip's office, as she went.
     Instantly, real terror gripped her.
     The door to the other office was ajar. Against the shaft of light that
came from Philip's room, Irene saw a figure so unreal that her wits completely
left her. It was the shape of a being cloaked in black, his head topped by a
slouch hat.
     He had sensed her arrival, for he whirled suddenly about, to meet Irene's
gaze. Yet all the girl could see beneath the hat brim were burning eyes. The
rest of the intruder's features were obscured, partly by the cloak collar,
partly by the hat brim.
     In sighting The Shadow, Irene didn't realize that he, like herself, might
be a friendly eavesdropper. Her unreasonable mood was gone, but she
automatically seized upon another privilege, that belonged to every woman.
From
the window, Irene screamed, putting every ounce of lung power into the shriek.
     With a sweeping move that seemed incredibly swift, The Shadow wheeled
across the room, not in Irene's direction but toward the outer door. From the
space that he had left, Irene heard Philip's excited shout. He was out of
sight, like Wydell, for the connecting door was obscured by filing cabinets;
but Irene knew, from the call, that Philip was on the way to aid her.
     Her nerve returning, Irene sprang into the room. How she understood it,
was something that she could not answer at the moment, but she was struck with
the newer thought that the being in black was not an enemy. She hoped that if
she could reach the corridor door ahead of Philip, she might be able to ward
off conflict between him and The Shadow.
     But battle was due, and Irene's cry was the cause. It wasn't Philip who
brought the strife. Others were responsible - men who sprang in sight along
the
corridor, just as Irene arrived at the doorway.
     She heard The Shadow's warning hiss - a sibilant whisper, that she was
too
astonished to heed. From the corridor, he wheeled suddenly in upon her, one
hand
drawing an automatic. The gun was not meant for Irene. With his free hand, The
Shadow propelled the girl deep into the darkened room, just as revolvers began
to bark along the hall.


     THE SHADOW returned that fire. There were howls from the corridor, as he
drove out against his foemen. Irene, still on her feet, grabbed Philip as he
came plunging from his office, with Wydell just behind him. Though her
strength
was frail compared to Philip's, Irene won through mad determination.
     Flinging her arm across the open doorway, she managed to block him before
he could force himself out into the fray.
     Philip had a silver-mounted revolver, that he had evidently snatched from
his desk drawer. He tried to get the gun past Irene's shoulder, but the
determined girl prevented him. Turned toward the corridor, Irene saw The
Shadow
complete his fight, although Philip got but a partial view of the exciting
struggle.
     The Shadow had dropped three of his opponents; all were hard-faced,
rough-clad men with the look of thugs. He was slugging down a fourth as he
swung toward the half-opened door of an elevator. There was a clatter as the
main door of Philip's suite went wide; Irene heard a shout that she recognized
as Emro's; then, as The Shadow blazed a shot, the suite door slammed shut.
     The shot was a warning, Irene realized, when she saw how timely it
proved.
Persons in the living room of Philip's suite would have met with harm, had
they
surged out. For the door of the elevator was slashing wide; from it came two
new attackers, both with guns, who flung themselves upon The Shadow.
     One looked like a house detective; the other was an elevator operator.
They tried to fire as they came, but The Shadow handled them with amazing
skill. Flinging the house dick with a swift jujitsu hold, he caromed the
fellow
from the opposite wall.
     The elevator man, his aim blocked by the detective's body, was gawking
from the doorway of the car, trying to spy The Shadow, when the cloaked
fighter
swung up beside him.
     Guns slashed. The Shadow drove the operator's revolver back against the
man's head. As the elevator man slumped, The Shadow whisked into the car and
slammed the door behind him, the clang of the metal barrier cutting off the
sudden tone of a triumphant laugh.
     Irene relaxed. Battle was over, she thought. But as Philip bolted past
her, she heard a snarl from somewhere along the corridor, saw a half-slumped
thug prop himself on one arm and fire. Fortunately, the shot wasn't meant for
Philip.
     As Irene peered out into the corridor, she saw Emro hurry from the main
doorway, to help his master disarm the crippled thugs, including the one who
had fired that last bullet.
     Other men, Philip's guests, were coming out to aid. Battle was over, and
crooks had received their fill of it. The victory, which Irene had witnessed
in
total amazement, belonged to a lone fighter; that being in black, whose
identity
she knew, at least in part.
     For Irene had heard it gasped by a vicious-faced thug who had received a
bullet as he uttered the name:
     "The Shadow!"


    CHAPTER VI

    DEATH'S NEXT STROKE

      IT was quite remarkable, how rapidly order began to form from confusion.
From her doorway, Irene saw other elevators arrive. Uniformed police stepped
from them, along with a stocky man in plain clothes, who was evidently some
sort of an official.
      Philip Caxter, glancing about, saw Irene at the doorway, made a slight
gesture with his hand. He wanted her to go back into his office, so she went
there and closed the connecting door. She found Kirk Wydell sitting in his
chair, and the droopy-faced chemist gave her a nervous glance of inquiry.
      "It's all right," Irene assured him. "Mr. Caxter is talking with the
police. I suppose" - she recalled something that she had read a few days ago -
"that it was just another attempt at robbery; the sort that has been troubling
them at this hotel."
      Wydell looked relieved. He began to jot notes on his little list, and
seeing him occupied, Irene decided not to introduce herself. Wydell probably
supposed that she was one of the guests at Philip's party, which was just as
well.
      It wasn't very long before Philip came in by the door from the suite;
though his face looked quite serious, he managed to give a smile. The reason
for his smile was an interesting coincidence. The police, it seemed, had
accepted the very theory that Irene had propounded to Wydell; namely, that the
confusion had been caused by an attempted robbery.
      "I have been talking to a police inspector named Cardona," said Philip.
"It appears that some doubtful characters were observed in this vicinity, so
Cardona came up here. Remembering the recent robberies, he phoned ahead and
the
management sent the house detective - a chap named Denbry - to investigate all
floors.
      "It was Denbry who mixed it with the thugs. Unfortunately" - Philip's
smile was gone - "they got him at the finish. The last shot did it; the one
that was fired while Emro and I were hurrying out into the hall."
      Irene started to say something, then stopped herself. She knew that The
Shadow had been the fighter who balked the crooks. Denbry, as she recalled it,
had actually sided with them. Perhaps the house detective had made a mistake;
at any rate, the crooks had later turned against him. Irene wanted to think
all
that over before saying more, even to Philip.
      Wydell put a timid question:
      "Does this mean that I shall have to remain here, Mr. Caxter; perhaps to
be questioned by the police?"
      "Not at all," assured Philip. "Inspector Cardona is satisfied that no one
in this suite had any hand in the trouble. He says that anyone is free to
leave
here."
      "I'm glad," murmured Wydell. "I know that G. C. is very anxious for me to
report."
      Philip smiled.
      "Still faithful to Gregg," he said. "Well, Wydell, I hope Gregg sees the
light, so you can work with Howard, as you want to do. Here, have a drink." He
was pouring whiskey and soda. "It will steady you a bit before you leave."


     WYDELL took only a few sips from the glass, then decided that he had to
leave. Philip turned toward Irene, made soundless movement with his lips,
meaning that he wanted her to remain; then he showed Wydell out through the
short route to the corridor.
     Irene expected Philip to return immediately, but it was several minutes
before he came back. Pouring two drinks, he offered one to Irene; then asked,
above his half-lifted glass:
     "Why did you scream?"
     "I... I don't know." Irene glanced toward the window, as she spoke. "I
suppose that I - well, I imagined something."
     "I have been talking with Inspector Cardona," Philip said. "He has an odd
theory regarding the trouble here; one that he doesn't care to have mentioned,
but which I feel that I can tell to you. It involves a person called The
Shadow."
     Irene let her eyes meet Philip's. There seemed no need to cover matters
further.
     "The Shadow, it seems," resumed Philip, "is a chap who makes it tough for
crooks. Cardona thinks that he may have been watching here, to prevent further
robberies. The crooks thought they would spring a surprise; that's why they
came. But The Shadow turned the tables on them."
     "He did," declared Irene, solemnly. "I saw it."
     "Now we're getting somewhere," smiled Philip. "I thought you must have
seen The Shadow. Where was he?"
     "In your outer office," replied the girl. "I screamed before I realized
that he had come in there to prepare for an attack. Just as I screamed, he
went
out into the corridor, and the shooting started."
     Irene did not add that she had first seen The Shadow peering into the
office where Philip talked with Wydell. She wanted Philip to bring up that
question himself; but he ignored it. Quite satisfied with Irene's explanation,
he said:
     "Emro is talking with Inspector Cardona, and I shall have to join them. I
haven't told the inspector that you are here; and perhaps it is just as well.
A
lot of questions may be asked during our conference. It might be better -"
     "For me to leave?" questioned Irene, as Philip hesitated. "I think you
are
quite right, Philip."
     "But I shall see you tomorrow," insisted Philip, anxiously. "You must
tell
me where to reach you, Irene."
      "Of course!" Irene wrote a telephone number on a slip of paper. "Do you
think" - her eyes had a pleasing twinkle - "that you could call me before
lunch?"
      "It's a date!" laughed Philip. "For lunch, with my apologies for
forgetting to mention it. But there's something I have not forgotten -"
      His arms had reached for Irene's; his sentence ended with the
long-awaited
kiss. Memories of trouble and tumult faded.
      Again, it was a knock at the door that ended their brief embrace - a
sharp
rat-tat-tat, almost like a message.
      "It's Emro," whispered Philip, as he lifted his head. "That rap means
that
someone is with him; probably Inspector Cardona. Good night, Irene!"


     OUTSIDE the hotel, Irene called for a cab. One cut in from the street and
promptly took her as a passenger. To Irene, the incident was unimportant; no
more eventful than her trip through a corridor from which gun-fray victims had
been removed, and the ride down in the elevator.
     Never would she have guessed that the cab in which she was riding
belonged
to The Shadow; that its driver, Moe Shrevnitz, was one of that strange
investigator's agents, instructed to keep tally on wherever Irene went. Moe
had
orders, too, to report Irene's final destination, that The Shadow might place
other agents on watch.
     Meanwhile, The Shadow had reached a parking lot a few blocks distant from
the Hotel Beaumont. He stopped beside a coupe parked on the street outside the
lot. The car was empty; entering it, The Shadow took the seat behind the wheel
and waited. A minute later, a young man hurried into sight; clambering into
the
car, he was halted by the whispered word:
     "Report!"
     The arrival was another agent, Harry Vincent, posted here to keep track
of
Kirk Wydell, who had left his car in this parking lot. Harry should have
trailed
Wydell, if necessary, but he had missed his man.
     "Somebody put Wydell's car out of kilter," reported Harry. "He took a
taxi, instead. I saw the cab go out, but didn't know that he was in it. One of
the attendants heard him tell the cabby to take him to the Hudson Tubes."
     The coupe was in motion, swinging from the side street into an avenue,
when Harry reported further:
     "Wydell is going to Journal Square in Jersey City, but he hasn't enough
cash for the taxi fare. That's why he's going to the nearest Tube station;
probably Thirty-third Street."
     The Shadow did not drive to Thirty-third Street. He cut west, sped the
coupe southward along an avenue where traffic was light. He was making for the
Christopher Street Tube station, well south of Thirty-third.
     There was a chance that Wydell had caught a Tube train just before it
left; if so, The Shadow's only chance was to intercept it. Even that might be
too late, for if Wydell's life should be threatened, danger might have struck
when he left the parking lot. Crooks might be using a cab driver as a worker,
just as The Shadow did. Nevertheless, the only plan at present was to
intercept
Wydell.
     At Christopher Street, The Shadow performed a double action. He flung his
hat and cloak to Harry with one hand, while he opened the car door with the
other. He formed a long, limber figure as he bolted down into the Tube
station,
but his speed diminished when he neared the platform.
      There, The Shadow appeared as a leisurely, well-dressed individual, whose
face, hawkish in appearance, possessed a singular calm. To persons on the
platform, he was simply another passenger awaiting a train to New Jersey.
There
were people, though, who would have deemed it odd to see him in this station.
      The Shadow was guised as Lamont Cranston, a wealthy New York clubman, who
invariably preferred his limousine to subway trains. The Cranston guise was
one
of The Shadow's favorites, for though there was a real Cranston, he was always
out of town.


     A RUMBLE brought a two-car train into sight. Short trains were customary
at this hour, but, as usual, the two cars were crowded. Getting aboard, The
Shadow found Kirk Wydell by the time the train had started from the station.
The chemist was hanging to a strap near the center of the front car. The
Shadow
took the strap next to him.
     As the train sped westward, The Shadow looked around him, studying faces
close at hand, in the event that any might be prospective foemen. The
passengers were a rather dreary lot; none among them had a thuggish look.
     A few were looking up from their newspapers, but merely because the
increased speed of the train was bringing them the pleasing information that
they had passed the Manhattan portion of the journey. Rolling down the incline
to the tube beneath the Hudson River, the train was making its fastest time.
     The train's rumble had become hollow. Against his eardrums, The Shadow
could feel the pressure that came at this low level. A half minute more would
bring the train to the very depths of the tube, directly beneath the center of
the river. Satisfied that he had only to watch Wydell, The Shadow turned his
gaze toward the chemist.
     He could no longer see the man's face. Wydell's head was sagging almost
to
his chest. The sway of the car had twisted his body full about. His hand was
loosening upon the strap; before The Shadow could make a grab for Wydell's
arm,
the man's fingers yielded.
     Pitched by the sway of the rolling train, Wydell's body took a grotesque
tumble, almost from The Shadow's grasp. Jostling another passenger, who had
lost his balance, the chemist's form sprawled weightily upon the floor amid
the
shrieks of startled persons who witnessed the sudden fall.
     Rolling like dunnage in the bottom of a tossing boat, the fallen man
settled face upward; his arms, spread wide beside him, stopped his further
sway, but purely through inertia, for those arms were lifeless.
     While the train roared onward through the depths beneath the river,
Lamont
Cranston, otherwise The Shadow, was the first to stoop beside Wydell's form.
     Though The Shadow's face remained immobile, horrified passengers sensed
what he learned, as his long-fingered hands pressed Wydell's heart and pulse.
Correctly, they interpreted the masklike visage of Lamont Cranston as one that
was controlled by solemn thoughts.
     Kirk Wydell was dead. Some dooming force had found him as its victim at
the strangest of all moments. Death had come to Kirk Wydell while he was under
the protection of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VII
     CRIME'S FACTORS

      IT was noon when Lamont Cranston strolled into the swanky Cobalt Club,
where he had an appointment with New York's police commissioner, Ralph Weston.
As the doorman greeted Cranston by name, a chunky, dark-haired man halted and
turned about.
      "You are Lamont Cranston?"
      From the sharp, dark eyes, the set lines of the man's sallow face, The
Shadow knew immediately who he was. The man bore considerable resemblance to
both Howard and Philip Caxter, therefore must be the middle brother, Gregg.
      Acknowledging himself to be Cranston, The Shadow waited while Gregg made
his own introduction.
      "I want to thank you, Mr. Cranston," said Gregg, warmly, "for all the
trouble you went to, regarding poor Wydell. I understand that you spent most
of
this morning at the coroner's office in Jersey City."
      The Shadow nodded.
      "And the verdict, I suppose" - Gregg's eyes were sharp - "was death
through misadventure?"
      "Heart failure," stated The Shadow, in Cranston's casual tone. "Wydell
had
evidently overexerted himself, perhaps in rushing to catch the Hudson Tube
train. He couldn't stand the strain of increased atmospheric pressure under
the
river."
      Gregg started to say something, then twitched his lips and tightened
them.
It was The Shadow's turn to bring up a question.
      "From notes in Wydell's possession," he remarked, "it was apparent that
he
had gone on some mission regarding the expansion of the Caxter Chemical
Corporation. Am I correct?"
      "Yes." Gregg's tone was bitter. "But Wydell wasn't the first man we sent.
We have been having many difficulties, the directors and myself. We need
advice
badly."
      "Why not call the minority stockholders into your next conference? They
might be anxious to know the details."
      The idea struck Gregg as a good one. He stroked his chin as he thought it
over.
      "Howard and Philip are stockholders, of course," he said, "but I can
hardly expect either of them to accept the invitation. If I knew offhand who
any of the smaller stockholders were -"
      "I happen to be one" - Cranston's lips showed a slight smile - "and I can
assure you that I shall be present, Mr. Caxter."
      Gregg looked highly pleased. He shook hands again and went his way, while
The Shadow strolled downstairs to the grillroom, to find Commissioner Weston.
      With the commissioner was Inspector Joe Cardona. The corner table where
they sat was one of their favorite spots for unofficial conferences, whenever
the commissioner happened to be at the Cobalt Club instead of his office,
which
was quite often.
      They made an odd pair. Ralph Weston, a man of military bearing to the
tips
of his short-clipped, slightly pointed mustache, was a stickler for
efficiency;
whereas Joe Cardona, swarthy and poked-faced, liked hunches, with freedom of
action in order to play them. Each, however, had some respect for the other's
opinion, a fact that frequently brought results.
     Both greeted Cranston. Weston chuckled over the fact that his wealthy
friend had been riding in the Hudson Tubes on the one night when something
exciting had happened there. For once, Cranston had forgotten to summon his
limousine in from his New Jersey home, and had taken the Tube instead.
     Cardona looked pleased, but for a different reason. He was glad that
Cranston's testimony had set the place of Wydell's death as a spot past the
center of the river, thus putting the case into the hands of the New Jersey
authorities. Had it been classed as a Manhattan death, Commissioner Weston
would probably be fussing about it, instead of attending to something more
important.
     "We have been talking with Gregg Caxter," said Weston to The Shadow.
"Inspector Cardona has taken some interesting notes." The commissioner turned
to Cardona. "We are ready to hear your summary, inspector."


     "THE guy is nuts," declared Joe, abruptly. "He says one thing, then he
denies it. First, he talks about two fellows named Payson and Lloyd. Says
they've gone away - he doesn't know where - because his brother Philip
pensioned them off, or something."
     "Very interesting," asserted Weston, "and very unusual."
     "I'd have thought so, maybe," retorted Cardona, "if I hadn't met both
those brothers. If I was working for a guy like this Gregg Caxter, I'd chuck
my
job in a hurry, and I wouldn't have to be paid to do it! Philip is different;
he's a right guy.
     "Just to talk to him for half an hour would make anybody sick at the idea
of going back to Gregg. That is" - Cardona was remembering Wydell - "pretty
near anybody."
     "We want a summary, Cardona," snapped Weston, "not merely your personal
opinions."
     "All right," agreed the inspector. "Here's the summary on Payson and
Lloyd. Gregg wanted them to sell an idea to Philip. Philip wouldn't listen. So
they didn't go back to the plant."
     "And so -"
     "So what?" queried Cardona. "That covers it, don't you think?"
     Weston pondered a while, and decided that it did.
     "Forget Payson and Lloyd," suggested Cardona. "They're red herons, or
whatever they call those birds that keep walking across the path."
     "Red herrings," corrected Weston.
     "All right," agreed Cardona, "red herrings."
     Privately, Cardona would have liked to debate the point. He knew that a
herring was a fish, and couldn't figure what one would be doing on a path.
However, he had disposed of Parson and Lloyd, and that was more important than
the matter of red herrings.
     "Another guy, named Tyburn," continued Joe, "goes to see both of Gregg's
brothers. After he gets back, gas knocks him off at the chemical works. Gregg,
himself, admits that there was a leakage, more serious than they thought. So
that makes the thing an accident.
     "The same with that fellow Walters. A couple of nights ago, he gets
started on a bender and drives himself off the Palisades. Gregg, himself,
admits that Walters could have been digging into some of the fancy liquor that
they keep for big boys, like the directors. So there's another accident."
     Cardona might have considered the Walters case from a different angle,
had
he known of Red Felgin's part in it. The Jersey police, however, had not found
Red's body. Mobbies had sneaked back and removed it, after The Shadow's
departure.
     "Which brings us to Wydell," concluded Cardona. "He goes on a trip, like
Tyburn, and winds up with a heart attack. So Gregg comes to see us, admits the
other deaths were accidents, and wants to make something out of Wydell's case.
There's no sense to it, commissioner. The Jersey coroner says Wydell died from
heart failure. Why doesn't Gregg Caxter talk to the coroner, instead of us?"
      Weston thought a while before answering that question. Then, slowly, he
declared:
      "The fact remains that Kirk Wydell was calling on Philip Caxter at the
time of the gun fray last night."
      Cardona nodded.
      "I've checked on that," he said. "I called up Philip's place and talked
to
that sour secretary of his, Louis Emro. He admits that Wydell was there at the
time."
      "Why didn't you find that out last night?"
      "Because I didn't ask who was there," returned Joe. He had been ready for
Weston's question. "I saw a lot of guests and asked if any of them had
witnessed the shooting. Philip said no, only himself and Emro.
      "Listen, commissioner - everybody was excited. There were guys in
tuxedoes
stumbling over each other; dames with bare shoulders upsetting glasses on
their
dresses while they were yanking off rings and bracelets, trying to hide them
under cushions before the mobbies could come in on them.
      "I guess Wydell got pretty scared, too. Emro says he did. Down at the
parking lot, I hear, he was so upset that he couldn't get his car started. He
chased away in a cab, and made a rush for that Tube train. No wonder his
ticker
quit on him!"


