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THE MAN FROM SCOTLAND YARD

Maxwell Grant

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CHAPTER I. TRAILS CONVERGE

NIGHT-THICKENED fog lay heavy above Manhattan. Grimy, hazy blackness held pall above the great metropolis. City lights were smothered in the mist.

That shroud which dampened the brilliant districts held greater grip upon areas that were ordinarily gloomy after dark.

Near the waterfront, the grimy blanket had full reign. Steaming surges of mist were rising from the river, clinging to piling and piers, rolling in upon the dim-lit thoroughfares. Basso blasts of steamship whistles blared in from the water, accompanied by the staccato shrills of tugboats.

Such sounds alone cleaved the fog laden air. Other noises, clicking footsteps of passers, rumbles of occasional trucks, were muffled by the thickness. People themselves were swallowed by the mist. Where feeble lights showed dim areas, forms came into view, then disappeared.

Humans had become ghosts down by the river. Wafted in from the bay, the fog had taken a liking to the land. Literally, it was enveloping Manhattan like a monster from the deep, creeping forward to a total triumph that would end only when rising winds came to dispel it.

A muffled wayfarer was tramping along a street that led in from the river. The night was not cold; dampness could be the only excuse for his upturned coat collar. Yet long, hunched shoulders and down-turned face were indications of a menace other than the fog.

It was plain that the tramping man wanted to escape recognition. His gait betrayed the fact; his choice of streets was added indication. Moreover, he showed a furtiveness when he peered back at every crossing. The wayfarer feared followers.

The fog gave the man confidence as he reached the moisture-surfaced structure of an elevated railway. He had put distance between himself and the waterfront. The grime of blackened pillars seemed to please him.

Dull lights of shop windows gleamed from the avenue and showed a pallid, long-featured face. Protruding teeth glittered as the muffled man delivered an unpleasant smile. A quick glance over shoulder; the fellow ducked into the obscurity of a side street.

Fear of followers had passed from the wayfarers thoughts; had he lingered longer, his trepidation would have returned. Hardly had the long-limbed individual cut away from the avenue before another hunched figure shambled into view beside the "el" pillars.

Crafty eyes from a wizened face made thorough search along the avenue. Quick-gazing, those optics picked the very street that the long-limbed man had taken. Shuffling cater-cornered across the street, the newcomer headed for the same route.

Though this New York fog was as thick as the traditional London "pea-souper," the follower had kept on the quarry's trail. Wherever the long-limbed man was going, the shorter fellow would remain close behind him. Strange figures of the underworld, the two were playing an odd drama of the night.

OF the pair, the wizened-faced trailer was the more intriguing. Any man who could stalk prey through this fog must unquestionably be clever at his chosen game. That little trailer was indeed clever. He had a reputation for his ability. In the scumlands of New York, he was known as "Hawkeye," the craftiest of all spotters.

One person alone was conceded to be Hawkeye's better at such tasks. That one was the mystery figure of the underworld - The Shadow. Crooks gave The Shadow credit for superhuman powers; it was little wonder that they were willing to acknowledge him superior to Hawkeye.

Gunners had claimed that they could outshoot The Shadow; cracksman had bragged that they possessed greater skill than that unknown champion of right. Listeners had laughed at such boasts. Those of the underworld knew this much of The Shadow - that he had no equal in any line of endeavor that came within his sphere of action.

So Hawkeye, had he claimed himself on par with The Shadow, would have been greeted with jeers. But Hawkeye, oddly, possessed a modest spirit regarding his own ability. The little trailer never made mention of The Shadow; and he had good reason for preserving silence. Hawkeye was in The Shadow's service.

The Shadow had found the little spotter to be a useful aid. Master who battled crime, The Shadow had supertasks of his own. Known as the scourge of crookdom, he was forced to leave lesser work to others.

Tonight's trail was one that The Shadow had passed to Hawkeye. Under secret orders, the little spotter had been told to pick up the trail of a fellow named "Scud" Paffrey. Hawkeye had previously seen Scud close to the waterfront. It was that vicinity that Hawkeye had chosen tonight.

Scud had been coming back from somewhere. Hawkeye had spied him slinking through the fog. One glimpse of long, hunched shoulders and muffled face had been all that Hawkeye needed. The spotter was still on Scud's trail.

Entering the side street that Scud had chosen, Hawkeye spied a glimmering light ahead. Fog rendered the street lamp dingy; but Hawkeye knew that Scud could not get by that lighted patch without revealing his stooped figure in the mist.

Close enough to have reached the street before Scud gained the light, Hawkeye knew also that the long-limbed man must he close by. Creeping forward, The Shadow's agent advanced with caution. Hawkeye had gained a hunch that the end of the trail was near.

Thirty yards from the corner, Hawkeye paused. Scud had not reached the street lamp. Here, on the near side of that glow, blackness was complete. Hawkeye's eyes could spy nothing; the spotter was relying on his ears. To his keen hearing came the sound of whispers, muffled, seemingly, by the mist.

Hawkeye reached out in the darkness. His hand encountered the fog-dewed surface of a brick wall. Using this as a guide, Hawkeye crept ahead. The wall ended with an invisible corner. Voices became audible. Hawkeye crouched.

Scud Paffrey was whispering to someone in the darkness. The rendezvous was being held in a passage between two buildings, undiscernible in the overhanging blackness. Hawkeye caught the tones of a low, half-growled voice. Detecting words, he realized the identity of the man whom Scud had met.

Detective Joe Cardona! Known as the ace of New York headquarters, this sleuth had contacts in the underworld.

TO Hawkeye, the presence of Cardona indicated an astonishing fact. Scud Paffrey, accepted as an average denizen of the underworld, was a stool pigeon, reporting to the law.

The Shadow must have known that fact. That was why he had put Hawkeye on the job of watching Scud. The law was after information; Scud had access to it. The Shadow had decided to use Scud as a lead.

Hawkeye grinned to himself in the darkness. He had been late in trailing Scud; hence he had not learned the stoolie's objective. Here, however, lay opportunity. What Scud was telling Joe Cardona, Hawkeye could also hear. The little man listened.

"No trace of any of them, eh?" came Cardona's growl. "Looks like you're laying down on the job, Scud. You told me you'd find Rigger Luxley. But you haven't got a trace on him or any of his pals."

"I told you about Sailor Martz," insisted Scud, his whisper half a whine. "He's due down at Dory Halbit's joint. Back from the fruit pier. He's comin' there tonight, Joe."

"What of it? That don't tell us anything about Rigger. He wouldn't be there."

"But Sailor was in with Rigger's outfit. No foolin', Joe; that's somethin' I know, for sure. An' maybe Sailor's got some pals that was in with the mob."

"But that's something you're not sure about. Say, it looks like the dragnet is going to be the only bet, after all."

"That won't be no use, Joe" - Scud's whisper rose in frantic protest - "honest, it won't! It's curtains for me, if you spring the dragnet. Too many guys would know that I might've spilled somethin' about Rigger Luxley."

"But what if I pinch this Sailor Martz?"

"Nobody'll know nothin'. Sailor Martz never seen me aroun' with Rigger. Nobody down at Dory's joint will know nothin' about me. But they may know somethin' about Rigger. See?"

"Does Sailor Martz talk much to guys he knows?"

"Maybe. I can't say for sure; but he's got pals down on the waterfront. He might've talked to them. An' they ain't likely to be all for Rigger. Some of them guys might talk."

Conversation ended. In the tenseness, Hawkeye could hear Scud's breathing, coming in wheezy fashion. The stoolie was nervous as he awaited Cardona's decision. At last, the detective grunted a verdict.

"All right," declared Joe. "it's a raid. There's been coke peddlers seen down at Dory's joint. That's a good enough reason to grab the gang that's down there."

"Then I can slide along?" queried Scud, anxiously. "So's I can be down at the Pink Rat before you head for Dory's?"

"Sure. Keep yourself alibied with the guys that know you. I'll need you later, Scud."

"T'anks. Joe."