      CARDONA'S vivid description of the scene in Philip's suite was strong
enough to carry his argument. Weston's slow nod became emphatic.
      "We can class Wydell's death with the others," decided the commissioner.
"Through a natural cause; brought on, perhaps, by a peculiar coincidence."
      Cardona shot a slight grin at Cranston, who had been a silent, impassive
listener to the discussion. Leaning back in his chair, the inspector crumpled
one batch of notes and thrust them into a pocket. He brought out other sheets,
that he regarded as important.
      "I've gotten to the bottom of the Hotel Beaumont trouble," announced
Cardona. "That house dick, Ray Denbry, was a phony. He'd been working with the
gang that staged the robberies at the hotel. When they ran into trouble last
night from The Shadow, they thought that Denbry had double-crossed them.
      "That's why one guy, Jupe Luber, gave Denbry a bullet at the finish. The
rest of them all agree on that, but as luck would have it, the ambulance was
slow getting Jupe to the hospital and he cashed in. So we couldn't hear what
Jupe had to say about it."
      There were times when Commissioner Weston struck upon remarkable
theories,
based on facts. On this occasion, he built to a considerable height, from what
Cardona told him.
      "Could it be possible" - Weston's conservative trend caused him to
speculate, as he voiced his theory - "that Denbry was taking orders from a man
higher up; that Jupe perhaps knew it and was supposed to eliminate Denbry, in
the emergency?"
      Cardona's answer was a grin. Weston saw it and glowered. Usually, such
hunches came from Cardona, and it was the commissioner's policy to reject
them.
Irked by his slip, Weston promptly changed tone.
      "Odd theories interest you, inspector," he told Cardona, "so I thought I
would test you with one. Since you apparently do not like it" - the
commissioner's words had a touch of banter - "we shall forget it."
      Weston meant exactly what he said. He turned to Cranston, suggested that
they have lunch together. That was a token that Weston needed Cardona no
longer, so the inspector left. Cranston also departed a few minutes later, for
it turned out that he had another luncheon engagement.
     A soft laugh came from The Shadow's lips as he ascended the steps from
the
grillroom to the foyer. There was significance in the tone, for The Shadow
recognized that Commissioner Weston had actually struck upon the truth, only
to
discard it.
     The Shadow's own experience tallied with Weston's temporary theory.
     Last night, Denbry had tried to aid the crooks in their fight with The
Shadow. Not one of them could have regarded the crooked house detective as a
double-crosser. Someone, unquestionably, had given Jupe the signal to dispose
of Denbry in order to block the trail to a person higher up.
     Gunmen had come to the hotel, not for robbery but to battle with The
Shadow, should he appear upon the scene. They had taken their orders direct
from Denbry. But the later order, putting Denbry on the spot because of his
failure, could have come only from one of two men: either Philip Caxter or
Louis Emro, the smug secretary who obeyed all of Philip orders with promptness
and precision.
     Events of last night enlarged the issue. The disappearances of Payson and
Lloyd, the deaths of Tyburn and Wydell, like the doom of Walters, were the
result of insidious design. Wherever chance had entered, it had not changed
the
outcome, as planned by a master schemer who dealt in wholesale death.
     Though many threads to crime existed, their tangle was such that The
Shadow intended to reserve all verdict until he had delved further into the
affairs of the three Caxter brothers, whose varying purposes had an important
bearing upon the facts of crime.


    CHAPTER VIII

    IRENE'S MESSAGE

     THE SHADOW'S appointment was not an invitation; far from it. Upon leaving
the Cobalt Club, he went to a very small, but expensive, restaurant famed for
its French cuisine. The place was called the Cafe de l'Aiglon, and it
consisted
entirely of private dining booths.
     One small booth was reserved entirely for Lamont Cranston, and soon he
was
lunching alone, faced by a variety of delicate edibles that included frogs'
legs, snails, as well as some items of more ordinary diet.
     Soon after the food was served, The Shadow provided an article that was
not on the menu. From his pocket, he brought a small earphone, wrapped in a
coil of insulated wire. There was a plug on the end of the wire, and he
inserted it in a wall socket beneath the table.
     The booths in the Cafe de l'Aiglon were fitted with those sockets, so
that
the telephones could be used by diners without need of leaving the table. The
Shadow however, was using his special earphone to listen in on another booth,
where Burbank - one of The Shadow's secret agents - had, earlier, plugged in a
microphone while posing as an electrician.
     The distant booth had been reserved for two persons who intended to lunch
at this cafe. Having learned of the reservation through other agents, The
Shadow had sent Burbank ahead to arrange the communication system.
     Though the expected patrons were due at half past one, they did not
arrive
until nearly an hour later. They had met, evidently, outside the cafe: Irene
Selwood and Philip Caxter.
     The girl seemed a trifle piqued as they passed Cranston's booth, and
Philip was extremely apologetic. Once in their booth, they ordered lunch; then
began a conversation.
     Except for a slight interval, when a waiter came to Cranston's booth to
take away cold snails he had not eaten and leave a hot filet mignon, The
Shadow
heard the chat between Philip and Irene. It did not take him long to learn
what
he had guessed the night before: that Philip and Irene were in love.
     From that, The Shadow knew nearly all that Philip and Irene had talked
about on the preceding evening before he had arrived, at the time of Wydell's
appearance.
     Then came a mention that brought other links to the night before.
     "I read about poor Wydell," said Irene, soberly. "His death was - well,
very sudden."
     "And unexpected," added Philip.
     Irene's eyes took on a steady gaze, which The Shadow could picture from
the interval that passed, until she asked:
     "Do you really think that Wydell died unexpectedly?"
     "Why, of course!" exclaimed Philip. "Inspector Cardona thinks the same.
Excitement probably caused the poor chap's heart attack."
     "You talked to Inspector Cardona today?"
     "Emro did. He told him that Wydell had been visiting me at the time of
the
gun fray."
     There was another pause, marked by a hesitant expression on Irene's lips.
Then the girl blurted the question:
     "You rely on Emro a great deal, don't you, Philip?"
     "Certainly," the man answered. "He is capable, efficient, and has been
honest in all his dealings with me. If you don't like him" - Philip chuckled -
"it may be because Emro prides himself on being disliked. It helps him in one
of his most important duties: discouraging unwelcome visitors. I'm troubled a
lot by that, you know."
     Irene admitted the logic of the statement.
     "Until Emro came with me," continued Philip, "I seldom had any time to
myself. It was on my last trip East, six months ago - no; the trip before then
- that Emro applied for a job as secretary. I tried him out; he suited me. So
I
have kept him ever since."


     DROPPING the subject of Emro, Irene came back to the matter of Wydell.
     "Those clippings I showed you," she reminded earnestly, "were considered
important by my father. He believes - I am sure of it - that there was more
than mere coincidence to those deaths."
     "We agreed, last night," returned Philip, "that your father was probably
mistaken."
     "We didn't agree. We merely decided that he might be mistaken. But that
was before Wydell died."
     "Yes, that might make a difference." Philip's tone was one of compromise.
"But why let it worry us, Irene? We shall be seeing your father shortly, when
he comes to the hotel."
     "What time is he coming there?"
     "Soon after three o'clock, Emro said. Come to think of it, it's already
three o'clock. I'd better call Emro."
     Philip summoned a waiter and ordered a telephone. Fortunately, the waiter
found it more convenient to plug the cord into the socket in the next booth
and
carry the telephone from there.
     As a result, the hidden microphone was not discovered. The Shadow
overheard Philip talk to Emro, then explain to Irene ruefully:
     "Your father called, and left. Emro tried to make him wait, but he
wouldn't. Unfortunately, Emro didn't know where to reach me."
     "But where did dad go?" questioned Irene. "When is he coming back?"
     "Emro doesn't know where he went," returned Philip, "but he said he will
be back early this evening. I'm very sorry, dear" - his hand stretched across
the table and parted Irene's - "but it was just a bit of forgetfulness on my
part. You can come to the hotel with me and wait until your father arrives
again."
     Irene had a notion of her own.
     "I am going to Molly's apartment," she said firmly. "When dad calls on
you, you can telephone me. Perhaps he would rather talk to you alone,
regarding
your brother Gregg. You will have time for the chat while I am on my way
over."
     When they had finished lunch, Philip and Irene parted near the corner
outside the Cafe de l'Aiglon. Lamont Cranston also left the restaurant, after
handing a handsome tip to the waiter who had been so horrified at seeing him
snub the famous snails. With strolling gait, The Shadow followed Philip toward
the Hotel Beaumont.
     Irene, it happened, had stepped into Moe Shrevnitz's cab, which had been
waiting in a little-used hack stand near the Cafe de l'Aiglon. Once again, The
Shadow was depending upon his agents to keep track of Irene, while he was busy
elsewhere.
     So far, all reports from the agents had been satisfactory. Irene had
reached her destination safely the night before. No suspicious persons had
been
reported in the neighborhood of the apartment house where her chum, Molly
Graves, lived on the third floor.
     Everything was as quiet as ever when Irene again arrived at the
apartment.
Molly was out, for she had an office job and wouldn't be back until after five
o'clock.
     Irene read a book until Molly returned; the only interruptions were when
Philip called her, twice, to say that he was still waiting for her father and
to tell Irene how much he loved her.
     Irene was beginning to feel qualms on the last-named subject.
     Not that she lost the effects of last night's thrill. On the contrary,
the
sudden burst of romance seemed more genuine than anything else she had ever
experienced. She was worried only regarding Philip's ways.
     She had meant to ask him, for instance, if his remarks to Wydell
regarding
her father had really been meant for her to hear. She had forgotten that,
however, while she was discussing Emro. Philip's dependence on the sneaky
secretary annoyed her; it made her wonder whether or not Philip was something
of a double-dealer himself.
     She didn't mention any of that to Molly; instead, she simply helped her
chum prepare an early dinner. At six o'clock, there was another call from
Philip; he was still waiting for her father. At seven, with dinner over, Irene
was on the point of calling Philip herself, when there was a knock at the
apartment door.
     A man-sized telegraph messenger delivered a telegram for Irene. He didn't
go through the formality of having her sign for the message, nor did he wait
to
learn if there would be a reply. He departed while Irene was reading the
message.
     Molly sensed, from Irene's expression, that the wire might have brought
bad news. But Irene, in response to her friend's anxious query, simply gave a
determined smile and shook her head.
     "I'm leaving," she told Molly, "and I won't be back. If anyone telephones
here, particularly Philip Caxter, just say that I have gone and that you don't
know where I am."


    CRUMPLING the telegram, Irene thrust it into her purse. It took her only
a
few minutes to pack her bag; then, hearing the telephone bell ring again, she
waved good-by to Molly and made a rapid departure, without waiting to learn
from whom the call came.
     The street was dark outside the apartment house; Irene saw the dim lights
of a cab parked a short distance away. She didn't recognize it as the same cab
that had brought her here a few hours before, but it was.
     In prompt style, Moe flashed the brighter lights and started the cab
forward, hoping to take Irene as a passenger.
     With that, things happened.
     A rattletrap sedan that was seeking a parking space took a roaring lurch
and veered, as if out of control, straight across Moe's path. No driver could
have avoided that crash, not even the quick-witted Moe. His cab was swept
across the sidewalk, to ram its bumper against the apartment house amid a
clatter of ripping fenders that were ruined by the sideswipe.
     From across the street, Harry Vincent jumped from his coupe; a moment
later, he was dodging, diving for cover, as another car veered toward him. It
seemed that the street had become alive with madcap drivers; except for a
taximan, who suddenly backed to where Irene was standing in astonishment at
the
smashes that had crippled Moe's cab and ruined Harry's coupe.
     "Let me have your suitcase, lady," suggested the driver of the timely
cab.
"Better hop in, and make it fast. I guess you don't want to be bothered,
having
to be a witness for a bunch of smashups, no more than I do."
     Irene agreed. As the driver received the suitcase, she jumped into the
cab. It was in motion before she closed the door. Harry saw the cab depart and
leaped into sight, giving a shout. He was answered by a gunshot from the sedan
that had wrecked Moe's cab.
     It might have gone badly for Harry, if Moe had not piled in upon the
occupants of the sedan, bringing a monkey wrench as a handy weapon.
     Taking hard-swung blows from a cabby that they thought was out of the
fight was too much for the gun-yanking thugs. They scrambled from their car;
before they could turn and aim at Moe, Harry had an automatic in his fist and
was opening fire.
     Hoodlums fled. Others jumped from the car that had rammed Harry's coupe
and tried to cover the wild retreat. Moe, by that time, had picked up a
revolver that one of the thugs had lost. He blasted shots that turned the
flight into a rout.
     Small-fry mobbies were scurrying like rats for the safety of alleyways.
Some of them were nicked by bullets, and that was enough for the rest of the
yellow crew.
     With the street cleared, Moe hopped back into his cab, managed to
extricate it from the wreckage of the sedan. He wheeled ahead in wabbly
fashion, and Harry sprang aboard. They were past the corner by the time they
heard the siren of a distant police patrol car.
     Irene's cab had disappeared, its destination unknown. If crooks had
flashed upon the scene, intending to harm the girl or abduct her, The Shadow's
agents had certainly balked the surprise stroke in efficient and successful
style.
     But if the thrust had been made with the purpose of cutting off all
trails
to Irene Selwood - as could be possible - crime had scored again, despite The
Shadow's plans to block it!


     CHAPTER IX

     THE MAN WHO KNEW

      THE final telephone call that Irene had ignored was from Philip, to tell
her that her father had arrived at the Hotel Beaumont. Seated in his office,
with Norman Selwood at the opposite side of the desk, Philip Caxter indulged
in
a self-satisfied smile.
      He hadn't told Selwood that he was calling Irene. It was just as well
that
he had avoided it. Mention of Irene could come later, after Selwood had
discussed the subject that had brought him here. As for Irene herself, the
fact
that she had just left her friend's apartment did not perturb Philip. He had
not
expected that she would stay there much longer, with the time for Philip's
meeting with her father almost at hand.
      Emro was absent from the office. Always discreet, the secretary had
merely
ushered Selwood into the room where Philip awaited him, then had retired. But
this meeting between Philip and Irene's father was observed by a witness: The
Shadow.
      This night, like the preceding evening, was mild. Philip had left the
French windows partly open. Against the dark sky above the level of the
glowing
horizon, The Shadow could have been a part of night itself.
      He had reached the balcony from a cornice just below, for Philip had
double-locked the door that made a side entrance to the suite. Whether or not
he had done so to preclude another visit from The Shadow, Philip had not
stated.
      Studying Norman Selwood, Philip found him to be a very singular man.
      Irene's father was about fifty years of age. He had the manner of a
professor, and had an abstract way of stroking his chin and furrowing his
forehead. His face had a kindly, sensitive expression, but it was
square-shaped, with the heavy jaw that indicated a man of action. Selwood was
handsome; his grizzled hair bore traces of dark brown, very much the color of
Irene's.
      As Philip summed him, Selwood had been an athlete in his youth, but had
combined physical ability with mental alacrity. It was that fact, probably,
which had caused him to be chosen as Howard's tutor, a job which he had taken
a
few years before Philip had been born. Thinking back into the past, Philip
recalled that his own age had been six years, when Selwood had left the Caxter
employ.
      Selwood had married shortly after that; but he had made occasional visits
to his former pupil, Howard. On those visits, he had also met Gregg and
Philip;
which explained why Philip remembered him so well.
      Curiously, however, Selwood acted uneasily in Philip's presence. He
seemed
a bit distressed to find the youngest Caxter so mature. Possibly he had
intended
to talk to Philip as man to boy, and was realizing that it was impossible.
There
was another factor, too:
    Selwood, after nearly a year of seclusion as a writer, had lost touch
with
the outside world and found it a bit difficult to open conversation on a
subject
which he certainly regarded as a delicate one.
     "I scarcely know how to begin," he told Philip, in a troubled tone. "You
naturally wonder why I have come to see you -"
     "Not at all," interposed Philip. "The newspapers have the answer. You are
worried about the deaths of those chaps who worked for Gregg."
     Selwood nodded, eagerly at first, then a trifle doubtfully.
     "Might I ask," he questioned, "what opinion you hold regarding them?"
     "They are mere coincidences," returned Philip. "However" - his tone
became
indulgent - "if you have some theory regarding them, I should be glad to hear
it."
     Selwood leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Philip smiled; he
saw where Irene had learned some of her mannerisms. Her father had plenty of
determination, and could display it. Irene had inherited that trait.


     "MR. CAXTER," said Selwood, abruptly, "or, as I prefer to call you,
Philip, there is much that I feel you should know. I may be forced to state
certain facts that will pain you; may incur your displeasure -"
     "Let them come," interposed Philip, still smiling. "I'm ready."
     "Very well." Selwood was watching Philip's face, as if he expected the
smile to leave it soon. "I must begin by stating that your father, Theobald
Caxter, was a man who lived for one desire alone: He wanted power. Power
strong
enough" - Selwood raised his clenched hand - "to hold the whole world in his
fist!"
     The smile faded from Philip's lips.
     "I rather thought," said he, "that the governor was something of a milder
sort."
     "You would have, for you were young," agreed Selwood. "And when you grew
up, your father had passed his prime. He wanted power, your father did, and he
got it. But there was something else. He tried to stir that same desire in his
sons."
     Philip was shaking his head. He never remembered any stirring efforts on
his father's part. All he could recall were instances when his father had been
indulgent.
     "Hear me out," insisted Selwood. "Your father tried to force that desire
upon Howard, his eldest son. He took a puny weakling and tried to give him a
Spartan training. It failed, largely because of your mother's intervention."
     This time, Philip nodded. He remembered that Howard had experienced a
severe youth, racked by illnesses that had nearly cost his life. He knew, too,
that Howard had been a subject of terrific contention between his parents. It
was Selwood who had solved that difficulty.
     Howard had been placed in the tutor's care as a compromise; and the
beneficial results had been a source of great joy to the entire Caxter family,
in later years.
     "When I first met Howard," resumed Selwood, his gaze fixed toward the
wall
beyond the desk, "I found him to be a pitiful child; detested by his father,
pampered by his mother. He was neurotic, subject to fits of temper, of fright.
At moments morbid, he would change to a creature imbued with hysterical
delight.
     "I trained him to govern himself. The first years were difficult; but
later, he began to guide himself by my philosophy. He patterned his
inclinations after mine. Still a youth, he idolized me. He became, in actual
fact, the balanced sort of person that your father wanted for a son."
      Philip's eyes showed surprise. He knew that his father had always
retained
a certain contempt for Howard, hence this was a curious fact that Selwood had
related. Noting Philip's baffled gaze, Selwood explained further.
      "Your father never realized it," he said. "Nor did Howard let him know
it.
He preferred to be independent, as your father was. He studied your father;
copied what he, Howard, thought was worth while; rejected what he did not care
for. I saw that, more and more, on every visit. I saw, too, what prevented any
close association between your father, Theobald Caxter, and his son Howard."
      "You mean Gregg?"
      "Exactly!" Selwood was nodding as he replied. "During those years when
Howard had been under my tutelage, Gregg had taken the place of his elder
brother. It was Gregg who received his father's training, who was pounded into
becoming a future master of finance.
      "Gregg satisfied your father. He didn't have to be handled tactfully; was
allowed to see and learn things for himself. He was ruled by iron; he learned
to drive others with the same rod. But he is powerful only because he was
given
fifty million dollars for a start."
      Selwood paused. His voice had risen; he was driving home indictments
against Gregg, as though he detested the fellow. It was Philip who began to
show uneasiness. He glanced at the little clock upon his desk, then said
suddenly:
      "Hold on! Before you get back to Gregg, suppose you finish with the
Caxter
family. Just where do I fit in?"
      The stern look left Selwood's eyes.
      "You are all right, Philip," he said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be talking
to
you as I am. It is difficult to condemn a man's brother and expect to have him
take it fairly, as you have."
      The Shadow saw Philip smile. Obviously, Philip was foreseeing no
objection
from Selwood when it came to the question of Irene's marriage.
      "But you must not misunderstand me," resumed Selwood. "I have explained
how your brothers differed, solely to make you realize that where one is
capable of doing great harm, the other, with all his faults -"


     THERE was a knock at the door. Emro's tap, signifying something
important.
Philip called for the secretary to enter. The sallow aid bowed himself into
the
room, handed a yellow envelope to Norman Selwood.
     "A telegram for you, sir. It was just delivered. I thought it might be
important."
     Selwood opened the envelope, read the message. His teeth clicked tight,
his eyes lifted, with a stare that seemed to bore through Philip. Crumpling
the
message mechanically, almost as Irene had done with her telegram, Selwood
thrust
the sheet of paper into his pocket.
     "We have discussed matters far enough," he said in a grating tone. "I am
sorry, Mr. Caxter, but I can talk no further."
     "But I should like to hear more -"
     "There will be no more." Selwood had risen, was turning toward the door.
"I hope, Mr. Caxter, that you will forget that I even came here!"
     Philip reached the door ahead of Selwood. Blocking the way, he tried to
force the visitor into a further statement. Philip's tone became unreasonable.
     "You always did think a lot of Howard, didn't you?" he jabbed hotly.
"Enough so, that you'd think anything mean of Gregg. Well, I'm for Howard,
too,
and I'm sorry I have Gregg for a brother. A few minutes ago, you had me on the
good side of the fence, with Howard. Now, it looks as if I'm being shoved in
Gregg's yard. I don't know what made you change your mind, but I don't like
it!"
     With a sudden show of strength, Selwood took Gregg's arm and shoved it
aside. In cold, harsh tone he asserted:
     "You are welcome to think anything you wish, Mr. Caxter. Henceforth, I
shall keep all my opinions of your family entirely to myself!"
     He stalked from the room. Philip and Emro heard the outer door slam
behind
him. But The Shadow was no longer near to witness the looks that Philip and
Emro
exchanged. From the moment that Selwood's departure had been certain, The
Shadow
dropped from the balcony to the ledge below.