Scud edged from the space beyond the house corners. Hawkeye could have touched the fellow as he came shiftily to the sidewalk. Scud chose the direction toward the street lamp. Hawkeye listened to his clicking footsteps.

A minute later, Joe Cardona emerged. Stocky, but muffled like Scud, the detective came along past Hawkeye. Joe's coat almost grazed the shoulders of the crouched spotter; but the detective did not spy the huddled form.

HAWKEYE waited after Cardona had passed. Well did he know that either Scud or the detective might peer back after reaching their respective corners. While he lingered, Hawkeye did some thinking. His findings gave him a single answer.

A raid was due at "Dory" Halbit's, the waterfront dive that Scud had named. The raid, however, would be delayed. First, to allow "Sailor" Martz time to get there; second, to let Scud establish himself at the underworld joint known as the "Pink Rat"; third, to give Cardona a chance to form a picked squad at headquarters.

All of which gave Hawkeye satisfaction. With one hour - perhaps two - before the law took action, Hawkeye could complete his own work and allow The Shadow ample leeway. Realizing this, the little spotter waited a full five minutes before leaving the wall by which he crouched.

Hawkeye sneaked back to the avenue. He saw no sign of Cardona as he paced along the dingy East Side thoroughfare. Shambling across the street. Hawkeye headed northward until he reached a drug store that looked like a palace of luxury on the fringe of this decadent district.

Entering, Hawkeye found a telephone booth. After glancing warily to note that he was unobserved, the spotter dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:

"Burbank speaking."

In a half whisper, Hawkeye poured out his news. He was talking to a man whom he had never seen, the contact agent who received the reports of active workers and passed them along to the chief. Hawkeye had spoken to Burbank only by telephone; he regarded the contact man somewhat as he did The Shadow.

For Burbank seemed on the fringe of that mysterious blackness that surrounded the master sleuth. A quiet voice, always responding, ever ready with instructions. Such was Burbank, as Hawkeye knew him.

"Off duty."

Burbank's quiet tone was a command to Hawkeye. The little agent hung up the receiver and slouched from the drug store. He had given his report. His task was done. Though Burbank had given no commendation, Hawkeye knew that his successful work would not go unforgotten.

Hawkeye had gained an inkling that The Shadow, too, was out to trail "Rigger" Luxley's missing band. That outfit was a dangerous crowd that had been missing from New York until recently. Rigger and company had bobbed into view ten days ago; then had gone suddenly to cover.

The law was after Rigger. So was The Shadow. Sailor Martz, apparently, was the one man through whom Rigger could be reached. Who would corner Sailor first: the law or The Shadow? Hawkeye grinned as the question struck him while he shambled through the darkness.

Hawkeye knew the answer.

The Shadow.

CHAPTER II. ON THE WATERFRONT

FOG was relentless along the waterfront. Moving in from the sea, it had tightened its grip upon the land. Thicker than ever, it clung most heavily to the spot of its first choice: where water met with shore.

There was nothing of comfort in the heavy-throated blares of whistles that came from the river. Those blasts were ghoulish at close range. They were like the voice of the fog itself. Yet to those who frequented these sodden spaces, the tones were commonplace.

Dory Halbit's dive was not a place for particular patrons. It attracted the riffraff with its cheap grog. Hard-visaged huskies, rat-faced roustabouts, suspicious-eyed loungers - these were the customers who slouched about at battered tables, undisturbed by those long-echoing blares from the river.

Dory Halbit was present in person. He always was. An ex-seaman, Dory had retired after being crippled in a storm. The possessor of a wooden leg, he found land navigation troublesome and seldom left the grog shop.

Tonight, as on all nights, the proprietor was leaning against the bar in the corner of the dive, keeping a gleaming eye on all who entered or left. For Dory was on the lookout for trouble; when it came, he was capable of handling it. Sleeves of his tattered shirt rolled to his elbows, neck bared, Dory looked formidable. Tattooed arms and chest were brawny; and Dory's love for a fight made him forget his wooden leg when action started.

Joe Cardona had stretched no point in stating that a raid would not cause surprise at Dory Halbit's. The one-legged dive owner had many doubtful acquaintances. His place had come under frequent police surveillance. It was Dory's caginess that had caused the law to desist. If the man happened to be working in cahoots with dope smugglers, it was a sure bet that he would be able to cover up in a pinch.

It was conceded that when - if ever - the law did raid the dive, Dory would enjoy a good laugh the morning after. Tonight, Cardona was ready for the thrust that would prove fruitless in incriminating the proprietor. But in his drive, the detective would perhaps gain results of a different sort.

Through a general round-up of the dive's habitue's, Cardona might capture men who would give him information. Joe wanted facts concerning Rigger Luxley; and if Sailor Martz failed to talk, others might know something. Good reasoning; for these fellows at Dory Halbit's would not mind spilling whatever they might know about a landlubber mobleader.

QUIET prevailed at Dory Halbit's. Quiet, according to the proprietor's view. Unshaven seamen were swapping coarse jests; rowdies who had cash were growling for drinks; raucous greetings were being exchanged between newcomers.

Such commotion, to Dory, was more pleasing than silence. So long as the customers were engaged in trivial conversation, no brawls would begin. Much though he liked a fight, Dory did not want to see one start. Fights meant cops; and Dory veered clear of trouble with the police.

Wisps of fog were creeping through broken windowpanes of Dory's dive. The place was below street level; moisture-laden atmosphere picked it as a settling spot. Encroaching mists were driven back, however, by the clouds of smoke that issued from the mouths of customers.

Medleys of tobacco were always common at Dory's. Dutch sailors were puffing at big pipes; gesticulating Spaniards and Italians were consuming cigarettes of many foreign blends; squatty Malaysians were smoking rank-odored cheroots. The haze of tobacco smoke was tinged with curls of yellow and blue, and through that shifting cloud, Dory kept constant watch on all newcomers.

There were three doorways that led into this dankish, stone-walled retreat. One came directly from the broad street that ran beside the piers; the second was from a side alleyway. The third was an interior door, used only by chosen customers. It led into an adjoining house.

There were strangers here tonight. That was not unusual; but Dory always sized up strangers as soon as they entered. He knew that feuds of shipboard often found their culmination on the waterfront. Dory kept tabs on usual customers and knew when some required watching. Strangers, however, were always a doubtful quantity. Dory checked all of them for future reference.

Ribald oaths sounded at the main door as three rough fellows entered. All were garbed in oilskins. Dory recognized the trio as crew members of a coastwise barge flotilla. He watched the three men take a corner table and pound riotously to summon a greasy-aproned waiter. Then Dory's watchful eyes shot back to the door. Another man was entering, quietly. Beefy-faced and evil-eyed, the newcomer stared about the room, a coarse smile on his lips. Dory knew the fellow, he was an ex-seaman whose friends were landlubbers. To his pals, this ugly-eyed specimen was known as Sailor Martz.

Others went back to their ships when they left Dory's. Sailor Martz stayed ashore. He had no ship. Dory knew, however, that Sailor was not always in New York. He had been absent during a period of nearly two months; it was only recently that he had returned.

Whether or not Sailor Martz had filled a temporary berth on some ship was a matter which did not concern Dory Halbit. He recognized Sailor as an accepted customer; the fellow's business was his own. Moreover, Sailor's patronage was profitable to Dory. On more than one occasion, the bad-eyed customer had paid the proprietor for the use of rooms in the adjoining house. Sailor had held meetings there. That was all that Dory knew.

SAILOR caught the proprietor's stare. His ugly grin widened. Shaking his dark-colored slicker, shoving his cap up from his forehead, Sailor strolled over to the bar and thrust a foot upon the broken-down brass rail.

Dory leaned back and produced a bottle and glass. He placed these articles on the bar so Sailor could help himself.

"Looking for somebody, Sailor?" queried Dory.

"Yeah." Sailor stood with glass in hand and stared suspiciously about the dive. "Lookin' for a mug that I don't know. Maybe you can help me, Dory."

"How's that? If you don't know the guy?"

"I may be able to pick him out, if he's here. What I want to lamp is strangers. Tell me where to spot 'em."