     WHEN Selwood reached the street, he saw a cab near the corner and started
toward it. The cab pulled away, and Selwood had to look for another one on the
side street. That delay enabled The Shadow to dart from a side door of the
hotel and make a quick spurt across the darkened sidewalk, just as Selwood was
settling into the cab.
     As the taxi pulled toward the avenue, Selwood saw the door swing wide,
spied a figure of blackness entering, with warning whisper.
     Knowing that some strange twist of circumstance had caused Selwood's
sudden change of front, The Shadow was adopting a bold measure to learn the
answer. Often, before, he had sprung in upon persons who were in the thick of
difficulties; had won their confidence and given them real aid toward a
solution of their problems.
     If Selwood should talk, or show The Shadow that all-important telegram,
chances were that the black-cloaked investigator would have the real key to
hidden crime. This moment seemed the vital opportunity that The Shadow had
awaited.
     Instead, that instant very nearly marked The Shadow's finish.
     With maddened nervous speed, Norman Selwood whipped an old-fashioned
revolver from his overcoat pocket, jabbed the weapon straight for The Shadow's
heart. Had the gun had a hair trigger, the tug of Selwood's finger would have
meant The Shadow's death. But the shot didn't come with enough speed.
     When the gun blasted, The Shadow was already recoiling in a long dive
from
the taxi's step, that carried him from the path of the knifing flame. The
bullet
sizzled inches wide of his cloaked shoulder, as The Shadow went sprawling to
the
middle of the avenue, the spot that the cab had reached.
     As brakes shrieked from other cars, and loud cries came from the
sidewalk,
Selwood pressed the smoking revolver muzzle against the neck of the cab driver
and told him to show immediate speed. Neither looked back to that corner where
a cloaked figure lay limp and senseless almost beneath the wheels of
brake-locked cars.
     A crippled taxi had limped up to the crossing, just as The Shadow's
sprawling form had been jounced from one car fender to another. From it sprang
the driver and a passenger.
     Brushing other men aside, they gathered up The Shadow and thrust him into
the cab. Shouting that they would rush the victim to a hospital, they were
away, the damaged cab making all the speed that its driver could give it.
     Harry Vincent and Moe Shrevnitz, arriving at the Hotel Beaumont to report
Irene's disappearance and be ready for further orders, had rendered a timely
service to their chief. Whether The Shadow was alive or dead, they were
carrying him from the public eye, that the mystery which shrouded him might
remain unrevealed!


     CHAPTER X

     THE NEW EMISSARY

      A CERTAIN physician in Manhattan, named Dr. Rupert Sayre, had a patient
who was both valuable and troublesome. Valuable, because without that
patient's
frequent patronage, Sayre would not have been able to maintain his costly
offices; troublesome, because the patient almost invariably went against
Sayre's orders and advice.
      The patient's name was Lamont Cranston. Sayre had treated him for bullet
wounds, knife cuts, brain concussions, and numerous other accidental injuries.
This time, Cranston was recuperating from an automobile smash.
      It had happened three nights ago, and from the description of the
accident
Sayre knew that once again, Cranston's quick-witted behavior had served him in
excellent stead.
      Cranston had been buffeted from one car to another; sprawling in front of
one automobile, he would certainly have been crushed beneath its wheels, if he
had not taken a quick roll in the opposite direction.
      Nervy work, that; because another car had been ramming for the very spot
that Cranston chose. But it had worked as Cranston hoped. He was just ahead of
the first car's wheels when the second vehicle met it in head-on collision. A
heavy thump of locking bumpers had knocked Cranston unconscious; but he had
escaped serious injury.
      Cranston had been brought to Sayre's wrapped in a black cloak, with a
slouch hat to match. Whether that meant Lamont Cranston was The Shadow, or
that
The Shadow was Lamont Cranston, Dr. Sayre did not know. He had figured it one
way, then the other; but had never finally made up his mind.
      Sayre felt positive on one point only: that The Shadow, otherwise
Cranston
- or was he Cranston? - would never rest up for as long a period as Sayre
thought best for him. There, again, Dr. Sayre found himself wrong, at last.
      He had suggested that his patient rest at least two days, and here it
was,
near the end of the third day, with The Shadow still idling contentedly in the
little hospital room that Sayre had specially provided for him.
      True, The Shadow had received some telephone calls, from a man named
Burbank. So Dr. Sayre decided that everything must be running smoothly with
whatever campaign The Shadow had under way. In that verdict, Sayre was wrong
again.
      Matters were quite out of hand. The Shadow's agents had not gotten a
trace
of Irene Selwood, nor of her militant father, whose wild attack had brought
grief to The Shadow. Whether Norman Selwood had joined his daughter somewhere,
was impossible to guess. Their Connecticut cottage was closed; Harry Vincent
learned that by a visit to the place.
      So matters stood just as they had been. Each of the Selwoods had
disappeared separately, the only common point in the two processes being that
each had voluntarily dropped from sight immediately after receiving a
telegram.
      What those messages contained; whether the two wires were identical -
those, again, were matters for sheer speculation.
     Harry Vincent had done his best to get some clue from Philip Caxter. He
had managed to become a guest at one of Philip's parties, but could report
very
little, except that Philip acted at times as though trying to forget
something.
     The smug secretary, Louis Emro, was not changed a bit from the
description
that Harry had of him from The Shadow. But there were times when Philip called
Emro into conference privately; that policy, however, was usual with Philip.
     Perhaps Philip had given up hope of seeing Irene again, until her
father's
unreasonable anger had cooled. Possibly he had heard from the girl, in some
way
or another. Whatever the situation, The Shadow had come to a very definite
conclusion regarding both Irene and her father.
     If real harm had befallen either of them, it would have struck on the
night of their disappearance. Should they still be safe, they would probably
remain so. The worst possible step would be to rush a hunt for them. Since
both
were concerned, to some extent, in affairs involving the three Caxter
brothers,
The Shadow's course was to await the right opportunity to move into those
affairs himself.
     The opportunity was due this afternoon. That was why The Shadow had been
content to rest in his present comfortable surroundings. The opportunity, it
happened, was in the shape of a directors meeting, to be held at the New
Jersey
plant of the Caxter Chemical Corporation.
     In accordance with Cranston's suggestion, Gregg Caxter had invited the
lesser stockholders to the meeting.


     AT half past three, Dr. Sayre was somewhat surprised - and rather
relieved, too - when Cranston appeared, fully dressed, from the little
hospital
room. He was carrying a suitcase, which evidently contained his black cloak
and
hat, along with other accouterments.
     Sayre had begun to worry over Cranston's long stay, and was therefore
pleased because his patient had voluntarily decided to leave.
     From Sayre's office, Cranston went to the Cobalt Club, where he ran into
his friend Commissioner Weston. Remarking that he was going on a journey, as
his suitcase indicated, Cranston cut off their chat and summoned his
limousine.
     Just before five o'clock, the big car joined a file of other expensive
automobiles that were crossing the Jersey meadows to the chemical plant.
     There were about twenty persons in Gregg's spacious tower office when the
conference began. Except for Lamont Cranston, the minor stockholders made no
better showing than the sheeplike directors. Most of the men who held shares
of
Caxter stock were old fossils who had refused to give up their small, but
much-prized, holdings at a time when Theobald Caxter had tried to buy up all
that were outstanding.
     With ninety percent of the stock in his craw, Theobald had let the rest
go. As matters stood today, his son Gregg owned sixty percent, Howard and
Philip each fifteen, while the remaining ten percent belonged to the dozen men
who had been invited to watch Gregg Caxter browbeat his board of directors.
     Despite his domineering way, Gregg knew how to gloss over matters that he
did not care to stress. He touched only lightly on the fact that there had
been
mysterious disappearances and deaths among the employees at his plant. He
dwelt
at greater length upon the fact that the company needed to expand, but that
Howard and Philip were the obstacles.
      "My plan is this," declared Gregg, briskly, as if the whole idea were a
new one, coming under serious consideration for the first time. "We must send
some responsible person to talk with my brothers; to learn upon exactly what
terms they will release full rights to the patents which they control.
      "Let us allow that man a week, so that he may call to see them several
times, if necessary. After that, if nothing has been accomplished, I
personally" - Gregg twisted his lips wryly, as if he felt the thought
distasteful - "shall see my brothers and settle matters with them."
      There were nods of approval, the usual murmurs that followed whatever
Gregg said. Then the stooge directors, and even the fossilized stockholders,
were astonished when one man put a pointblank objection to Gregg's plan.
      "You speak of a responsible person," remarked Lamont Cranston. "Just
where
are you going to find one, Mr. Caxter?"
      Though Cranston's tone was even, his words, themselves, had a barb. The
Shadow was bringing up the tender point that Gregg wanted to avoid: the fact
that four men, all deemed responsible, had undertaken the mission and had not
returned.
      With the question, The Shadow had also sized up Gregg correctly, and was
leaving everything wide open for a prompt retort. It came - the very response
that The Shadow expected.
      "Anyone here would be a responsible party," snapped Gregg, gesturing
toward the throng, "and that statement" - a shrewd gleam came to Gregg's
narrowing eyes - "includes you, Mr. Cranston."
      The Shadow delivered a slight smile, typical of Cranston, then let the
expression fade. He asked suddenly:
      "Do you actually mean that you want me -"
      "To become our emissary?" inserted Gregg, promptly. "Certainly! As I
recall it" - his eyes were narrowed again - "you were the gentleman who
suggested that the stockholders be called into this conference. Therefore, I
speak for all when I accept your offer to handle this undertaking."


     BEFORE Cranston could object that he had not made the offer, Gregg was
motioning to the directors. They came to their feet and began to applaud,
urging the old stockholders to do the same. In the midst of such acclaim, The
Shadow could only bow, thereby sealing his acceptance.
     "It would be best to see Howard first," declared Gregg. "He lives near
Pennbury, and if you go there tomorrow, Mr. Cranston -"
     "Why not today?"
     Gregg looked pleased. Apparently, Cranston intended to go through with
the
duty as soon as possible. But there was an objection, which Gregg voiced.
     "It would take you about an hour and a half to drive to Pennbury, Mr.
Cranston. By the time you arrived, Howard would be at dinner. His day, as I
understand it, ends right then."
     Cranston pointed from the window, across the Skyway, to the hangars of
Newark Airport, which glimmered against the sunset.
     "I have a plane there," he remarked. "I can fly to Pennbury in fifteen
minutes. There is an airport very near your brother's estate."
     "Excellent!" exclaimed Gregg. He rapped the table. "The meeting is
adjourned, so that Mr. Cranston may start."
     While the others were filing from the room, Gregg drew Cranston to the
large table near the window. The table still bore its crate of guinea pigs,
the
sulphur brick, the various tubes of liquids, and the little metal tank. Gregg
began to pack them in a large box, with the exception of the guinea-pig crate.
     There were a few more exhibits, which he added; all bore labels that
explained them. Remembering some articles in another office, Gregg went to get
them. When he came back, he found that Cranston had removed some objects from
the box, to make more room.
     "You put those in your suitcase?" queried Gregg, referring to the missing
items, as he noted the suitcase on the table. "Be very careful; some of these
are highly inflammable."
     The Shadow thanked Gregg for the warning, and helped him pack the last
packages in the box, which now had space for them. Gregg shouted for a
secretary; a mouselike man appeared from another room.
     The fellow had evidently replaced Walters, but he had certainly been in
Gregg's employ for a long time, for he had the beaten look that Gregg
invariably forced his employees to acquire.
     With the pitiful secretary lugging box and suitcase, while Gregg kept
admonishing him to be careful, they went out to the elevator. When the box and
suitcase were in the car, The Shadow quietly told Gregg that he would need the
man no longer.
     "My chauffeur will help me with the luggage," he said, in Cranston's
style, "and in just about ten minutes, Mr. Caxter, you will see my plane leave
the airport. Don't worry about the cargo. I shall be careful when I land at
Pennbury."
     Gregg smiled his approval, as he thrust forward his hand in a farewell
shake. When the elevator door had closed, Gregg kept staring at it while the
car rumbled downward. Returning to his office, he stared from the window,
watching Cranston's big car start off toward Newark Airport.
     The chortle that came from Gregg's lips brought a startled look from his
pint-sized secretary. The man had never before heard a chuckle so filled with
ugliness, yet evidently tinged with pleasure.
     Perhaps that evil cluck meant that Gregg Caxter at last was satisfied
that
he had sent an emissary - Lamont Cranston - who could treat with both Howard
and
Philip, bringing both of them to terms. Or, possibly - as the uncertain
secretary thought - Gregg's venom, for some unknown reason, was actually meant
for Cranston.
     Whichever the case, The Shadow was embarking upon a mission fraught with
hidden danger; a quest from which four men had failed to return. The Shadow
had
accepted it, despite the hazard, that he might solve the riddle of mysterious
crime.
     One fact was certain. When The Shadow returned - if he did return - he
would hold the key to the whole insidious game.


    CHAPTER XI

    LINKS TO THE PAST

    ARRIVING at Pennbury before Howard Caxter's dinner hour, The Shadow had
no
trouble in gaining admittance. Howard, it seemed, had heard of Lamont
Cranston,
and was quite willing to meet a man whom he regarded as a fellow millionaire.
     But the visitor was not conducted to Howard's study. Instead, The Shadow
found himself guided through huge hallways in the main portion of the house,
until he arrived in a vast library.
     Howard Caxter was there to greet him, more amiably, even, than he had
received Wydell. Tonight, the gaunt man was dressed in a tuxedo, which made
him
appear thinner than when in normal day wear. At close range, however, The
Shadow
could tell that Howard's frail build was not the result of ill health.
      The eldest Caxter had a strong handshake; his figure was wiry, not weak.
Having heard Norman Selwood describe how Howard had developed from a puny
youth
into a mature man, The Shadow considered him in such terms. Taken accordingly,
Howard could be classed as a man of sound physique.
      As Selwood had also stated, brain counted with Howard. Though he had not
learned the reason for Cranston's visit, his knowing smile told that he had
guessed it.
      "You are welcome, Mr. Cranston," greeted Howard, cordially, "although I
can foresee that we shall have unpleasant business to discuss. You have come,
no doubt, from my brother Gregg."
      "Not exactly," was Cranston's quiet reply. "I happen to be a minor
shareholder in the Caxter Chemical Corporation, which makes my situation more
in common with yours."
      Howard's response was a hearty chuckle. Though he knew that no one
individual outside the Caxter family held more than one percent of the
chemical
corporation stock, he knew that Cranston's argument was technically correct.
Since Gregg controlled more than fifty percent of the corporation, the other
Caxter brothers had no real voting power in the company.
      Of course, there was the matter of the patents, which they held as a club
over Gregg. But anyone - Cranston, for instance - might have been able, some
way, to gain a similar advantage.
      "I believe that we shall get along well together," decided Howard, as he
proffered a box of choice cigars. "Of course, I must insist that you have
dinner with me, Mr. Cranston. Otherwise, we shall not find time to talk."
      "I should be glad to accept the invitation," returned The Shadow, "if I
did not feel that I would be out of place among the guests at a formal dinner
party."
      "No, no," insisted Howard. "There will be only one other guest besides
yourself; a person who will overlook the fact that you are attired in business
clothes."
      "Very well, then. I accept."
      While they puffed their cigars, Howard showed Cranston about the library,
which contained a remarkable collection of rare books. At moments, Howard
gazed
toward the door, as though expecting someone; finally, just as dinner chimes
sounded, he heard the approach of light footsteps.
      "Here is our other guest," announced Howard. "Come this way, Mr.
Cranston,
and I shall introduce you to Miss Selwood."


     IRENE stood in the doorway. She formed a lovely picture, a vision in
silver lame, which glimmered with the sheen of moonlight. She could not have
chosen a more attractive dinner gown for this setting, where oak-paneled walls
and sparse lights provided a subdued background.
     There was gladness in Irene's smile; her welcome, when she was introduced
to Cranston, indicated that she was quite happy in these surroundings.
     One question, at least, had been solved. The Shadow had learned where
Irene had eventually gone, after her sudden disappearance. Perhaps his smile,
the sort that a man like Cranston would give upon being introduced to so
charming a girl as Irene, had something of the inscrutable in it. For, with
The
Shadow, discoveries such as this were apt to be the result of deduction,
rather
than coincidence.
      If, however, Lamont Cranston had expected to meet Irene Selwood in this
mansion, neither the girl nor Howard Caxter suspected it. Nor did they guess
that his masklike features were restraining all expression of the elation that
he felt.
      The three dined in a large room, where wavering candlelight added a
shimmer to Irene's silvery attire and brought occasional sparkles to her
attractive brown eyes. Howard Caxter was a courteous host, and he did not
forget Irene in the course of his conversation.
      "Miss Selwood is a very old friend of mine," he told Cranston. "Not in
years, of course, because she is delightfully young, but in my recollection.
Her father" - his tone became serious - "is a man to whom I owe a debt that
can
never be repaid. He was my tutor, and my confidant, through the days of my
troubled youth.
      "As for Irene" - he beamed happily, as he looked at the girl - "if she
would tell you her age, I could state the precise number of years that I have
known her. I remember her as a baby, as a child, and now" - Howard drew a deep
sigh - "I see her as a lovely woman, a credit to the man I most admire, her
father!"
      Howard Caxter raised his wineglass, as in a personal toast to Norman
Selwood. Irene lowered her eyes, managed to smile away her momentary
embarrassment. Then:
      "I had a letter from father today," she said. "He said that he will be
here soon; perhaps within a week."
      Howard nodded. After a short pause, he questioned: "Has Philip written
you?"
      "No." Irene pursed her lips. "I don't think he will. I've rather decided
to forget Philip" - her tone lost its slightly formal trace - "until I have
seen dad."
      "That might be wise," agreed Howard, with an approving nod. "Of all the
men I know, none is better qualified to give advice than your father."
      There was a lull in the conversation, which Howard ended when he turned
to
The Shadow.
      "Miss Selwood refers to my brother Philip," he said. "You will probably
meet him later. He is full of youth, romance, and all the happy-go-lucky
thoughts that go with it."
      "But wise enough," suggested The Shadow, casually, "to abide by the
decisions of his eldest brother."
      Howard chuckled.
      "You must have talked a lot with Gregg," he said. "It annoys him because
Philip sides with me. But why not? Philip and I have no desire to amass more
wealth, or power. At least, I have none; and Philip has never shown that
inclination.
      "We are proud of the Caxter name, of course. But should it ever evolve
upon us to carry on, in place of Gregg, I would intrust all that in Philip's
hands. Though he has ideals, Philip is closer to the world than I am."


     DINNER ended amid a parade of quiet, well-trained servants. Irene excused
herself and retired to the library. Howard invited The Shadow to the study. A
servant followed them, bringing the box and suitcase that the visitor had
carried with him. On the way, Howard returned to a fact which had been
mentioned in the dinner conversation.
     "It is remarkable, Mr. Cranston, to learn that you arrived here so
rapidly. If I were a few years younger, I believe that I would fly myself, as
you do. But a mere plane flight, I understand, has none of the zest that comes
with piloting your own ship."
     Agreeing that solo flying was one of his chief enjoyments, The Shadow
paused to admire Howard's indoor garden. After that, they stepped into the
study, where Howard crossed to a corner and turned on a floor light beside one
of the large chairs.
     "Sit here, Mr. Cranston," he suggested. "You will be more comfortable
than
anywhere else. Put the luggage there, Pelton" - he was speaking to the servant
-
"and then you may leave us."
     Sinking deep into the heavy-cushioned chair, The Shadow relaxed until the
servant had gone. Then, rousing from his reverie, he opened the box that stood
beside the chair and passed the various exhibits to Howard Caxter. While
Howard
was placing them upon a table, The Shadow poked into his suitcase and brought
out the few left-overs.
     Howard nodded approvingly, as he handled the sulphur brick. It satisfied
him on one point.
     "This means," he said, "that Gregg is using raw sulphur to produce
sulphuric acid, instead of playing with a dangerous gas like hydrogen
sulphide."
     He was interested, too, in the safety gas tank. He toyed with the valve,
saw that it was foolproof. That satisfied Howard regarding the precautions
that
were being taken in the manufacture of poison gas, which Gregg still made
because of government contracts.
     The tubes of chemicals were also important. Among them were compounds to
be used in gas masks, as Howard had requested. Nodding further, Howard came at
last to a small box that Gregg had added to the list of exhibits. That box
contained a ruddy substance that aroused Howard's delight.
     "Red phosphorous!" he exclaimed. Then, reading a typewritten sheet that
was with the box: "So Gregg has come to his senses at last. Mr. Cranston, my
brother Gregg has committed one great crime - yes, I can honestly call it such
- and that has been the manufacture of white phosphorous, for export.
     "Used in simple things, like the manufacture of matches, white
phosphorous
can prove deadly to workers. Such practice is forbidden in this country; but
it
is still possible to employ white phosphorous for use in smoke screens laid by
airplanes. Gregg has been shipping out white phosphorous, but has not
specified
its use in other countries.
     "He has agreed" - Howard tapped the note - "to end that practice.
Henceforth, he will export red phosphorous only. Being harmless, it can cause
no human woe when used in items of commercial manufacture. That is good, very
good!"


     RISING, Howard motioned toward the alcove at the rear of the study. He
opened the door; stepping through, they stood in a small hallway. The Shadow
saw a flight of steps that led to a laboratory directly beneath the study.
     Two chemists, attired in white, were at work at benches that bore shiny,
polished equipment. In the ceiling of the windowless white-walled room was a
hanging lamp with a waving bare flame of scintillating hues, that varied as
The
Shadow watched them.
     "The lamp of progress," declared Howard, solemnly. "In this laboratory of
mine, we have no poison gases; no chemicals that can injure the human race. We
devise and test nothing but substances of benefit. I have discovered ways" -
his tone became a proud one - "of neutralizing the most harmful gases,
rendering them null and void!
     "Should Gregg agree - as I now feel sure he will - to manufacture such
chemical compounds, I shall gladly agree to any expansion program of his
business. The financial part is up to him; he knows that side of it. When you
return to Gregg, tell him all that I have said. Mention my laboratory and its
lamp of progress, and say that I hope it will be his guide as well as mine."
     Conducting The Shadow back into the study, Howard pressed a button for a
servant. When Pelton arrived, Howard had him carry the box and the suitcase
down to the front door, ordering him to summon a limousine to take Mr.
Cranston
to the landing field.
     Irene was not about when The Shadow shook hands with Howard at the front
door. In Cranston's casual tone, The Shadow inquired:
     "What shall I tell your brother Philip when I meet him?"
     Howard Caxter smiled.
     "Simply that you have seen me," he declared, "and that I have decided
upon
my policy. When I have signed the agreements that Gregg sends me, I shall
forward them to Philip. I feel confident that Philip will also sign them, thus
completing the arrangements."
     With that assurance - the word that Gregg Caxter had so long awaited -
Howard Caxter bowed his visitor out into the night.


     CHAPTER XII

     THE SECRET VISIT

     SO far as his mission concerned Gregg Caxter, The Shadow had completed
it.
He had spent several hours with Howard Caxter and everything had gone with the
greatest smoothness. That was not surprising, considering that Howard had been
approached by persons previously - Tyburn and Wydell, for example - who had
offered increasing concessions from Gregg.
      In Lamont Cranston, Howard had met an emissary who talked his own
language; one who was not under Gregg's rule. That, too, could have played a
strong part in influencing Howard. But it did not fully satisfy The Shadow.
      He, on his own part, had delved into certain matters that intrigued him.
One, especially, was why Irene Selwood had gone to Howard's mansion, to await
her father there.
      Reaching the landing field, The Shadow let Howard's helpful chauffeur
load
the box and suitcase into the waiting plane, an autogiro. Stepping off into
the
darkness, The Shadow adjusted an aviator's helmet on his head. At the same
time, he delivered a low, clear whisper that brought a man instantly to his
side.
      The waiting man was Miles Crofton, a pilot who worked for The Shadow. He
had come here by car, after The Shadow had started his plane trip. Crofton
also
wore a goggled helmet; in the darkness, The Shadow gave him brief
instructions.
      It was Crofton, not The Shadow, who climbed aboard the ship. Just before
he took off, the pilot opened the suitcase, removed a few boxes, then let the
luggage piece drop from the far side of the plane.
      The autogiro took off, leaving the blackness of the landing field beneath
it. Members of the small ground crew went their way; Howard's chauffeur
returned to the limousine and started back to the estate.
      The final incident suited The Shadow to perfection. He wanted it supposed
by everyone, particularly by Howard Caxter, that Lamont Cranston had taken off
in the plane. For The Shadow was due to appear in a neighborhood where
Cranston
had been; and should he, by chance, be sighted, his chief wish would be to
keep
his double identity secret.
     Finding Crofton's parked car, The Shadow removed his hat and cloak from
the suitcase, along with other needed items, then placed the bag in the car.
That done, he started a roundabout route by foot, back in the direction of
Howard's mansion.
     Tonight, The Shadow's goal was not the side door that led into the
tropical garden. He had found a better mode of entry. During that view of
Howard's laboratory, The Shadow had noticed a doorway at the rear of the hall.
It obviously opened to the ground in back of the wing, wherein the study and
the laboratory were located.
     Reaching Howard's premises, The Shadow used the utmost caution. On
estates
the size of this, the grounds were usually patrolled by watchmen late at
night,
and the hour was already well advanced.
     There would still be a while before midnight; but that was quite late in
this vicinity. The people of Pennbury went to bed early, and Howard Caxter,
according to all reports, had acquired the same habit.
     Moreover, there was a trickle of moonlight through the thin clouds that
partly veiled the sky, and that forced The Shadow to choose a careful course
sheltered by trees and shrubbery, whichever happened to be most convenient.


      THE rear door, once reached, was not a difficult problem. It was locked,
but not bolted. Probing the lock with a plierlike pick, The Shadow found the
key and turned it. Inside the door, he locked it behind him, and stole along
the hallway toward the steps that led down into the laboratory.
      Men were still at work there, under the colorful flame that Howard had
termed the "lamp of progress." Gliding a few steps downward, The Shadow
observed that the lab was well fitted with large tanks, with varied markings.
Each tank, of course, contained some different type of gas which Howard Caxter
used in his experiments to benefit humanity.
      Moving up to the ground-floor level, The Shadow saw a stairway that led
to
the second floor. He followed it, came upon a dividing passage that led
through
two catwalks, one on each side of the dome that topped the indoor garden.
Reaching the main part of the mansion, The Shadow saw spreading hallways,
dimly
lighted.
      He took the hall to the left, for the all-important reason that he heard
footsteps coming from the passage on the right.
      Despite his gliding skill, The Shadow must have become momentarily
visible
against an end window, with its pale block of moonlight, for he heard the
footsteps stop. Then a low-pitched, but gruff, voice inquired:
      "Who's there?"
      Close against the wall, The Shadow tried the first door that he found. It
was locked; rather than waste time with it, he eased to the next, to find it
also locked. He was moving to a third door, when someone joined the man who
had
challenged him.
      From his voice, the newcomer was Pelton, and he seemed to have authority
over the first servant.
      Flashlights blinked; the pair were coming along the hall. Rather than
risk
a scuffle that would make his visit known, The Shadow tried the third door. It
opened at touch, with a noiseless sweep that The Shadow appreciated. Inside
the
room, which was lighted vaguely by a small lamp in a far corner, he closed the
door and turned the key that he found in the lock.
      From beyond a partly closed door at the far side of the room, The Shadow
heard the splash of water. Then, as he was choosing a darkened space along the
opposite wall, there was a pounding at the door from the hall. The Shadow
heard
Pelton's voice, calling:
      "Miss Selwood! Miss Selwood!"
      Chance had brought The Shadow into Irene's bedroom. With the darkness
that
the wall afforded, his only policy was to remain where he was. Further events,
as they developed, would shape The Shadow's plans.
      Irene was stepping into the bathtub, when she heard the pounding from the
hallway door. One foot dipped into the bath, she paused, caught the anxious
tone of Pelton's voice as the servant called her name.
      Stepping to a corner, Irene picked up a bathrobe and hurriedly slipped
her
right arm into its sleeve. The other sleeve was inside out, so she drew the
robe
across beneath her right arm and clamped it there with her elbow.
      Pelton's knocks were louder, and would soon arouse the entire household.
Without waiting to hunt for slippers, Irene opened the bathroom door and
tripped out through the bedroom. She saw her reflection as she passed the
mirror on the inside of the bathroom door and gave a light laugh.
      Her bathrobe was ample coverage, as she wore it, but it reminded her of a
Roman toga - the way she had it tightened on the right, with her left shoulder
and arm bare. Using her right hand to keep the robe about her, Irene found
difficulty in turning the door key left-handed. Finally, she managed it and
opened the door halfway, to meet Pelton and the other servant.
      "I'm sorry, Miss Selwood," apologized Pelton. "I did not wish to disturb
your bath, but may I ask, did you have this door locked?"
      The question rather surprised Irene. Offhand, she wasn't sure that she
had
locked the door; but since the key was turned when she reached it, she
naturally
decided that she had been responsible.
      "Why, yes," declared Irene. Then, laughing: "I usually lock the door of
my
bedroom. Is anything the matter?"
      "Nothing at all," replied Pelton. He had been looking about the bedroom
during those few moments. "We just weren't sure - that is, we thought someone
was about. Good night, Miss Selwood."


     IRENE closed the door and locked it. Turning toward the bathroom, she was
just beginning to relax her hold on the cumbersome and no-longer-needed robe,
when she stopped stock-still, facing the oblong light that came from the
connecting door.
     A black-cloaked figure had stepped in front of that lighted background.
Irene recognized the eyes that glittered from beneath the slouch hat. Her
thoughts flashed back to that night at Philip's; but this time, Irene did not
scream. Waiting, she heard a low, whispered voice cautioning her to silence.
The tone gave her confidence that all was well.
     Approaching, The Shadow motioned toward a chair near the window. Irene
nodded, went to the chair and sat down. The spectral shape of The Shadow
remained close beside a table; his voice, strangely sibilant, was too subdued
to be heard outside the bedroom, yet entirely clear to Irene.
     "Describe the message," spoke The Shadow, "that caused you to come here."
     Half to her own surprise, Irene did not protest the summary command.
There
was something in the voice that called for trust, as well as obedience.
      "It was a telegram," the girl whispered, "from my father. He told me to
take the next train for Pennbury; that Mr. Caxter, Howard Caxter, would expect
me."
      "And you still have that message?"
      "Yes." Irene arose, reached for her handbag on the table. "Here it is."
      Finding the telegram wasn't easy, with one hand. Irene tried to bring her
right hand into use, but the bathrobe began to slip from beneath her elbow and
she had to pause, to readjust it.
      Obligingly, The Shadow found the yellow envelope for her; he spread the
crumpled telegram and read it by the doorway light.
      "You have written your father?"
      "Yes, and dad has replied. His letters, though, are very brief. They
haven't told me about... about -"
      "About Philip?"
      Irene came straight up as she heard The Shadow's quiet statement. She had
begun to regard this cloaked personage as an incredible being; now, she was
convinced of it. Somehow, he had learned that she loved Philip, a fact which
she had related only to her father, although she had hinted it to Howard.
      It struck her suddenly that The Shadow might have come from her father;
and therewith, her trust became absolute. Thinking swiftly, Irene tried to
connect The Shadow with someone whom she had met. The first person she
remembered was Lamont Cranston; momentarily, Irene smiled.
      She pictured herself as she had been only a few hours ago, gowned in
silver, meeting the immaculately attired Mr. Cranston. Here she was clad
simply
in a bathrobe, donned hurriedly, at that, talking with another visitor, The
Shadow. A stranger quite different from Cranston; for The Shadow, garbed in
cloak and hat, seemed a being of darkness come to life.
      Keenly, though, Irene compared the two, wondering if Cranston could be
The
Shadow. Then she decided otherwise. The Shadow was taller, definitely, than
Lamont Cranston. It didn't occur to Irene that the difference was due to her
own lessening in height.
      When she had met Cranston she had worn high-heeled silver slippers; at
this moment, she was standing barefooted.
      Then Irene found herself talking, breathlessly pouring words that she
could not restrain. She was releasing the worry that she had hidden ever since
she had arrived here, to a person who, she felt sure, could provide all
answers.


     "WHY did father wire me?" she asked. "He hasn't come here, as he said he
would; his letters haven't explained. What does he know that... that may be
dangerous? Why has he feared for me so much that he has sent me here, so that
I
can be safe from whom?
     "What terrible thing involves the Caxter family? I like Howard; he
admires
my father and is so ready to help me. I despise Gregg, though I have never met
him; but I have heard so much about his mean ways. I... love Philip!" Irene's
voice had a sob. "I really love him... but -"
     Irene couldn't finish the sentence. New doubts had seized her, with the
fear that the climax to all this mystery would bring sweeping disappointment.
She felt the touch of The Shadow's hand upon her shoulder; its pressure was
soothing. Then he was guiding her toward the broad window that overlooked the
shrub-filled lawn, with the woods beyond.
     "Those trees" - The Shadow pointed, as he whispered - "are where you are
to watch for certain signals. With a light like this" - he blinked a tiny
flashlight that glimmered green, then red, finally white - "according to the
code that you will find inside the case. You can signal, also, toward the
trees, should you find reason.
      "Do not worry for the present. You are safe here and will be, until
certain persons make dangerous moves. I have but one question: I must know the
address to which you sent the letters that you have written to your father."
      Irene gave the address; it was in New York. Her tone was brave again, her
hand firm, as she received the tiny flashlight that The Shadow pressed into
her
palm.
      Then The Shadow took a step toward the corner, extinguished the room's
lone light. With a sweep, he was back at the window and across the sill, to
the
outside wall!
      Gasping astonishment, Irene reached the window. Both hands on the sill,
she stared downward through the darkness. She thought she could see The
Shadow,
working his way to the ground by gripping the stony surface of the wall.
      Minutes passed; a sudden tremor seized Irene. A flashlight - a watchman's
torch - was sweeping from the corner of the house. The brilliant glow was
playing along the ground.
      Irene wasn't conscious of herself as she crouched to the level of the
window sill, her knees against the folds of the robe, which had slipped to the
floor ahead of her. She was thinking of The Shadow, fearing that he would be
discovered.
      The watchman's light sprayed the wall, swept along the shrubbery, cutting
a wide path that faded into the dull moonlight near the hazy trees. That beam
showed total blankness. The watchman continued on his way.
      There was amazement in Irene's happy sob. It came with the realization
that The Shadow, swifter than Irene could have imagined, had vanished moments
ago into the confines of the night!


     CHAPTER XIII

     THE CHANGED SCENE

     IT was late when The Shadow arrived back in New York, in Crofton's car.
Too late to begin a search for Norman Selwood; for the address that Irene had
given was an office, where her father either called for his mail or had it
forwarded. Therefore, The Shadow postponed that hunt until the next day, for
two very good reasons.
     First, The Shadow was convinced, as he had told Irene, that everything
would be safe so long as the present status continued. Again, The Shadow,
remembering his own encounter with Norman Selwood, knew that the missing man,
when located, would have to be approached with utmost care.
     Perhaps, like his daughter, Selwood had merely become overexcited when
first accosted by The Shadow, and would be less zealous when approached again.
But that, in a sense, might make him more dangerous. If he still had his gun
at
hand, he might use it deliberately.
     There were certainly reasons why Selwood did not want to talk with
anyone.
They might be learned from Selwood himself, or from the telegram that the man
had received at Philip's. But Selwood, like his daughter, had probably
retained
the message that came to him. The only answer was to find Selwood, surprise
him,
and urge him to talk - under pressure, if necessary.
     On the surface, Selwood might fit anywhere into the curious and sinister
scheme of things that involved the Caxter brothers. Irene, of course, was
ignorant of how her father stood.
     Had The Shadow told her of Selwood's actions the other night, Irene might
have lost faith in her father. Therefore, The Shadow had discreetly avoided
mention of the startling episodes and had let the girl form the conclusion
that
he had already conferred with Selwood.
     That was particularly appropriate, because The Shadow had delved deep
beneath the surface. He had the real answer to the riddle, and felt sure that
when other facts were learned, they would piece into the picture exactly as he
visualized them. For The Shadow had tested out his theories and had proved
them
to his satisfaction.
     One thing that pleased him was the dead guinea pig. It was delivered in a
cardboard box punched with holes, and it came from one of his agents. To just
what tests the guinea pig had been submitted, The Shadow alone knew.
     Hitherto, the dead animal had not been brought to light; but it had
become, particularly when dead, a most important actor in a strange, hidden
drama.