"Couple of Filipinos over by the side door."

"Not them. This mug's an American."

"Fellow by the middle post. The one with the underslung jaw."

"Who else?"

"Dark-faced gent down in that inside corner. The one with the dark mackinaw. Might be a furriner, but I don't think he is."

Sailor flashed a sidelong glance. He spied a thick-set man who was seated alone. Something in the fellow's bearing rendered him inconspicuous. Sailor would not have noticed him but for Dory's suggestion. "Look's like the mug," stated Sailor, his growl lowered almost to a whisper. "I'm slidin' over to talk to him, Dory. Maybe he'll start somethin'; so be on the lookout."

"Yeah?" queried the proprietor, his voice as hard as Sailor's. "Take another guess, matey. This ain't no joint for a fight."

"It won't be no fight," assured Sailor, bringing a clenched hand from a pocket of his slicker. "Not if you use your noodle, Dory. Here - snag this."

He transferred a crumpled wad of bills to the proprietor's hand. Dory eyed the money, nodded and thrust the bills into his pocket.

"Pass the high-sign to the regulars," whispered Sailor. "When I start it movin', they pitch in. Drag the guy out through the side way, into the house. I'll talk to 'im there."

"All right," agreed Dory.

As Sailor strolled over to the indicated corner, Dory shifted behind the bar. Some of the customers had noted him talking to Sailor and were staring curiously. Dory caught the eyes he wanted. He gave a significant nod and a nudge of his thumb. Nods were the responses of the regulars. Eyes shifted to the corner.

Sailor had stopped by the table where the stranger was seated. He was looking at his quarry; the man was staring up to meet his gaze. Sailor eyed a face that was unshaven, with an upper lip that displayed a short-clipped mustache. He gained the hunch that the sallow complexion had been increased in darkness by a dye.

"Howdy, mate," he greeted. "Ain't I seen you somewhere? On the Colombo, when I shipped from Buenos Aires?"

"Don't remember you," returned the stranger, with a short growl. "Maybe we've met; maybe we haven't."

"Old Halyard Lubin was the skipper," recalled Sailor, seating himself at the table. "You heard of him, ain't you?"

"Sure." The dark-faced man shoved a bottle and glass to Sailor. "Heard a lot about him. Never met him, though."

"You heard what they said about Lubin in Puerto Rico?"

"Yeah. But I never got the story straight. What was it?"

Sailor's grin hardened. His tone was contemptuous as he leaned forward across the table. "You heard about Halyard Lubin, eh? In Puerto Rico? Well, he never was there - because there ain't no such guy! I thought you was the landlubber I was lookin' for -"

As he spoke, Sailor came up from the table. His arms shot forward; his long-nailed fingers clawed for the dark man's throat.

The stranger, too, was in action, and he moved too swiftly for Sailor. Twisting away, the landlubber sent his chair crashing to the floor. With one hand he made a grab for the bottle. Whisking it from under Sailor's nose, he started a side-swiping swing straight for his antagonist's head.

Sailor ducked as he threw up a warding arm. The swing went wide; the landlubber shifted for a downward drive before Sailor could stop him. That second blow would have brought results, but for an attack from another source.

The regulars had responded. They were surging forward en masse. Half a dozen ruffians, followed by a dozen reserves, all were springing at Dory's beck to aid Sailor Martz. The leading attackers caught the landlubber before he could swing the bottle.

Twisting fiercely, the lone man yanked clear. He swung the bottle like a cudgel. He cracked the skull of one assailant and smashed the bottle upon the capped pate of a second. Diving out front the corner, he grabbed up a chair and swung it into the ranks of the foe.

Knives flashed. Revolvers came into view. Three men surged forward. The landlubber staggered as a fist reached his jaw. Sprawling against the wall, he looked up to see Sailor Martz diving straight for him. Sailor's face was venomous; his right hand was driving downward with a long-bladed knife.

Others stopped stock-still to let Sailor snag his prey. Death loomed with seeming certainty for the fighter who had sagged beneath the force of numbers. Sallow lips pressed firmly shut as the eyes above them saw the descending blade which the half-groggy victim could not stop.