     BY mid-afternoon of the next day, The Shadow, aided by Moe Shrevnitz, in
the latter's reconditioned cab, had successfully traced Norman Selwood. The
office where Selwood's mail was delivered was occupied by a real-estate agent.
     A special messenger had left that office carrying a letter, which he took
to the New Tower Apartments, several blocks away. When the messenger had
entered the elevator, The Shadow heard him tell the operator to take him to
the
twenty-sixth floor.
     That happened to be the top floor of the New Tower, and it had only four
apartments. From the remote location, it was logical that Selwood was
occupying
one of them, that the letter had been delivered to him. Further evidence came,
when The Shadow noticed tough-looking characters loitering in the vicinity of
the New Tower.
     Mobbies like those had figured in many episodes. There had been a
thuggish
crew around the chemical works, that first evening; another, when Irene called
on Philip; a third, when the girl had left New York. They had, at times, been
ready to answer the beck of someone higher up; their work, too, had been to
cover up certain matters.
     Just why they were around the New Tower, the thugs alone knew; but The
Shadow, in a guise different from Cranston's, didn't stop to ask them. He had
his own answer; and, moreover, when the right time came - soon after dusk -
those lurkers wouldn't be able even to glimpse him.
     While that afternoon was waning, another man was keeping tabs on Gregg
Caxter. The man intrusted to that duty was Clyde Burke, a reporter with the
New
York Classic. Actually, Clyde was an agent of The Shadow; and ever since the
story had broken, regarding tragedy in the Caxter plant, Clyde had done his
best for Gregg Caxter.
     In fact, Clyde was the only reporter allowed on the premises, and one
reason was because he never tried to hurry Gregg into an interview. This
afternoon, Clyde was lounging in the vacant office where the directors usually
assembled.
     Gregg was very busy; he was having dinner in his private office and might
not be able to talk to Clyde until eight o'clock. That didn't discourage the
reporter; on the contrary, it pleased him. Clyde's real purpose here was to
make sure that Gregg did not go elsewhere, for any sudden move by Gregg might
ruin The Shadow's plans.
     Just what those plans were, Clyde himself did not know. He understood
that
Harry Vincent had gone to Pennbury, to be on watch until The Shadow arrived
there. Whatever Harry's vigil, there was some reason why it could not begin
until dusk; hence The Shadow was anxious to keep matters exactly as they were
for a while longer.
     It was close to six o'clock; with gray gloom streaking the meadows, Clyde
felt quite satisfied. Unfortunately, he could not hear what was being said in
Gregg's private office, where the dark-haired chemical king was talking to his
dull-witted secretary.
     "No word from Cranston yet?" Gregg's eyes were narrowed shrewdly. "Don't
you think that is odd, Brooks?"
     "No, sir," replied the secretary, after some consideration. "I believe
you
said that you intended to give him a week for negotiations."
     "I did. But his plane has not returned to Newark Airport."
     "He might have flown elsewhere, sir."
     Gregg smiled, his lips forming one of its contemptuous expressions. He
said, sarcastically:
     "Sometimes, Brooks, you become quite as profound as my lamented secretary
Walters. I am anxious to know two things." Again his gaze was shrewd. "First,
if Cranston called on my brother Howard; second, dependent on the first, if he
visited Philip afterward."
     That was all too deep for Brooks. Gregg suddenly changed the subject:
     "Is that reporter, Burke, still out there?"
     Brooks nodded. Gregg opened a door that revealed a spiral stairway.
     "Keep him there," sneered Gregg, "as long as he is fool enough to stay.
I'm going out to settle a few things for myself."


      THE moment that the door closed behind Gregg Caxter, a serious factor had
entered into The Shadow's well-laid plans. Two hours were due to pass before
Clyde would learn that Gregg had gone, and that period might spell tragedy.
      Yet, at that very moment, another development was under way, to threaten
further, and perhaps more serious, disaster. The man who figured chiefly in
the
other occurrence was, ironically, Inspector Joe Cardona.
      In his office, Cardona was grumbling as he mulled over a batch of report
sheets. Here he was, working late at headquarters, going around in circles.
Joe
was still thinking in terms of the frustrated robbery at the Hotel Beaumont.
There was something he hadn't been able to learn about it.
      Why, on the night after the shooting, with Denbry, the crooked house
dick,
already dead, had someone barged out of the side door of the Beaumont and
started shooting from a taxicab?
      Witnesses declared that the fleeing gunner had dropped someone who tried
to jump into his cab. The victim had been hurled in front of other cars, and a
second cab had taken him to a hospital. Suspecting homicide, Cardona had taken
the easier way; he had tried to find out what had actually happened to the
victim.
      That trail had been an utter blank. Joe had squared it with the
commissioner, who was vastly interested in the case, by claiming that maybe
there hadn't been a victim. Perhaps, said Joe, the man who dived from the cab
step had not been hurt at all. But there was no doubt that someone had fired a
shot from the taxi, and it was Cardona's job to find out who the sharpshooter
was.
      Joe was ready to give the job up for the night, when a heavy knock
sounded
at the door. A brawny detective sergeant entered, dragging a scrawny,
bleary-eyed taxi driver. The fellow, it seemed, had been hauled from his cab
half drunk; about to be slated at a local precinct, he had pleaded to see
Inspector Cardona.
      "I gotta get out of this," the fellow pleaded to Joe, "or I'll lose my
job
an' the missus will murder me! Honest, it's the first time I ever boozed while
I
was drivin' - an' the cops grabbed me before I done any harm on account of
it."
      "A serious offense," began Cardona, gruffly. "l can't help you -"
      "Maybe you'll square me" - the taxi man seemed quite sober in his
eagerness - "if I tell you what gave me the jitters an' started me on the
booze
route to forget it."
      Sagely, Cardona showed an expression of interest that made the cabby
think
his plea was granted.
      "It happened outside the Hotel Beaumont," began the cabby, "when a guy
jumped into my cab. We're wheelin' across the avenue, when this bimbo outs
with
a roscoe and tries to plug some gazebo that was on the steps -"
      Cardona was on his feet. His eagerness to hear more made the informant
continue:
      "An' then the guy sticks the rod to the back of my neck an' tells me to
drive like blazes! So I go off, hell bent, an' finally we wind up near a big
apartment house, where the guy slips me a double sawbuck to keep my trap
shut."
      In proof, the cabby produced a twenty-dollar bill and unfolded it, as if
that amount of money, in the hands of a taxi driver, would support any story.
      "Why didn't you report this before?" demanded Cardona.
      "Nobody was bumped, was they?" queried the cabby. "I didn't see nothin'
in
the papers about it. I wouldn't want the guy with the roscoe hoppin' in my
hack
again, would I - this time for real? He looked like a smart gazebo, the kind
that wouldn't forget to lamp my name an' my mug from the license I've got
showin' in the cab."
      Cardona nodded slowly, then made a provisional offer.
      "I'll get you off the slate," he promised, "if you go on with the rest of
your story."
      The cabby grinned. He did have more to tell.
      "I felt better," he said, "after the guy had climbed out. I sneaked
around
the block an' seen him goin' into the big apartment house. It's called the New
Tower, an' the next day, when I was up near there, I chinned with the doorman.
      "Seems like a guy named Norman Selwood has took an apartment up on the
top
floor. The tin-button guy that handles the door says Selwood is a doctor, or a
professor, or somethin' like that, an' he looked it, from what I saw of him."
      Cardona reached for his hat, told the detective sergeant that he would be
back in a few hours. The cabby began a protest.
      "I started gettin' the jeebies later, see? Seems like whenever I drive at
night, I'm thinkin' a guy's goin' to pop up with a gat. If I get an edge on, I
forget it."
      "You can forget the whole thing," Cardona informed him, "if I find out
that this yarn of yours is on the level. Keep him here, Markham" - this was to
the detective sergeant - "until you hear from me."


     OUTSIDE headquarters, Joe Cardona studied the darkening sky, then decided
to have some dinner before embarking on his inspection trip of the New Tower
Apartments. An hour's delay, Joe decided, was something that wouldn't matter.
Besides, it would be darker then, and his arrival at the New Tower would be
less conspicuous.
     That hour's postponement was a sort that could prove much more important
than Cardona supposed. It was the one possible factor that might prevent the
ace inspector from blundering into a case that actually belonged to The
Shadow.
     Since darkness was the time when The Shadow's own move would begin, there
was still a chance that the master sleuth might salvage some results from his
own intended visit to Norman Selwood.


    CHAPTER XIV

    CROSSED PATHS

     AT that same hour of six, Irene Selwood was having an early dinner with
Howard Caxter. Meals were on no set schedule in the mansion; their time seemed
governed by Howard's whims. He always asked Irene, however, if the chosen time
suited her, and the girl invariably agreed.
     Dinner, though, was always a formal matter with Howard; a fact that Irene
liked. It gave her a chance to wear the new and attractive gowns that her
father had sent here for her. Tonight, she was clad in a black dinner dress,
tastefully decorated with gold ornaments which glittered prettily in the
candlelight.
     Howard Caxter, ever thoughtful, had sent her a corsage of tea roses, that
Pelton had plucked from the garden. Dressed as usual in his tuxedo, Howard
seemed very pleased to be dining with so delightful a companion.
     Thick darkness had settled outside the dining-room window by the time the
meal was over. Irene had become silent; she was thinking of the wooded patch
beyond the shrubs, where The Shadow had promised to be on vigil.
     Deciding that she did not want to stay in the library and read, Irene
looked for some pretext whereby she could go to her bedroom and remain there
during the evening. She noticed that Howard was wondering why she had lagged
in
conversation; so the girl made the most of it.
     "I think I shall go upstairs and lie down awhile," remarked Irene. She
drew her hand across her forehead. "I've had a slight headache this
afternoon."
     "You're sure it is not severe?" asked Howard, anxiously. "Headaches can
become serious, you know."
     "Not this one," smiled Irene. She stroked back the hair from her
forehead,
as if to dispose of the imaginary ache. "It's simply that I am tired. I'm just
a
bit" - she gave her shoulders a shivery shrug - "just a trifle out of sorts."
     The shrug was a mistaken gesture.
     "My dear child!" exclaimed Howard. "You have a chill! You must do more
than merely rest; you must go to bed, while I have Hilda prepare a hot
lemonade
and bring it up to you."
     Hilda happened to be the housekeeper, who came every day from Pennbury
and
did not leave the mansion until after dinner. She was a fluttery old soul, but
exact when she followed orders. It would be as difficult to argue with Hilda
as
with Howard. There was nothing for Irene to do but smile gracefully and leave
the dining room.
    BY the time she had reached her bedroom, Irene was fuming. She didn't
feel
ill; she wasn't even tired, yet she was being sent to bed at seven o'clock,
like
a "dear child," as Howard had described her.
      Moonlight from above the trees was flooding the bedroom, and Irene hated
the sight of the place.
      She wanted to break up the furniture, but managed to resist that mad
desire. She snatched the tea roses angrily and pricked her fingers in the
attempt. She was about to throw the corsage on the floor, when she realized
that the flowers, too, were actually Howard's.
      Irene put the roses in a vase, still realizing that, unless she cared to
admit that she had lied, she would have to be undressed and in bed by the time
Hilda arrived.
      Irene's clothes, at least, were her own. Savagely, she kicked away her
shoes; tugging at her gown, she was glad that it tore when she pulled it
furiously from her arms.
      Her temper completely lost, Irene flung remaining garments right and
left,
until her supply was gone and she stood with hands clenched and trembling.
      Mild moonlight seemed laughing at the girl, as its glow bathed her tense
body. Hurling herself upon the bed, Irene buried her face and pounded the
pillows with her fists, while her feet kicked the folded quilt. When her
violence diminished, she still fumed mentally, until a sound suddenly brought
back her senses.
      It was a car, coming in by the driveway. Probably a car for Hilda, which
meant that the housekeeper would be hurrying up here. Irene didn't want to be
found in her present state, with the clothes-strewn floor as evidence of her
childish behavior. Bounding to the bureau, she found a pair of silk pajamas
and
wriggled into them.
      Irene thanked the moonlight this time, as she rapidly gathered her
scattered clothes, finding all but one lost stocking. Arranging the garments
on
a chair, she scrambled into bed just as Hilda knocked at the door. Entering,
the
housekeeper turned on a lamp.
      "My, my!" clucked Hilda, as she brought the hot lemonade. "Your face is
flushed; you have a fever!"
      "I'm all right," assured Irene, drawing up the covers tight and propping
herself against the pillows that Hilda raised. "Don't wait here, Hilda. Your
car just drove in."
      The woman shook her head. Looking about, as if fearing hidden ears, she
whispered to Irene in an awed tone:
      "Do you know whose car that was? It belongs to a man that none of us
thought would ever come here again. A spiteful man, who hates good Mr. Howard
-
yes, hates him because Mr. Howard is kind and treats poor people well. It's
Mr.
Gregg who just drove in here, that's who!"


     HILDA went out, leaving Irene bolt-upright, staring toward the window.
Though her fingers gripped the warm plate that held the hot lemonade glass,
Irene was swept with a chill - this time, a real one - that seemed to freeze
her from head to foot.
     She wished again that she hadn't stupidly talked herself into being sent
to bed at this early hour. But she didn't dare get dressed, for fear that
Howard had told Hilda to remain. Should the housekeeper return and find Irene
dressed, the woman might be foolish enough to make a worried report to Howard.
     Then Gregg would learn that Irene was in the mansion; something that
Howard, ordinarily, would not reveal. That secret must be kept at any cost,
for
if Gregg was her father's archenemy, he would also be Irene's worst foe.
     Irene had come to regard Gregg as the presiding satan of a particular
inferno known as the Caxter Chemical Works; not a bad analogy, considering
Gregg's slave-driving tactics and the sulphurous fumes that issued from his
plant, to wither what scant foliage the Jersey meadows boasted.
     Deciding that she would have to stay in bed, or close to it, Irene
wondered if she could risk a reading lamp. That turned her thoughts to the
little flashlight that The Shadow had given her.
     Laying the lemonade glass on a chair, Irene hopped from bed and took the
tiny torch from the bottom of her purse. Approaching the window, she blinked a
cautious signal, a combination of red and green glimmers, which meant to stand
by.
     Instantly, the flash was answered from a spot somewhere in the trees.
Irene's relief was immediate. Taking a chair near the window, she waited,
listening for sounds of Hilda but otherwise peaceful in mind. The Shadow had
made good his promise to have aid ready at immediate notice.
     Meanwhile, the meeting between Howard and Gregg was proving much less
heated than Irene would have supposed. The two Caxters were on their way to
Howard's study; Gregg's contempt was directed only at the tropical garden,
which he considered as a useless adornment to the house.
     The study pleased him better. Except for the big chairs and laden
bookshelves, it looked something like an office. Gregg approved the chairs,
after he had settled into the one where Howard placed him, because finding
fault with comfort was something that Gregg never did. As for the books, they
related to technical subjects, mostly chemistry, and were therefore useful.
     Howard's cigars were more expensive than those that Gregg handed around
at
directors' meetings. Puffing one of the cigars, Gregg remarked casually:
     "A friend of mine dropped out to see you last night. Did he meet you,
Howard?"
     "If you mean Mr. Cranston," returned Howard, "yes. He and I spent a very
pleasant evening together."
     "Did you come to any solution to our difficulties?"
     "Certainly! Cranston showed me the exhibits, and they were satisfactory.
I
specified terms which I considered reasonable. I supposed that you would have
heard from Cranston, by this time."
     Gregg shook his head.
     "Of course," added Howard, "Cranston intended to see Philip. He stayed
here rather late" - Howard was smiling - "at least, late as we consider it in
Pennbury. He might have postponed visiting Philip until tonight."
     "Cranston didn't come back to Newark Airport," declared Gregg. "Perhaps
he
landed somewhere else."
     Howard's eyes widened into an alarmed look. Suddenly, his voice became
stern, as he reminded:
     "Some of those materials he brought here were inflammable, Gregg. You
should have warned Cranston not to carry them by plane."
     "Why didn't you warn him?" jabbed Gregg. "You saw the stuff, didn't you?"
     "Of course!" Howard's tone was rueful. "I should have thought of it. But
he mentioned the matter of the plane trip before he produced the exhibits. I
didn't actually connect the two. You had better call up Cranston's home. At
once, Gregg!"


    OBLIGINGLY, Gregg took the telephone that Howard handed him. Connected
with Cranston's New Jersey home, Gregg heard a servant state that the missing
millionaire had not returned there. Nor had Cranston been heard from at the
Cobalt Club.
      "At the Cobalt Club?" Gregg faked his query. "Thank you." Replacing the
telephone on its stand, he coolly lied to Howard: "They have heard from
Cranston at the Cobalt Club. Once in the air, I suppose he found the return
flight to Newark too short and trivial."
      Howard nodded at the logical remark. He gave a relieved sigh, then said
to
Gregg:
      "Since Cranston will probably see Philip tonight you can depend upon
hearing from him tomorrow. If Philip's terms concur with mine, you can draw up
the final agreements for our signatures."
      Gregg repressed a shrewd glance of triumph. He had handled the Cranston
matter smoothly. This was the time to follow up that neat bit of work.
      "I have brought the agreements," said Gregg, producing a bundle of
typewritten papers. "They allow for all that you have asked; possibly more. I
understand" - Gregg was cautious, for he was repeating snatches from Wydell's
notes and did not want the conversation to revert to the chemist's death -
"that you expect us to manufacture humane compounds, along with the harmful
gases that our present contracts call for.
      "Very well, Howard" - Gregg passed the papers to his brother - "we shall
do so. You've given me a grand idea! Why shouldn't chemicals for gas masks,
compounds to neutralize poisons, be in great demand? There will be another war
scare eventually, like the last one. That will be when I shall unload all
these
new products at a profit."
      Looking up from the papers, Howard made severe response:
      "Not at a profit, Gregg!"
      "I don't mean an exorbitant profit," hastened Gregg. "Merely a normal
one,
Howard. Simply to defray costs and storage and bring in the usual interest, in
return for principal invested. After all" - Gregg was up from his chair,
spreading his arms - "you have never tried to interfere in my management of
financial affairs, Howard."
      Chin in hand, Howard seemed to be contemplating the future of Gregg's new
policy, foreseeing that manufacture of the beneficial products would be the
first important step, regardless of what might follow.
      "People don't profiteer nowadays," insisted Gregg. "Our government
contracts are down to the lowest possible margin. That's why we need to
expand.
We have to double the business to stay where we are."
      Howard read the agreements, then summoned Pelton and another servant.
Taking a pen, the eldest Caxter solemnly signed, in triplicate, and handed the
pen to Gregg. Affixing his own signature to the three papers, Gregg turned
them
over to the witnesses.
      There was a blank space for Philip's signature; others for more
witnesses.
Extending his hand, Gregg received Howard's grip, and said:
      "After Philip signs, I'll send your copy here. I thank you, Howard, and
with this understanding, I hope that we shall forget any past disagreements."
      "We never disagreed," said Howard, in a reflective tone. "Our tastes
merely differed, Gregg."
      "You're right, Howard. By the way" - Gregg licked his dry lips - "you
haven't anything in the way of a drink, have you?"
      "Some Madeira," replied Howard. "Pelton can bring it."
      Gregg's face went wry. He never had cared for wine, least of all Madeira.
It was another demonstration of how Gregg's tastes and Howard's varied.
Gathering together the witnessed papers, Gregg said good night, that he would
have to hurry into New York. Whether he was more anxious to see Philip, or
find
a drink, he didn't state.
     From her window, Irene saw Gregg's limousine swing out through the
driveway. Irene had donned slippers and a satin lounging gown. Hilda would
certainly rap after a while, to find out whether or not Irene had gone to
sleep. That would give the girl time to be in bed, attired only in pajamas,
should the housekeeper finally decide to enter.
     Blinking the flashlight, Irene sent a colored signal telling that all
danger, if any, was past. With Gregg's departure, she was sure that nothing
serious could happen here tonight. Unfortunately, Irene did not realize
certain
consequences of Gregg's visit, that The Shadow would have foreseen.
     Gregg's move, plus factors that The Shadow was already encountering in
Manhattan, were capable of carrying crime's strife to any quarter; even to
this
isolated mansion, where all, at last, seemed serene.


    CHAPTER XV

    CRISSCROSSED CRIME

     WATCHERS about the New Tower Apartments were not particularly conspicuous
when The Shadow arrived there early in the evening, but they were shifting
posts when he saw them. From all appearances, fresh members of some mob were
relieving others of the crew.
     One man, The Shadow noticed, had come from a drugstore, where he had
probably made a telephone call. He buzzed something to another, then the two
parted. After that, the watchers lurked very much in the background.
     They had not identified The Shadow. That was certain, for two reasons.
First, they had been on the move when he approached; second, they could not
possibly have recognized him. He was wearing the bulky blue-gray uniform of
the
apartment-house doorman, with the large visor of a fancy cap pulled well down
over his eyes.
     Like the thugs who watched the place, the doormen worked in shifts, and
their uniforms consisted only of the big coats, which they wore over ordinary
blue serge suits. If one didn't show up at the right time - which wasn't
unusual, as they worked on a tip basis only - the man on duty usually went to
eat without waiting; then came back later and stayed around awhile.
     Tonight, one doorman had gone to his favorite eating place, a combination
lunch and bar. While there, he had received a note from his relief, a message
sent by a taxi driver. It said that the other man was on the job, and that his
friend, the cabby, would be glad to bring back the first doorman's so-called
uniform.
     The taxi driver was Moe. Receiving the coat and hat, he had met The
Shadow
around the corner and had given them to him. Patrolling thugs, used to the
ways
of the New Tower, had not been surprised when they saw a supposed doorman
coming back from supper.
     After a very few minutes on his temporary job, The Shadow saw the
relieving doorman coming from the corner. The fellow had stayed too long in a
poolroom, where the clock had stopped. One of The Shadow's agents had induced
him to stay there, while The Shadow had been making the fake call to the
lunchroom.
     From the doorway, The Shadow gave an impatient gesture, signifying that
the other man had better hurry and take over. Heading inside, he walked past a
lobby clerk, through to a little storeroom near an inside stairway.
     As he removed the doorman's coat, the folds of The Shadow's cloak slid
downward. Pulling his slouch hat from beneath his cloak, The Shadow clamped it
on his head with one hand, while he hung up the coat and cap with the other.
     He was halfway up the stairs, lost in their gloom, when the relief
doorman
arrived and opened a second locker, to take out his own uniform.
     On the fourth floor, where a large party was in progress, The Shadow
bundled his cloak and hat over his arm. In tuxedo attire, wearing the visage
of
Cranston, The Shadow pressed the "up" button of an elevator and rode to the
twenty-second floor. Many of the guests were from this apartment house; the
elevator man didn't bother about any who were taking inside rides.
     On the twenty-second floor, The Shadow again noticed something that he
had
particularly intended to observe, having earlier in the afternoon studied the
floor plans of the New Tower.
     Although there had been only four elevator doors in the lobby, there were
five up here. The reason was that one of the cars was a service elevator and
had its ground-floor entrance away from the lobby.
     Opening to the side alley, that elevator offered a private route to any
floor above; but The Shadow had avoided it for the very good reason that
strolling thugs were keeping special watch on that side entrance.


      THE four top floors of the apartment building were cut off by a heavy
steel door and elevators never went up to them, except by special order, which
had apparently applied in the case of the messenger who had brought the letter
from the real-estate office. Those floors, a small tower in themselves, were
not officially open for occupancy.
      To reach the twenty-sixth floor, The Shadow had to take a dizzy outside
route, up the wall itself; but except for the mental hazard of being high
above
the street, which did not bother The Shadow any more than it would have
worried
a steeplejack, the task was otherwise easy.
      The twenty-second had a ledge wide enough to be a promenade, and each
floor above was set a trifle in, giving a modified pyramid effect. Thus the
climb was actually a series of four ten-foot stages, rendered all the easier
because some architect - for reasons known only to architects - had added
stone
decorations to walls that could be closely admired only with the aid of a
telescope.
      Flattened on the cornice that ran just below the windows of the
twenty-fourth floor, The Shadow began an inspection crawl that was actually
the
most precarious part of his trip. The ledge was narrower than the others; at
the
corners, the wind swept by with the fury of a half-gale.
      Besides, there was the chance that he might be seen from some other
building, when he came to spots that caught the reflection of Manhattan's
glow.
      In New York, reports of anyone hovering voluntarily on such a high brink
could bring anything from police nets to baby blimps, to say nothing of
towering fire ladders, all bent upon rescuing a life.
      A window glowed just past a corner. Peering in, The Shadow saw a bedroom,
which was empty. The window, apparently, was all one piece; a certain dullness
of the pane indicated that it was of shatterproof glass. Windows farther along
looked the same; but between the large ones, The Shadow saw the open window of
a kitchenette.
      It was high and very tiny; probably that was why it alone was ordinary.
The window could supply ventilation to the entire apartment, without affording
a route for the average human. Whoever had left that window unprotected had
probably decided that only a midget would attempt to negotiate it.
     The Shadow happened to know how small a space a human body requires for
passage, provided a scientific procedure would be used. He needed to be above
the window; and that was easily managed, thanks to a ledge that topped the
highest floor.
     Gaining the ledge, The Shadow took a pendulum swing and shoved his feet
straight through the window. Turning as he slid, he took the space edgeways,
his push carrying him past his hips.
     Teetering there, half in, half out, The Shadow gradually added more to
his
lower weight, until gravity drew him farther. His arms were extended, as his
head and shoulders went through; with his hands, he caught the sides of the
window, to stay his speed.
     That enabled another side twist, that landed The Shadow lightly upon his
feet in the kitchenette, with the window about two feet above his head.


     NOTHING more than an alcove, that was dimly lighted by a glow from the
apartment living room, the kitchenette served The Shadow as a suitable nook
from which to make further observation.
     Gliding forward, he saw a portion of the living room, noted a clock upon
a
mantel above a fireplace that contained an electric heater camouflaged as a
log
fire. The clock showed the hour of eight.
     Before The Shadow had advanced more than a few feet, his keen ears caught
a distant clang, that sounded like the closing of an elevator door. There was
a
sudden stir in the living room.
     Reaching the archway that opened from the kitchenette, The Shadow saw
Norman Selwood, risen from a chair, tensely facing a far door.
     A key grated in the lock, turning from the other side. Selwood's hands
went deep into his coat pockets. His back toward The Shadow, the
grizzle-haired
professor was watching the apartment door.
     Shifting slightly to get an angle away from Selwood, The Shadow also
watched. His thin-gloved hand was drawing an automatic from beneath his cloak.
     The door swung inward. In from a dim hallway stepped a man with a drawn
revolver in his fist. Though his face was distorted with fury, his dapper
features were instantly recognizable. The intruder was Louis Emro, the smug
secretary employed by Philip Caxter.
     His snakish eyes fixed upon Selwood, Emro hissed accusing words. Selwood
received them coolly, remaining absolutely motionless, though his figure
seemed
unusually rigid.
     "So you tried a double cross," snarled Emro. "You sneaked the word out,
didn't you, to bring Cardona here? You didn't tell him enough, though, to get
him past the crew outside."
     Linking past events, The Shadow suddenly understood the reason for the
shift of the thuggish watchers outside the apartment house. Some member of the
outfit must have spotted Joe Cardona near the place. Unfortunately, the police
inspector had stayed away from the front door; otherwise The Shadow would have
spied him.
     Cardona, evidently, must have been around before The Shadow arrived in
doorman's disguise. The crook who had telephoned had passed the word that
brought Emro here, to handle matters. Philip's secretary had made a trip up to
Selwood's lofty hide-away by the service elevator.
     "Cardona is in the lobby," sneered Emro, "but that isn't going to mean
that you will see him, Selwood. He'll see you, right enough, but you won't be
in shape to talk! Not after I -"
     A stir from the kitchenette had caught Emro's eyes. His gaze shifting,
the
snaky man saw something that Selwood could not view - a black shape that edged
forward, shoving a huge automatic ahead of it. The burn of The Shadow's eyes
told Emro the rest. A crook of the first water, the fellow was confronted by
the archavenger that all criminals feared.


     WITH a wide lunge, Emro made for the hall. He was swift enough to elude
The Shadow, but not through any laxity on the cloaked invader's part. It was
Selwood who saved Emro.
     Whipping his hand from his pocket, Selwood came out with his
old-fashioned
revolver and took a forward bounce that carried him directly in The Shadow's
path of aim.
     Finger pausing on the trigger, The Shadow followed Selwood to the hall,
through the door that Emro hadn't found time to close. Guns were thundering
when The Shadow reached there. He saw Emro dart away from the elevator,
blazing
another shot as he went.
     Selwood answered it. His bullet nicked Emro as the crook wheeled at the
end of the hallway, against the background of a darkened window. A window that
was quite unlike the solid ones in Selwood's apartment, as Emro immediately
proved.
     Firing a wild shot, Emro again flung himself backward, expecting to
rebound from a solid wall. Selwood clipped him with another bullet; jolting,
Emro's fling became a hurtle. As he hit the windowpane, it crackled. The shot
that The Shadow added proved unnecessary. With the shattering of the window
sash, Emro was gone.
     Foiled in murder, Emro was taking a long plunge to his own doom. Reaching
the window, Selwood saw the man's flipping body take a long bound from the
last
of the steplike cornices. Clearing the wide edge of the twenty-second floor,
Emro was traveling a straightaway course that was to land him, crushed and
shapeless, in the avenue below.
     Thrusting away his automatic, The Shadow clamped one hand upon Selwood's
shoulder, spoke whispered words that the man should have understood. Instead,
Selwood whipped about in the same alarm that he had shown outside the
Beaumont.
     Frantically, he jabbed his gun toward the blackness that loomed upon him;
but on this occasion Selwood, though speedier than before, was quite unable to
pull the trigger.
     The missile that struck with triphammer speed was The Shadow's gloved
fist, its target Selwood's jaw. The revolver clattered to the floor as Selwood
flattened. Scooping up the weapon, The Shadow hoisted Selwood and shoved him
into the open elevator, where the man settled groggily.
     Another door slashed open as The Shadow was closing his. The Shadow
caught
a quick glimpse of Joe Cardona, heard the inspector's angry shout as the
elevator door went tight. The car was speeding downward; Cardona, back in his
own elevator, was beginning a similar descent, not realizing that the outlets
would be different.
     At the bottom floor, The Shadow hauled Selwood to his feet, started him
out into the alley. Men sprang suddenly in sight; they were met by The
Shadow's
challenging laugh, the tonguing fire of the automatic that he again had drawn.
     Crooks scattered. Other shots burst from the alley's end. Cardona had
summoned a squad, and his men had heard the fire. Amid the sudden rout of the
surprised thugs, The Shadow dragged Selwood to the side street and pushed him
into Moe's waiting cab.
      As they rode away, leaving the battle to the police, The Shadow got in
touch with Burbank, his contact man, by short-wave radio. Over the air came
two
recent reports: one from Clyde Burke, telling of Gregg Caxter's departure from
the plant; the other, from Harry Vincent, mentioning the signals that Irene
Selwood had flashed.
      Ordering Moe to drive to the Hotel Beaumont, The Shadow gripped Selwood's
shoulders and shook them. Fully aroused, Selwood nodded; he understood, at
last, that The Shadow was a friend. Then The Shadow's whisper was telling
facts
which amazed his lone listener; voicing details which Selwood thought that he,
alone, had known.
      Selwood was talking eagerly, soon afterward. This conference, hasty
though
it was, marked the beginning of an alliance that The Shadow had long desired.
      For The Shadow, in his efforts to offset the harm done to his plans, was
depending upon Norman Selwood as a vital factor in the rapid moves that lay
ahead.


     CHAPTER XVI

     DEATH DISCOVERED

      GREGG CAXTER had come into New York much more rapidly than The Shadow
supposed. That was due to Gregg's capable chauffeur, who had whisked the car
across a short cut to the George Washington Bridge, averaging a mile a minute
over a distance of less than thirty miles.
      Thanks to favorable traffic lights, the limousine had maintained a swift
pace southward in Manhattan; and swinging through Central Park, the chauffeur
had violated speed laws, confident that Gregg's importance would lead to no
more than a rebuke from any traffic cop who might stop the car.
      No such incident had occurred, with the result that Gregg Caxter had
reached the Hotel Beaumont a few minutes after eight o'clock and was, at
present, seated with his brother Philip in the room that the latter used as an
office.
      Though surprised by Gregg's unexpected visit, Philip extended his brother
a cordial welcome. Apparently noticing Gregg's thirsty look, Philip pressed a
button and ordered a servant to bring whiskey and soda.
      Gregg helped himself to a large dose of the liquor and pressed the siphon
of the soda bottle, to fill the remainder of the glass with charged water.
      "I've been out to see Howard," announced Gregg, briskly, by way of
explaining his visit here. "Had a nice chat with him. Sorry I hadn't sense
enough to drop in to see him before."
      Philip smiled, while he watched Gregg gulp a long drink. He had always
been something of a neutral factor in the rivalry between his brothers.
Visibly, his sympathies had inclined toward Howard rather than Gregg, but that
had been a matter of policy.
      Actually, Philip had a few things in common with both; though not enough
to make him desire the comradeship of either. Regarding them as extreme types,
he could understand why they had never gotten along together.
      "Have another drink," suggested Philip, as Gregg finished the first.
"Then
tell me how you made out."
      Gregg measured a drink, then cocked his head as he was pressing the soda
siphon. He had a chance to dart a quick look at Philip, while asking:
      "You tell me something first, Phil. Did a chap named Lamont Cranston try
to get in touch with you last night?"
     "No. Why?"
     "Well, he was supposed to see you, after talking to Howard. However, I
don't think it's important any longer."
     Philip rang for the servant, while Gregg, slouched deep in a chair, was
sipping his second drink slowly, keeping the glass on a convenient level with
his lips.
     The servant appeared. He was a husky fellow, who might have been one of
the cowpunchers from Philip's ranch.
     "Hasn't Emro come back yet?" demanded Philip. "I told him not to stay any
longer than was necessary."
     The servant replied that Emro had not returned. Shrugging, Philip
addressed the servant again:
     "Maybe you would know something about it, Kelman. Did Emro mention a
telephone call from a man named Cranston?"
     "No, sir."
     "All right. You may go." Philip was mixing himself a drink, with very
little whiskey and a large amount of soda. "When Emro comes back, send him in
here right away."


      BY the time Kelman had gone, Gregg was laying papers on Philip's desk.
Pointing triumphantly to the signatures, Gregg eased back into his chair and
continued sipping his drink. He waited for Philip's comments. They came.
      "So Howard came through in great style," declared Philip. "I'll bet that
surprised you, Gregg."
      "Why should it?" returned Gregg. "I gave him everything he wanted, and
put
a fence around it, too."
      "Yes. Perhaps that is just the trouble. Maybe you gave him too much."
      Gregg came angrily to his feet. Philip sat unperturbed; the smile that
showed on his handsome face was one of shrewdness. Matched by his own tactics,
Gregg curbed his sudden temper. Gulping what was left in his glass, he began
to
fill it again, in order to get new sidelong glances at Philip.
      "You will want me to sign, too," stated Philip, "but I can't. I know that
I practically agreed to do whatever Howard did, but this thing has to be
ironclad. Your part of the contract is so heavy that you'll find a way to dump
it overboard. By claiming that you have gone through with it to the best of
your ability, you'll have us all wound up in legal technicalities, which will
result in your getting everything. Howard and I will be out in the cold!"
      Gregg shook his head over the top of his glass. "Howard didn't see it
that
way."
      "He wouldn't," returned Philip. "Howard has lost all contact with the
outside world. He lives alone, and never invites guests to his place."
      "Don't be so sure of that," Gregg's eyes gleamed shrewdly, as he saw a
chance to win a point. "Howard is much more sociable than you realize. He is
entertaining a house guest at present."
      "Whom? Some old fossil who likes to play chess?"
      "No." Gregg toyed with his drink; then: "I didn't meet the guest," he
admitted. "But I knew there was one, because Howard was all dressed up in a
tuxedo, with a flower in his lapel. A man doesn't go to all that ceremony when
he dines alone."
      "Howard might."
      "Not in this case, Phil. I probably would have met the guest, but she
happened to be a trifle ill."
      "She?"
      Gregg nodded.
      "My chauffeur was outside," he related, "and he chatted with some fellow
who arrived in a rattletrap car from Pennbury. The car had come for a woman
who
works for Howard as a housekeeper. When the housekeeper came out, my chauffeur
heard her say -"
      Gregg paused, lifted his glass a few inches and took a long swallow. He
had aroused Philip's interest and wanted to keep it at a high pitch. During
that interval, Philip was staring so intensely that he failed to notice a
slight change in the room.
      Streaky blackness was edging in along the floor. It came from the door to
the connecting office, a door which had opened silently under the pressure of
a
skillful hand. The Shadow had arrived, alone, to look in upon impending
events.
      As yet, however, he did not suppose that Gregg had arrived. Away from The
Shadow's range of vision, Gregg did not reveal his presence until he resumed
his statement:
      "The housekeeper said that she had to stay and see that the young lady
was
comfortably in bed, because the young lady had either a chill or a fever.
While
we were coming into town, my chauffeur told me what he had heard. He learned
the girl's name, too, because the fellow that drove the rattletrap mentioned
it. Her name" - Gregg paused - "her name was... was Miss... Miss Sel -"


     THE sentence was not completed. Wavering dizzily, Gregg Caxter pitched
forward; his glass, half emptied, flipped from his hand, broke as it struck
Philip's desk and splashed its contents over the triplicate agreements.
     When Gregg hit the floor, he coiled there under the steady gaze of
Philip,
who was leaning across the desk. The Shadow had shifted closer in, beside the
filing cabinets, and would have been in plain view had Philip looked in his
direction.
     Instead, Philip swung out from behind the desk, stepped to the door that
led to the living room, opened it and shouted for Kelman.
     Utterly motionless, Gregg's figure was absurdly twisted in position - a
fact which definitely proclaimed that The Shadow had arrived too late.
Whatever
the cause of Gregg's fate, it had struck, and could not be remedied. But
Philip
seemed to take a more casual view of the matter, when he returned with Kelman.
     Drawn farther into cover, an automatic in his hand, The Shadow heard
Philip tell the servant:
     "My brother took too many drinks. He's passed out. He needs air, so let's
get him to it."
     The servant suggested opening the French windows. Philip objected.
     "We'd better get him downstairs," he decided. "His car is somewhere
about,
and his chauffeur can take care of him. Mr. Gregg hasn't eaten dinner, that's
why the drinks hit him so suddenly. I'm going downstairs anyway, because I
have
to start on a trip, right away. Come! There's no time to waste."
     Though Philip was raising heavily on his side, Kelman noted a deadness to
Gregg's weight as they tried to lift the body. Panting, the servant spoke in
awed tone:
     "He's dead, Mr. Caxter! I'm... I'm sure of it!"
     "Don't be squeamish, Kelman!" snapped Philip. "Keep steady and curb your
imagination!"
     "But if he is dead -"
     "If he is dead, it's an accident. All the more reason to get him out of
here. I can send you along in the car with Mr. Gregg's chauffeur. Mr. Gregg
ought to be taken to his own physician. Maybe he has had attacks like this
before."
      Kelman was balking. Philip knifed the words: "You'll see me through with
this, or -"
      If the statement had started as a threat, Philip did not complete it. The
sound of a rapid knock drifted through from the door to the living room.
Letting Gregg's body thump the floor, Philip shoved the servant toward the
doorway.
      "It's Emro," he told the shaky servant. "Go and let him in. He has more
nerve than you have, Kelman. Maybe when you see how well he helps me, you will
wake up to yourself."
      Confident that his secretary had returned, Philip stepped behind the desk
and finished the contents of his own glass. His hands were nervous, though,
when he lighted a cigarette. Evidently, Philip was calculating rapidly, making
quick plans to offset this unexpected episode.
      Then, his cigarette lighter still flaming in his hand, Philip stiffened
at
the sound of a sudden commotion. Men were coming through the living room,
pushing Kelman from their path. The first to enter Philip's office was a
swarthy man of stocky build, who gripped a stubnosed revolver in his fist.
      Recognizing Inspector Joe Cardona, Philip Caxter clutched the corners of
his desk. For a moment, his eyes were frantic, seeking some mode of escape. He
didn't note The Shadow during that wild glimpse about the room, for two
members
of Cardona's squad poked into sight, grasping revolvers that fascinated
Philip's
gaze.
      Lowering his own gun, Cardona stooped beside Gregg's body. In exactly
seven seconds he learned all he needed to know. Lifting his head, Cardona gave
a nod to his men, to signify that Gregg Caxter was dead. Then Joe's icy gaze
fastened upon Philip, whose own face went stony.
      Death lay discovered by the law. Philip Caxter, trapped on his own
premises, was about to be accused of a crime that, to Joe Cardona, had every
sign of murder!