THEN, from amid the chaos of commotion came a thunderous roar from an unexpected quarter. The burst of an automatic spelled a new entrant into the one-sided fray. Sailor Martz's upraised body doubled backward instead of forward. With a wild scream, the would-be assassin staggered sidewise; his fist opened and his brandished knife clattered to the floor.

A fierce laugh broke the silence that the gunshot had brought. Hard-faced men wheeled about, fuming oaths as they whirled toward the direction of that sinister mirth. Facing the interior door of the dive, they saw the marksman who had crippled Sailor Martz.

A cloaked figure had emerged from the darkness of that inner doorway. Gloved fists projected from the folds of his sable-hued garb. The brim of a slouch hat concealed the features above the cloak, save for a pair of burning eyes that challenged all.

The Shadow had arrived upon the field of fray, to snatch a helpless victim from the toils of murderous men.

CHAPTER III. THE RAID

THE denizens of Dory Halbit's dive were not of mobland's ilk. Yet these ruffians who had aided Sailor Martz were cutthroats in their own right. To them, the name of The Shadow might be hazier than it was to crooks of the underworld; that fact only made this squad of murderers more dangerous.

Crooks had faded often at The Shadow's advent. Rats of crime knew the menace of The Shadow. This crew lacked such information. They saw The Shadow as an unexpected intruder who had balked them of a kill.

Revolvers crackled as knife-wielding fighters charged forward, driving low. Under a high barrage, the men with dirks were aiming for the intrepid stranger who had come from blackness. They, like Sailor Martz, were to learn The Shadow's power.

Doubling to the floor, The Shadow sprang straight against the attacking ranks. Bullets whizzed above him, aimed too high and too late. Mighty automatics belched flame into the phalanx of knife-armed men. Snarling rogues sprawled to the cement floor.

One wounded assassin caught himself and sent a blade whizzing through the air. His stroke was late. The Shadow had whirled from the charge. Diving along the wall, he gained the bar where Dory Halbit was stationed. The brawny proprietor sprang forward to stop the sweeping figure. Gun-fisted hands shot upward and sent the one-legged foeman clattering across the floor.

Revolvers burst anew. The automatics answered. The Shadow had found the vantage point he wanted. There were full barrels beneath Dory's counter. They served as a bulwark against bullets. His guns upon the counter level, The Shadow blazed responding shots.

Attackers broke. They had not counted upon conflict with a vengeful, sharp-shooting foe. They valued their hides too much to keep up the quarrel on behalf of Sailor Martz. Wild with desire for escape, the armed men followed the noncombatants who had already scurried through the doorways to the streets.

Sprawled figures told of The Shadow's prowess. The cloaked fighter had not aimed to kill. He had dropped his adversaries with quick, clipping shots; his wounded foemen were crawling toward the doors that offered escape.

There was one exception. Sailor Martz, half doubled in agony, was picking up his knife. His bleary eyes were looking toward the landlubber whom he had failed to slay. He was out to get that victim at any cost.

The dark-faced man had risen also. Grogginess ended, he was ready to pounce forward the moment that Sailor made a move. The Shadow watched the coming drama. He knew that the full advantage lay with the man whom he had saved. Sailor Martz surged crazily forward; the landlubber caught him and sent him staggering back.

Then came a shrill interruption from the doorways through which escaping rogues were diving. Police whistles told the entry of the law. Ruffians came staggering back; plainclothes men piled down the steps into the underground dive.

Cardona's raiding squad had arrived. They had caught men who were seeking flight, not fight. The police were just in time to make a complete round-up of the scattering customers from Dory's dive.

THE SHADOW dropped behind the counter. His whispered laugh faded. His work had been accomplished. He had come here tonight to back the law. He had entered only because a crisis had arrived before the raid. He had wounded Sailor Martz. The man was helpless. The law could have him.

But the law was due to blunder. Sailor Martz had sagged to the floor under the pressure of the landlubber with the dark-hued skin. A bulky plainclothes man bounded forward; the dark man swung about to speak.