     CHAPTER XVII

     PHILIP'S FLIGHT

      WHATEVER his opinions, Joe Cardona had a habit of keeping them to himself
when occasion so demanded. Not only was Joe poker-faced, but he liked to hold
his cards close to his chest. This was a time when Cardona felt that he held
many trumps, but he wasn't going to play them too fast.
      The more he could build against Philip, the stronger would be his
accusation. There were reasons, too, why it was not wise to jump matters.
Philip Caxter was wealthy and prominent, not the type of man who would
ordinarily go into crime. To assert that he had killed a man, particularly his
own brother, would produce nothing but contemptuous denials.
      Mention of a few other details might, however, weaken Philip's position.
To get to those preliminaries, Cardona told his men to pocket their guns.
Then,
almost affably, Joe remarked:
      "Sorry about this, Mr. Caxter. It looks like your brother has turned in
his checks. While we're getting the doctor here, you might as well tell me
what
happened."
      Steadily, Philip gave the details and made them remarkably brief. Gregg,
he said, had come to call on him, and had collapsed during a most friendly
chat, after a few drinks.
      Cardona eyed the bottles on Philip's desk. With a depreciating shake of
his head, Philip declared:
      "Nothing wrong with those, inspector. In fact" - he raised one hand and
pointed - "that glass was mine. Probably Gregg wasn't in good physical shape;
but I didn't know it."
      "He looked healthy to me," commented Cardona, "when he was talking to the
police commissioner the other day. How many drinks did he have?"
      "Three," replied Philip, "or rather, two and a half. I had one, but I
think" - his eyes met Cardona's steadily - "that I would like another. Do you
object?"
      "No, no. Go right ahead."
      Philip mixed himself a drink and began to swallow it. There was still
some
whiskey in one bottle, soda in the other, so Cardona removed them from the
desk,
to serve as exhibits later. Joe was somewhat puzzled by Philip's
demonstration,
for it apparently ended the chance that Gregg had been poisoned.
      Still, Cardona was thinking in terms that might include the seemingly
impossible. He was right in the middle of a situation that Commissioner Weston
had once begun to broach, but had later desisted. The death of Gregg Caxter
was
making Cardona recall such cases as those of Tyburn and Wydell.
      Not only they, but two before them, had run into trouble after visiting
Philip Caxter. The other two - Payson and Lloyd - had disappeared; but Tyburn
and Wydell had died. Maybe the same had been intended for Gregg - death, after
leaving here. But this time, the final event had occurred during the visit
itself.


     CARDONA was wondering what would have happened if Gregg had taken only
two
drinks, instead of three. Perhaps that would have worked out better for
Philip,
as it might have caused Gregg to succumb farther along the route.
     Joe wondered, too, if Philip would ever have admitted that his brother
Gregg had been here. He had not dodged the question with the others, because
it
had been known that they made him a visit.
     Deciding to sound Philip out, Joe put the question: "Did a man named
Cranston come here last night? Lamont Cranston?"
     "No," replied Philip. "An odd thing, inspector - Gregg asked me that same
question."
     Cardona was not surprised. Echoes of the directors' meeting at the Caxter
plant had reached Commissioner Weston. He knew that Cranston had set out as
Gregg's emissary. Today, Weston had been annoyed because Cranston had not
called him at the Cobalt Club regarding a dinner engagement for the coming
Saturday.
     "If you are thinking," said Philip, suddenly, "that people have a way of
disappearing, or dying, after they have called on me, I agree that it is very
curious. There was one man that I sometimes wanted to ask about that matter,
but, unfortunately, I never got around to it."
     "One man?" queried Cardona. "Who was he?"
     "My brother Gregg," replied Philip, quietly. "Apparently, one of his
little schemes boomeranged. With his death, it may be that the others will
always remain a riddle."
     Cardona had a comeback to that one: namely, that Gregg would have had no
point in murdering himself, whatever peculiar motive might have influenced him
with the others. But Cardona did not spring that argument. He had a better
idea
in mind. Looking about, Joe asked:
      "Where's that secretary of yours - that chap Emro?"
      "He went out a while ago," replied Philip, "to buy some magazines. He
should have returned by this time."
      "Sure he didn't go to talk to somebody?"
      "He could have. In fact, Emro happens to be well acquainted with one of
the manicurists here in the hotel."
      "I don't mean a dame. I mean, could he have gone to talk business, on
your
account. He handles a lot of things like that for you, doesn't he?"
      Philip began to nod a slow admission, then steadied his gaze on Cardona.
The inspector guessed what had flashed to Philip's mind. For the first time,
Philip was beginning to wonder how Cardona had arrived here at such an
unexpected moment.
      "Did you ever hear" - Cardona was emphasizing every word - "of a man
named
Norman Selwood?"
      Philip's lips came open, but he managed to suppress the ejaculation that
he was about to voice. Then, leaning forward with intent expression, he asked
quickly:
      "Where is Selwood? What has happened to him?"
      "Don't worry," retorted Cardona. "Emro didn't get him. It was Selwood who
bagged Emro, then got away from that trick apartment that could only be opened
from the outside. Sure, Emro's mob was around the place, but my men were
there,
too, and we cleaned them up!
      "There wasn't much left of Emro. He took a nose dive all the way to the
street. But we found stuff in his pockets that told us who he was. This time,
the mobbies talked, because they couldn't get out of it. They'd been taking
orders straight from here, through Emro!
      "Just the way a lot of others did, I guess; like the house dick, Denbry.
So I came right over here, to ask you all about it. What do I find" - Cardona
swept his hand toward Gregg's body - "but another souvenir! Two jobs tonight,
both at the same time - so you sent Emro on one, and handled the other
yourself!"


      CARDONA'S hand was going to his pocket to bring out the gun, but Joe
didn't hurry the move, because Philip had again become rigid, his eyes staring
almost blankly. From Philip's lips came a question, almost mechanically:
      "Where did Selwood go?"
      "You'll have to ask him," returned Cardona. "He made a nice getaway, more
power to him. Funny, how much a nervy guy can do when he gets started. He must
have shook his gun right in the faces of those rats -"
      Without realizing it, Cardona was giving Philip a sudden inspiration. As
Joe's voice broke off, there was a clatter from the desk drawer; Philip's
hand,
with a sudden dip, had yanked out a revolver.
      Spinning out from behind the desk, Philip covered Joe and the two
detectives with a sweep of the gun muzzle before any of them, even Joe, could
complete a draw.
      "Stay where you are! I warn you!"
      Philip was wheeling toward the filing cabinets. Cardona made a side
shift;
a gun spoke, muffled, from the inspector's pocket. The shot was too hasty; it
merely burned a pathway through the cloth of Joe's best gray suit. But it
threatened to start real damage. Cardona hadn't heeded the warning that Philip
fully meant.
      Just past the filing cabinet, Philip jabbed a return fire. Cardona was
ducking, so were the detectives, as they tried to bring their guns into play.
Intent upon escape at any cost, Philip's next shots would have been delivered
with better aim, except for a startling intervention.
     The blackness of the doorway came to life, wrapped Philip in its folds.
Cardona, seeing the form of The Shadow materialize, not only dropped his own
gun but grabbed the aiming hand of a detective and hurled the fellow against
the other headquarters man, to end all chance that either would fire.
     Back into the office reeled two grappling fighters, The Shadow looming
high above Philip. His own gun raised, his opponent's warded aside, The Shadow
seemed ready to deal the sledging blow that would lay Philip prone beside
Gregg's body. The blaze of The Shadow's eyes showed triumph. His task, it
seemed, was as good as accomplished.
     Then came an unexpected turn. Philip gave a twist; the combatants
staggered in the opposite direction, out through the room that connected with
the corridor. Grabbing up his gun, Cardona followed, his men behind him. At
the
outer door, they saw The Shadow send Philip in a headlong dive. Sprawling in
the
corridor, Philip came to his feet and scrambled away.
     Though victory seemed The Shadow's, the cloaked fighter did not follow it
up. He was wavering groggily as Cardona and the others reached him. In dazed
fashion, he lunged among them, apparently mistaking them for other enemies.
His
gun hand was swinging flabbily, as the three pushed him aside and took up the
pursuit themselves.
     Philip was gone when they reached the elevators, for Cardona had kept a
car there, with an operator in attendance, and Philip had taken it over.
     That was plausible enough, but there was real mystery in the fact that
The
Shadow had vanished when Cardona bounded back into the office, to make a phone
call to the lobby. Joe was rather amazed, when he looked about and saw no sign
of The Shadow.
     Recuperating almost as soon as the pursuers had passed him, The Shadow
had
gone out by the window route. Only a few minutes later, he was leaving the
side
door that opened to the street. There, he saw the taillights of a cab, just as
they twisted past a corner.
     That taxi was carrying Philip Caxter. Wanted for the murder of his
brother
Gregg, Philip was getting away before the alarm was given. He was off to a
destination that The Shadow could have named. Stepping into another cab, The
Shadow told the driver to take him to Newark Airport.
     One being, alone, could intercept Philip Caxter before he reached his
goal. The laugh that whispered from the interior of the airport-bound cab was
issued by the personage himself.
     Strange, sinister, was that mirth - a repressed taunt from the lips of
one
who had solved crime's riddle: The Shadow!


    CHAPTER XVIII

    THE LAST REFUGE

      PHILIP CAXTER gazed furtively from his big car, as he parked it near the
lonely mansion where his brother Howard lived. He had made a quick trip to
Pennbury, after leaving the taxi at a garage where he kept his own cars. He
had
closed the trail well enough to get away from Manhattan, and the rest had been
easy.
      It was a little after ten o'clock; only a few dim lights showed from the
windows of the great house. What Philip sought, however, were tokens of any
new
arrivals. A while ago, he had fancied that he heard the steady humming of a
motor, but that had ended before he reached Howard's estate.
      At present, all was silent, with clouds gathered across the moonlight.
Leaving his car, Philip stumbled toward the mansion, then brought up suddenly,
his hand gripping his pocketed gun, as a sweeping flashlight shafted toward
him.
      A minute later, he was talking to the watchman, who made a long
patrolling
trip about the house. The fellow was just finishing his inspection; upon
learning who Philip was, he conducted the visitor to the front door.
      Admitted to the house, Philip saw Howard coming from the library. Howard
had discarded his tuxedo for a lounging jacket; he was carrying an opened
book,
that had only a few pages left to read.
      Despite his interest in the book, he had been attracted to the front door
by the unusual occurrence of a ring as late as ten o'clock.
      "Philip, my boy!" Howard beamed, as he tossed the book to a chair and
advanced with outstretched hand. "It's good to see you! But what has brought
you here tonight? I thought you would be with Gregg."
      "I want to see Irene," explained Philip, seriously. "I must see her,
Howard!"
      Howard discarded the reading glasses over which he had been peering.
      "You've talked to her father?" he asked. "He told you that it would be
all
right to come here?"
      "No. It was Gregg who told me -"
      Howard interrupted with a grip on Philip's arm.
      "Not Gregg!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "I did my best to keep him from
learning, because Irene's father said -"
      "It's all right, Howard," interposed Philip. "Don't' worry. I'll tell you
everything, later. But I must see Irene."
      Nodding, Howard promptly led the way upstairs. He tapped several times at
Irene's door, before the girl opened it. Still wearing slippers and satin
lounging gown, Irene had been dozing in the chair by the window.
      She looked as if she had just come from bed, for she was adjusting the
collar of the gown above her low-necked pajama jacket. Irene blinked twice,
then exclaimed:
      "Philip!"
      She made a soft, silky bundle of loveliness as she nestled in Philip's
arms. Her eyes were shining as she kissed him, and Philip, his worried
expression gone, returned the kisses ardently. Smiling benignly, Howard
nodded.
      "I thought so," he said. "Irene said that you two had met; that she liked
you, Philip. Liked you very much, she said, which I knew might mean she loved
you."
      Irene's eyes were steady on Philip's.
      "You're troubled," said the girl. "You're not going away?"
      "No, indeed," interposed Philip. "Not unless you go with me, Irene. But,
first, there is much that I must tell you."
      Howard's gaze became serious.
      "Irene was ill this evening. Perhaps she does not feel well enough to
talk."
      "I'm feeling much, much better!" expressed Irene. "Really, it was just a
headache, that went away after I had slept."
      Howard became reassured. He drew Philip by the arm.
      "Suppose we go down to my study," suggested Howard. "Irene can dress,
then
join us there."


      THEY were starting along the hallway, when Irene stopped suddenly inside
her doorway. She didn't want to miss a conference that she felt sure would be
important; and she would have to, if she took time to dress. She couldn't wear
those ripped clothes on the chair, and it would take too long to assemble
others.
      Why, of all nights, had she chosen this one for a tantrum! She hated her
own picture of herself, unclothed and furious, pounding away at pillows. She
had never acted that way before, and she was sure she would never repeat that
performance. However, that was not helping her present dilemma.
      Struck with a sudden idea, Irene hurried out into the hall and overtook
Howard and Philip.
      "I'll come downstairs as I am," she said. "Really, I'm wearing plenty" -
she spread her lounging gown, showing the pajamas, and met Howard's troubled
expression with a smile - "and the study is quite warm. I'm so glad to see
you,
dear" - Irene locked her arm in Philip's - "that I don't want to miss a minute
with you!"
      This time, it was Philip's face that changed. He had just begun to
appreciate the idea of a short talk with Howard before Irene could join them.
Nevertheless, Philip managed to shift back to his former resolve: that of
letting Irene know everything that had happened.
      When they reached the study, Philip accepted a glass of the Madeira that
Gregg had rejected. Warmed by a few sips of the wine, he faced Howard and
said:
      "Gregg is dead."
      Howard couldn't seem to believe it, while Irene also showed a startled
amazement. Just as the girl was groping for an explanation of such tragedy,
Howard expressed one.
      "An accident?" he inquired, slowly. "While driving into New York?"
      "No." Philip was resolved to tell the worst. "He dropped dead in my suite
at the Beaumont. The police came there and blamed me for it. I broke away
before they arrested me. That's how I happen to be here."
      The way both listeners took the news was a source of great relief to
Philip. Howard folded his arms, sat pondering, his face quite sympathetic.
Irene reached from her deep chair, pressed Philip's dangling hand between her
own. Philip's head turned from the high cushion where it rested, his weary
eyes
and murmuring lips expressing thanks for the comfort the girl gave him.
      "All this can be straightened, Philip," said Howard, finally, his very
tone a reassurance. "No one could conceivably believe that you would harm
Gregg. You saw him die?"
      Philip nodded.
      "The ordeal unnerved you, then," affirmed Howard. "You became excited, as
anyone would, under the circumstances. You must rest here where it is quiet,
and let me handle matters."
      "You mean," asked Philip, morosely, "that you will call the police?"
      "Not tonight," returned Howard. "I shall call my attorney - or yours, if
you prefer. Let the police wait awhile, then find you here. It is not a crime
for a man to visit his brother; nor for his brother to receive him."
      "That doesn't always apply," returned Philip, ruefully. "It seems to have
been a crime on my part, to receive Gregg. But I know this." His tone was
suddenly sharp. "If crime it was, Gregg caused it by visiting me!"



     HOWARD looked puzzled. Irene, despite the fear that she had built
regarding Gregg, shared Howard's perplexity.
     "I know what you think," said Philip. "The same as the police, you can't
see why a man would commit a crime against himself. But suppose Gregg had come
there to murder me -"
     "He didn't try to kill me," put in Howard.
     "Because you signed the agreements," explained Philip. "I wouldn't. I
thought there was a catch to them. Suppose Gregg had dropped something in a
glass - some poison expecting me to drink from it. Suppose that he had taken
the wrong glass -"
     Howard was shaking his head.
     "Suppose, then, that he was up against it," argued Philip. "That he
planned suicide and was mean enough to want to blame his death on me. Again,
you have to remember that I wouldn't sign, and that Gregg probably knew it."
     "Your theories are all right, Philip," said Howard, reproval in his tone.
"But remember; Gregg was our brother. I could not consider him a murderer; nor
even a willing suicide. No more than I could believe that you would perform
such deeds."
     "What about those deaths at the plant?" demanded Philip. "There was
something in back of those, Howard."
     "Yes!" It was Irene who rallied to Philip. "There must have been! My
father suspected something; and dad - well, he just isn't a man who will
accept
absurd theories -"
     Irene was interrupted, not by either of the listeners but by a clatter of
the door that connected with the tropical garden. Swinging in, that door
disclosed a sight that brought Philip Caxter to his feet. His hand went for
his
gun - the worst move that he could have made. He was covered by an array of
weapons: a revolver, a shotgun and a rifle.
     Irene's quick wit prevented tragedy. She flung herself at Philip,
protecting his body with her own. She caught his hand, almost by accident, for
she didn't realize that he was drawing a revolver. Her real purpose was to
block any bullets that the invaders fired. Seeing that, two of them dropped
their weapons, sprang across the room and seized Philip.
     Howard was helping them, for he saw their badges and knew it was the only
sensible thing to do. But Irene, determined to protect the man she loved,
struggled on. When they caught her, she twisted desperately; when her lounging
gown tore, she twisted from it. Then someone caught her about the arms and
settled her in a chair.
     Seeing that Philip had subsided, Irene quieted. A man who wore a
sheriff's
badge politely handed her the remnants of her lounging gown, but Irene shook
her
head. The garment was ruined, and of no use. This was no formal affair, and
she
considered her pajamas ample.
     So did the sheriff. He laid the torn dressing gown on a table and picked
up his rifle, while his deputy was regaining the shotgun. The man who had
entered with a revolver still held the weapon. Irene remembered that she had
seen him once before, though she had only glimpsed him at the time.
     He was Inspector Joe Cardona.


     "WE traced you here, Caxter," announced Cardona, facing the chair where
Philip sat huddled. "You left a trail as wide as the New Jersey highway that
we
drove over getting here. Those agreements, signed by your brother Howard, made
us figure you'd come here."
     Philip grunted a word that sounded like "clever."
     "We picked them off your desk," added Joe, "and we called the sheriff out
here. Technically, he's making the arrest. Maybe you'll fight extradition and
all that, but it won't do you any good. I got a telephone call, after I
reached
Pennbury. They've found out how you murdered your brother Gregg!"
     Philip's handsome face looked strained. Irene thought his expression
quizzical, but Cardona considered it to be a trapped criminal's gaze.
     "Carbon monoxide in the seltzer charger," added Cardona. "Gregg sniffed a
load of it, and it got him. Not enough to bother anybody that drank it; the
stuff would go down like ordinary soda. But the medical examiner was smart
enough to think of monoxide poison.
     "As smart as you were, Caxter, when you charged that soda with a poison
gas, instead of the usual carbon dioxide. Thought you'd fooled me when you
took
a drink yourself but you missed out. Here, sheriff" - Joe was hauling Philip
to
his feet - "slap those bracelets on him. He's your man!"
     Irene didn't agree. If Philip was anyone's man, he was hers. She flung
herself up from the chair, ready to start a new struggle, when she was halted
by a single word, spoken in a voice she recognized.
     "Wait!"
     The tone came from the doorway. Turning with the others, Irene saw a man
whose importance in this case had been temporarily forgotten.
     The arrival was the girl's father, Norman Selwood!


     CHAPTER XIX

     CRIME'S ANSWER

      THERE was no need for Norman Selwood to introduce himself to the few
persons who did not know him. With a happy cry, Irene reached him. Burying her
soft form in his arms, the girl began to sob on Selwood's shoulder.
      Much though she loved Philip, Irene would not have displayed tears in his
presence while he was dependent solely upon her help.
      But with her father's arrival, the burden was gone. Irene knew that
Norman
Selwood could supply the missing facts that she had so vainly sought to guess.
For a moment, she thought that no one else could possibly have filled in this
emergency. Then she remembered one other: The Shadow.
      This wasn't the time to ask her father regarding The Shadow. Her father
was here to save Philip. Irene knew it, as surely as if Norman Selwood had
already spoken the details. Shaking her head, the girl flicked away the tears;
smiling, she nodded as her father pointed her back to the chair that she had
left.
      Howard Caxter had advanced. His hand was extended to his old tutor.
Selwood received it, then turned to the others, as Howard told him who they
were. Joe Cardona was particularly impressed by the new visitor.
      "We've been looking for you, Mr. Selwood," he said. "I'm plenty willing
to
listen to whatever you have to say, particularly" - he glanced toward Philip,
who was clamped in the handcuffs - "since the sheriff has got the prisoner so
he won't make any trouble."
      "Sit down, gentlemen," invited Howard Caxter. "We can discuss this matter
quietly - with some wine, if you wish it. I assure you" - his tone was dry -
"that my Madeira contains no poisonous substance such as carbon monoxide."
      Irene took courage from Howard's tone. She felt that he didn't believe
the
charge that Cardona had made against Philip. She transferred her smile to
Philip, who managed to return it. Then Irene looked toward her father.
      Norman Selwood, alone, had remained standing, while the others had
settled
in cushioned chairs. He seemed to have retained his professor's attitude, and
looked as though ready to address a class. Howard Caxter, seated in an obscure
chair beyond the table, chuckled as he addressed Selwood:
     "You are as alert as ever, Norman! Come; be seated. Relax, like the rest
of us. This is all quite informal."
     Selwood finally took the chair that stood near him, but there was
something stolid about his manner that held the closed room in a hush. Howard
was leaning back, his face wreathed in a smile; Philip, though serious, had
raised his head in an intent gaze.
     Cardona, from his chair, was keeping a watchful eye on the prisoner,
forgotten by the gawking sheriff and the deputy, who were watching Selwood.
     Irene had doubled her knees up in the chair, lacing her hands gracefully
in front of them. Philip should have looked her way at that moment, for the
girl was more beautiful than ever.
     The pink hue of her silk pajamas was as delicate as the shade of the tea
roses that she had worn at dinner; but that color could not match the soft
flush of the smooth neck that emerged above, or the lovely shoulder that
peeped
from the slightly tilted fringe of the pajama jacket.
     Irene's face had color, her eyes a sparkle. She had fought in Philip's
behalf, and was looking forward to his vindication. Her entire manner showed
it; her lips, when they pursed slightly, were as eager as her eyes. Her hair,
rumpled across her forehead, added a brown glow to the light that caught it,
and with every tilt of her head, stray locks wavered delightfully.
     "My story is a brief one," announced Norman Selwood, in a steady voice.
"From the moment that I read of death at the Caxter Chemical Works, I
suspected
foul play; the motive behind it, a desire for power. I resolved to go to
Philip
Caxter and tell him of my suspicions."
     "Which you did," blurted Philip. "And you were blaming it on Gregg, when
-"
     "One moment, Philip," inserted Selwood, severely: "You interrupted me
that
other night, and thereby failed to understand my inferences. I was cut short
by
the delivery of a message which I took to be a telegram; otherwise, I would
have completed my story at that time.
     "The telegram" - Selwood drew a yellow sheet from his pocket - "is
obviously a fake, although I did not realize it at the time. It was prepared,
in all probability, by Philip's secretary, Emro. Though it never came across
the wire" - Irene noted a grimness to her father's tone - "the message,
nevertheless, was real, and prepared because of an actual order.
     "The pretended telegram threatened a terrible consequence, unless I went
voluntarily to an apartment that was practically a prison and remained there.
Tonight, Emro supposed that I had managed to communicate with the police. He
came there to murder me. Having wounded him and seen him plunge through the
hallway window, I no longer stayed there."
     Rising from his chair, Selwood handed the telegram to Cardona, who read
it. With each word, Joe's eyes appeared to open wider.
     "This is from Howard Caxter!" exclaimed Cardona. "It says that he is
holding your daughter as a hostage; that she will remain well and happy,
provided you make no false step."
     Stepping from his own chair, Howard took the yellow sheet and studied it
in the light.
     "Precisely as Norman said," he declared. "The telegram is a fake!"
     "Yes and no," returned Selwood. "It was prepared by Emro, yes. But if you
say that the message is fraudulent, I answer no. Emro prepared it at your
order, Howard!"
     Amid a stunning silence, Irene's slippered feet slid from her chair.
Plucking her father's sleeve, the girl exclaimed:
     "I received a telegram -"
     "Supposedly from me," completed Selwood. "Another of Emro's concoctions,
at the order of his real master, Howard Caxter! That false message brought you
here to be in Howard's power. Not until you were actually on your journey, did
Emro pass the other message to me."
     A hurt look showed on Howard's face.
     "This is fantastic, Norman!" he said to Selwood. "Surely, by your own
story, you never could have created such fabulous claims. You, a self-admitted
prisoner."
     "I was," conceded Selwood, coldly, "but I am speaking in behalf of a
person who has pieced together the facts. An investigator called The Shadow.
He
reached me before Emro. He it was who brought me through the cordon of crooks
outside. It was The Shadow, too, who sent me here, to place murder where it
rightfully belongs!"


     ONE man was instantly converted to Selwood's view. That man was Joe
Cardona. He was realizing his own blunder of earlier this evening. He
understood, at last, the secret of Selwood's remarkable departure.
     Selwood was face to face with Howard.
     "You wanted power!" denounced Selwood. "You hated Gregg, because he had
usurped your rights as your father's eldest son. Under the veneer of
kindliness
which I, your tutor, gave you, was a desire for evil, that I recognized but
hoped would disappear.
     "You schemed to gain vast power through murder. You disposed of two men,
Payson and Lloyd, who came here after they had seen Philip, to make the world
believe that Philip had somehow disposed of them. When Tyburn and Wydell came
here, you dealt in deeper strategy.
     "You gassed them, Howard, with odorless fumes that would produce an
aftereffect when they came in slight contact with other conditions. In
Tyburn's
case, you prepared him to succumb when he inhaled air that contained the
merest
percentage of hydrogen sulphide.
     "The gas that you gave Wydell weakened him against any atmosphere that
showed compression. You knew that he would have to travel by tube to New
Jersey. Whether by train, or taxi through the Holland Tunnel, did not
particularly matter."
     Howard smiled. To both Philip and Irene, viewing him in a new light, his
expression seemed a smirk.
     "Death gas is not one of my specialties," he said to Selwood. "Since The
Shadow knows everything, he should have told you that I experiment only with
chemicals that neutralize poisons."
     "The Shadow told me," returned Selwood, "that any man who devises ways to
neutralize a poison, must have quantities of that very poison in his
possession
in order to test his experiments."
     Coldly emphatic, Selwood's words gave Howard his first jolt. As the gaunt
man winced, his brother Philip added a denunciation. It was something that
Selwood had reserved for later consideration, but it was all important to
Philip, who gained his conclusion from the things that Selwood had revealed.
     "You killed Gregg, too!" exclaimed Philip. "You dosed him with some gas
containing carbon monoxide. You had Emro put the same gas in my soda chargers.
Only Gregg could suffer from it -"
     "Proof!" roared Howard. "Any of you, all of you, prove these absurdities!
Let The Shadow, whoever he is, offer proof!"
     "The Shadow told me," supplied Selwood, "to mention a man named Lamont
Cranston. You gassed Cranston, too, quite differently from Wydell. The gas
that
Cranston inhaled was supposed to work when he reached a high altitude, for he
was traveling by air.
      "Fortunately, Cranston turned his ship over to a pilot. In it, he sent a
guinea pig that he had brought from Gregg's plant. The guinea pig had inhaled
the same gas. It died on the return trip, as Cranston would have, had he been
piloting his plane."
      In a flash, Howard alone had the answer: Lamont Cranston was The Shadow.
He foresaw that his keen visitor must have learned other facts; which was
true,
for at that moment Selwood supplied the very one that Howard feared.
      "These chairs" - Selwood swept his hand around the circle of
heavy-cushioned seats - "were hitherto loaded with gas, each holding its
special sort. Those cushions are bellows; learning what each of your visitors
intended to do, you placed him in the proper chair. You inhaled gas with the
victim. You, of course, avoided the wrong conditions, afterward. To expose
your
crimes, Howard, we have only to examine the cushions -"


     IN the midst of Selwood's revelation, Howard Caxter made a sideward leap,
away from the throng. He knew that Selwood was speaking for The Shadow; that
once the secret of the chairs had been discovered, all hope of bluff was gone.
     Before a hand could stay him, Howard had reached the rear alcove. His
hand
tugged a cord into sight; ready to pull it, he cackled:
     "Not a move, or all of you will die! Those chairs" - his tone was gleeful
- "all contained gas tonight, mine included! I have only to admit another
vapor, from the laboratory below this room, and death will be instant. There
will not be time for you to reach the door.
     "You think that I shall die with you" - Howard shifted, as he saw the
others draw back, none daring a move - "but you are wrong! I have provided
against that misfortune. Watch!"
     His other hand had found a switch. He pressed it. A panel of thick glass
sliced across the alcove; its dull transparency pronounced it bulletproof.
Through that protecting plate, Howard Caxter surveyed his group of victims as
if they were creatures beneath a microscope.
     They pleased Howard; three in particular. His brother Philip, whom he
detested, next to Gregg. His old tutor, Selwood, whose teachings Howard had
rejected. Irene, so lovely that her life should be plucked, like one of the
many flowers that Howard enjoyed, only because he could destroy them.
     Irene produced the precise color that Howard Caxter wanted for the coming
scene of destruction. Her horror was beautiful, her costume the very sort that
Howard should have requested for this hideous occasion. Silk pajamas, pink
like
the tea roses; the garb seemed part of her.
     No, not quite; for Irene was against the light, and Howard could see her
shape through the filmy attire. He noticed the girl's body tremble. His hand
tightened on the cord. He tugged at it.
     Only the loose end yanked. The portion above was gripped by another hand,
that had reached in above Howard's fist. A gloved hand, its hue as black as
the
murderer's heart. Halted in his attempt to deliver his death, Howard thrust
his
face across his shoulder.
     A pair of burning eyes were close to his.
     The eyes of The Shadow!
    CHAPTER XX

    STROKE OF DOOM

     THROUGHOUT that entire drama, The Shadow had been master of the scene. He
had arrived ahead of Philip Caxter, landing in an autogiro near the woods of
Howard's estate. The Shadow had entered through Irene's open window, at the
moment when she had been meeting Philip in the upstairs hall.
     Taking the catwalk past the dome of the indoor garden, The Shadow had
reached the rear door of Howard's study, situated at the back of the alcove.
During short intervals, he had been absent, but he had witnessed every
important scene.
     When Irene had flung herself in front of Philip, to save him from Cardona
and the sheriff, The Shadow had been ready to intervene; but the girl's grit
had accomplished all that was needed. The Shadow knew the route by which
Howard
Caxter would eventually come, so he had stayed there to met the murderer.
     Met by The Shadow's boring gaze, Howard flattened back against the heavy
plate of glass. He glared at the cord, which he had been unable to pull
because
of The Shadow's higher grasp. Then, to Howard's actual amazement, The Shadow's
gloved hand calmly gave the cord a tug.
     Like a madman, Howard Caxter wheeled about, to view his human specimens.
They were seating themselves in the chairs, Irene like the rest. No gas was
spurting to overwhelm them; with a sudden snarl, Howard realized why.
     The Shadow had gone down to the laboratory, which purposely lacked
workers
tonight, and had cut off the feed pipe. His procedure with the cord had been
his
way of introducing himself to Howard Caxter - this time as The Shadow, not as
Lamont Cranston.
     No one beyond the glass noticed The Shadow tug the cord. Their gaze
attracted by Howard's flounder, they did see the murderer's mouth go wide in
what seemed a silent gasp. To The Shadow, that motion was a terrific shriek.
Thrusting an automatic muzzle between Howard's eyes, The Shadow issued a
fierce-toned command for silence.
     Again, all seemed pantomime to the witnesses. They knew the difference
when the door behind the alcove swung wide, to reveal the massed forms of
Howard's servants, headed by Pelton. The servants had quarters in this wing of
the house; they had heard Howard's maddened call and were here to aid him.
     The Shadow frustrated that attempt in two ways. His hand plucked Howard's
shoulder, whisked the murderer about and flung him, like a human
battering-ram,
against the arriving servants. Slashing his automatic along the wall, The
Shadow
struck the switch that controlled the glass barrier and slid the transparent
wall wide.
     Hurling himself into the midst of Howard's startled servants, The Shadow
sprawled them left and right, while Cardona was hurrying through, followed by
the deputy, Norman Selwood and, last, the sheriff. The reason that the sheriff
came last, was because he was blocked by a very earnest young lady in pajamas,
who insisted upon snatching his key ring from his vest pocket.
     With the sheriff gone, Irene proceeded to unlock Philip's handcuffs. That
done, they both followed the route that the others had taken. They reached the
rear hall, to find Pelton and the servants putting up the last remnants of a
struggle. But The Shadow and Howard Caxter were gone.
     Joe Cardona pointed to the laboratory steps. Philip joined him, as Joe
started downward. The sound of gunfire halted them, but they were close enough
to witness the scene below. The Shadow was shooting it out with Howard Caxter,
in a strange setting.
      KNOWING the laboratory by heart, Howard was taking advantage of every
nook. Whenever he changed position, he grabbed some large piece of equipment,
sent it wheeling in The Shadow's direction. Rubber-tired, those chunky things
of metal were silent juggernauts, intended to crush their prey.
      But The Shadow, a whirling blotch of black amid the glitter of
chromium-plated tanks, was away from every rolling missile before it reached
him.
      He was picking vantage spots, chiefly workbenches, from which he stabbed
an occasional shot toward Howard. Somehow, the murderer evaded those
well-aimed
efforts. Thin, amazing in his agility, Howard Caxter had luck with him; here,
in
his own preserves, he was the most difficult human target that The Shadow had
ever encountered.
      Joe Cardona tried to get in a few shots of his own. His revolver was no
more effective than a cap pistol. He saw Howard bob up behind a bench, spread
both hands, and thrust two squatty rolling tables toward The Shadow. When Joe
fired, Howard was no longer in sight.
      Philip was shouting a warning. It wasn't needed. The Shadow sidestepped
one of the rolling objects, flung a metal stool beneath the wheels of the
other, veering it toward the wall. Whirling away, he dropped behind an
overturned bench, that served him as a barricade against Howard's next shot.
      All through that fray, the flickering flame that Howard termed the "lamp
of progress" was throwing a flickering glow upon the barriers. As colorful as
the glass fragments of a kaleidoscope, the flame had partly aided, partly
betrayed, moves of the two combatants. But there was nothing tricky in the way
the light showed the progress of the rolling table that The Shadow had dodged.
      There was a crash, as the heavy object struck a tall gas tank by the
wall.
The big cylinder overturned; its cap broke free as it hit the floor. That
second
crash was accompanied by a beastlike shriek from Howard Caxter.
      Bounding from his own barricade, the murderer made a desperate attempt to
clear The Shadow's bulwark and slash the cloaked fighter with an empty gun.
Howard thought The Shadow's .45 was exhausted, too; but he was wrong. Flame
spurted from a raised muzzle; jolted in midair, Howard spun to the floor.
      That bullet had merely clipped him. The Shadow wanted the killer alive.
Making a quick dash for the steps, The Shadow thought that Howard would rise
and follow. Instead, the wounded man tried to scramble to the shelter of a
closet; he tripped over one of the objects that he, himself, had flung, and
sprawled a few feet short.
      There was no time for The Shadow to return to him. Meeting Philip and
Cardona, The Shadow was busy driving them upward to safety. Hurled by gloved
hands that swept them hard ahead, they realized what Howard's cry had meant.
That tank had released an inflammable gas; in a very few seconds, it would
fill
the sunken laboratory.
      That could mean nothing but disaster, thanks to the undying flame that
burned openly in the lamp that hung from the laboratory ceiling.
      Philip shouted to Irene and her father. Joe Cardona yelled at the sheriff
and the deputy. For a moment, all were confused; then they caught The Shadow's
hissed command.
      He was pointing to the rear door that led from the house. Driving ahead,
he had it unlocked and was outside, when the surge arrived.
      First, Norman Selwood and his daughter; then Pelton and the other
prisoners, some handcuffed, others staggery, as Cardona, Philip, the sheriff
and his deputy, propelled them out to safety. Ahead, all saw The Shadow's
blinking flashlight, urging them farther from the house.
      ALL were distant when the explosion came. It issued from the wall just
back of the domed indoor garden, a blast that lifted mortar and stone apart
like pasteboard. The wing of the mansion collapsed in one roaring puff; the
main portion of the house was shattered all along its connecting wall.
      New blasts followed; huge masses of green-hot vapors puffed toward the
sky. Whenever those roaring gases jetted in through the shattered wall, they
burst inside the main portion of the house. They must have penetrated
everywhere, there to explode; for, like the deaths that Howard Caxter had
delivered, they came in unexpected spots.
      Irene saw her own room burst with vivid flame; then came a flash from
windows several rooms beyond it. Next, the library shivered with temporary
brilliance. The whole great house was going to absolute ruin.
      Only the front wall stood intact amid the crackle of flames that followed
the explosions. The central spot, where the study had been, was level with the
ground. Beneath the flame that licked the tumbled debris lay the ashes of
Howard Caxter. His mansion had become his pyre.
      From the side lawn, Irene and two companions heard the sound of starting
cars from the front driveway. Cardona and the local officials had promptly
packed the prisoners into two cars and were taking them to the county jail.
Off
from behind the house came another roar. The Shadow's autogiro was in motion.
      Accompanied by Harry Vincent, who had emerged from his hiding place among
the trees, The Shadow was leaving the scene where he had conquered crime.
Above
the garish light from the burning mansion, three people saw the strange,
wingless craft in which The Shadow had made his journey here. It vanished,
finally, into the cloud-streaked sky.
      Odd, that three persons should all imagine the same sound: the shivery
tone of a parting laugh, mirthless, yet triumphant. Yet that strange tone had
often been heard, or imagined, when The Shadow left a scene where he had
brought victory to the side of justice.
      They hoped, those listeners, that The Shadow's weird mockery would be
heard again, by others, as token of completed rescue and vengeance justly
delivered.
      Then, solemnly, the three filed across the lawn, toward Philip's coupe,
the one car which still remained, its position plain by the light from the
flaming mansion. Irene began to hobble, as they reached the driveway. Philip
was alarmed, thinking that she had been hurt. Smilingly, Irene explained that
she had lost a slipper and was hopping on the other foot, to avoid the rough
gavel.
      Tucked between Philip and her father, Irene listened to their solemn
talk,
while the car was rolling along roads that looked strangely peaceful under the
headlights. Together, they were clearing up the final points of Howard
Caxter's
crimes.


     "HE wanted Gregg dead," said Philip, soberly. "The only way that Howard
could manage it, was to bring Gregg to the house. Of course, that meant
killing
all the others -"
     "Which was quite in keeping with his nature," inserted Selwood. "He had a
natural desire to murder. I could tell you many stories of his youthful
cruelty, a habit which I gradually overcame. But we must let those rest with
Howard."
     "But murder could be charged to him," continued Philip, "unless he had
someone to take the blame. No wonder, he tried to pin the crimes on me! If I
had gone to the chair, all of our combined millions would have belonged to
Howard."
      "I thought of that," said Selwood. "But I didn't understand how Howard
had
arranged it, until I learned that Emro was his tool. All Emro had to do was
disappear; then, through him everything would have been traced back to you."
      "The mobs and all," acknowledged Philip, "and though I would have known
that Emro was somewhere in it, I never would have suspected Howard. I even
blamed it on poor Gregg, after he was dead."
      There was silence with that reference. Yet all three knew that the death
of Gregg Caxter had been no great loss to humanity. It was Gregg's own folly,
even trickery, that had carried him beyond the protection of The Shadow.
      Philip's next words were bitter.
      "As the last of the Caxters," he said, "I can't say much for any of the
tribe."
      "I can," declared Irene. "What about you, father?"
      "I agree," said Selwood. "You and I have lost nothing from these
tragedies."
      "Nothing," returned Irene, "except all those new clothes you sent me."
      "But I sent none. Howard must have bought them."
      "Then I am glad that they are gone."
      The car was swinging into a side road. The sway brought Irene snugly
close
to Philip. The girl looked up, said:
      "The Selwood family approves you, Mr. Philip Caxter!"
      Glancing beside him, Philip wondered why he had ever boasted of the stars
that shone in Wyoming. He was looking into two that seemed to shine much
brighter than any he had ever before seen.
      "Tell me," suggested Irene, as she snuggled closer, "just how are you
going to smuggle a young lady in pajamas into the great city of New York?"
      "We'll think about that later," replied Philip. He was swinging into a
road, where a sign pointed to the town of Pennbury. "At present, we are going
to drop in on our friend the sheriff. He will be through with the prisoners by
this time, and we'll ask him to arrange something else."
      "Just what?"
      "A wedding! Don't you think that it would be real fun" - Philip's smile
was one of happy anticipation - "to find yourself being married in -"
      Philip was going to add "pink pajamas"; but didn't, because Irene's
finger
pressed his lips as her soft voice completed:
      "New Jersey!"


     THE END