The dick placed a hard punch to the dyed jaw. The landlubber crumpled. Half recovering, he came up; another plainclothes man sprang in and clubbed him. Together, the two officers dragged their limp victim to the door.

Sailor Martz came to his feet. He swayed a moment; then grinned in sickly fashion. Unnoticed by the raiders, he turned about and staggered through the inner door that led to the adjoining house.

Clattering footsteps now sounded on stone. The raiders had done most of their work outside; they were dragging out the last of their prisoners. Joe Cardona appeared in the side doorway; looking about, the raid commander saw that the work was complete.

But Joe did not spy the figure that rose hazily behind Dory's counter. That spot was out of the light. The Shadow, peering forward, was unobserved as he, too, made a survey of the scene. The Shadow spied Joe Cardona; he followed the direction of the detective's gaze toward the front door of the dive.

There The Shadow's eyes were fixed. Between two plainclothes men he saw a figure that he recognized. Instantly The Shadow realized the mistake that the raiders had made. They were dragging out the rescued man. Sailor Martz had disappeared.

Impatiently, The Shadow waited. He watched Joe Cardona turn about and leave. The dive was deserted. Dory Halbit had been thrust out with the rest. Swiftly, The Shadow moved from behind the wooden bar. He swung toward the inner doorway and merged with the darkness beyond it.

The law, confident of the swiftness of its clean-up, had failed to bag the one man that it sought. Sailor Martz had made a get-away, despite his wound. The Shadow, alone was on the fellow's trail.

OUTSIDE the dive, Joe Cardona was watching clanging patrol wagons pull away into the mist. Prisoners had been herded aboard. In the crowd somewhere - Joe was sure - would be the man he wanted: Sailor Martz.

Cardona smiled as he stepped aboard a police car. The fight in the dive, just before the raid, had been a fortunate break according to the detective's reasoning. It offered a good pretext for the raid. Dory Halbit could make no howl.

Clanging through the fog, the car reached the nearest precinct. Alighting, Cardona walked up the steps of the building and entered the big room to survey the prisoners. He found half a dozen who were due to be shipped in an arriving ambulance. Not one of this crowd answered the description of Sailor Martz.

Lines of mugs greeted the detective as he studied the remainder of the sullen prisoners. Cardona's face showed a scowl. The detective came to the end of the line; there he encountered Dory Halbit. The one-legged man was nursing a black eye that he had received in combat with a dick.

Cardona motioned the proprietor to one side. In a growled undertone he inquired regarding Sailor Martz. Dory shrugged his shoulders.

"Sailor ain't here," he told the ace. "Look 'em over. You won't find him."

"He was in your joint tonight?"

"Sure! It was him that started the trouble! I'm off the guy. Wish you'd have landed him. But he ain't here."

"Where did he go?"

"Don't ask me. I didn't see Sailor after the fight got started."

"All right."

Cardona strolled away, muttering to himself. He knew that Dory had spoken the truth. Sailor Martz was not in the throng of prisoners.

A police sergeant approached.

"We've got the fellow who started the trouble," informed the officer. "The boys knocked him cold, when they dragged him in."

"Where is he?" questioned Joe, quickly.

"In the lieutenant's room," replied the sergeant. "We laid him on the couch. He's still out."

Cardona hurried into the lieutenant's room, expecting to find Sailor Martz.

He shook his head as he surveyed the dark-dyed face of the stocky man who lay sprawled upon the couch.

"Not Sailor," decided Cardona. "but this fellow may do some talking when he comes to. Dory says Sailor started the battle. It must have been with this guy.

A policeman passed Joe a slip of paper, stating that he had found it in the unconscious man's pocket. Cardona read a name and address.

"What's this doing here?" he asked aloud. "Name of Caleb Wesdren, Hotel Marrington. This guy must know somebody important, who lives at the Marrington. Unless he was figuring on making trouble up there. Get the Marrington; tell them I want to talk to Mr. Wesdren."

The sergeant put in the call. Meanwhile, two plainclothes men sauntered into the lieutenant's room. They were the ones who had slugged the dark-faced man. They seemed pleased with their accomplishment.

The sergeant completed the call. He handed the telephone to Cardona. The detective spoke briskly. The others heard his words.

"DETECTIVE CARDONA, of police headquarters," announced the ace. "We just raided a dive on the waterfront, Mr. Wesdren. Brought in prisoners. One had your address in his pocket... What's that? Oh, yeah... That's right... Dark face... Looks like it was dyed, all right... Yeah... What's that? Say, you don't mean -"

"Why certainly, Mr. Wesdren... Absolutely... Yes, I'll bring him right up... You'll call the senator?... Good... Don't worry. He'll be all right."

Cardona hung up and turned to the plainclothes men, who greeted him with wise grins. One of them offered a husky question.

"Well?" asked the dick. "Is this the mug you want? Sailor Martz?"

"No," retorted Cardona, "but he'll tell us plenty about Sailor. Which one of you slugged him?"

"Clancy did. He was the first to get to him."

"Did he put up much of a fight, Clancy?" demanded Cardona.

"Didn't give him no chance," was the reply. "He was beatin' up a guy that was wounded, so I piled in on him. Morey here helped me."

"And the other fellow? The wounded man?"

"Don't know what happened to him."

Joe Cardona fumed.

"That was Sailor Martz," he growled. "The guy we wanted. The wounded man, I mean."

"But we got this bird."

"Sure you got him - and can you guess who he is?"

Heads shook as Cardona paused. Emphatically, the ace detective added a statement, from information that he had just gained from Caleb Wesdren.

"This fellow you slugged," he stated, "was smart enough to get in ahead of us. He was clever enough to grab the bird we wanted. He'd have handed Sailor Martz to us, if you'd let him,"

Joe stopped to gesture toward the unconscious man upon the couch. His final words, sarcastically directed toward the plainclothes men, served also as a belated introduction.

"This gentleman," declared Cardona. "was working in disguise. He is Vic Marquette, of the United States Secret Service."

CHAPTER IV. THE LOST TRAIL

ALL had quieted on the waterfront. The departure of clanging patrol wagons had left this area to the envelopment of the fog. River whistles still persisted with their blasts but human tumult had completely died.

Raiding police had swooped in and carried out their prey; all traces of that episode had passed. Yet there was evidence of an aftermath to the short battle; traces that led away from Dory Halbit's deserted dive.

A light was glimmering upon the roughened timbers of a pier. A tiny glow, the little flashlight cast a concentrated disk that was concealed by the form above it. The Shadow was following a trail that he had picked up after the departure of the police.

A splotch of blood showed beneath the light. It was not the first mark of its kind that The Shadow had discovered. Through alleyways, past lurking spots, he had continued along his path, seeking the course that a wounded man had followed. The Shadow was close behind Sailor Martz.

The trail was not an easy one. Blood stains on cobbles, sidewalks, timbers, were infrequent in their intervals. They were tokens of times that Sailor Martz had paused in crippled flight. Where Sailor had lost ground because of his wound, The Shadow, too, had encountered handicaps.

For Sailor's course had been a zigzag one; and each blood splotch had demanded a surrounding search before the next could be discovered. Yet The Shadow had made gains. He could tell that from his inspection of the newer bloodstains.

Here, on the timber of the pier, the roughened wood should have absorbed the crimson fluid, despite the dampening influence of the fog. The splotch, however, was fresh. Sailor Martz had passed this spot only a few minutes ago.

Blinking out his light, The Shadow stared through the enveloping mist. Even to his hawkish gaze, the blackened atmosphere was impenetrable. Yet The Shadow sensed that he had neared the end of a trail. Splotches of blood had been more frequent. They were larger than before. Sailor Martz must be nearly through.

That fact meant that his detour to this pier had not been a blind one to cover up a trail. Sailor had used such tactics after leaving Dory's dive. Realizing that he could hold out no longer, the foiled assassin had straightened from his zigzags. Instead of pursuing a circling search, The Shadow moved outward through the blackened fog. He wanted to learn what was at the end of this pier. There, perhaps, would be quickly gained evidence of Sailor's whereabouts.

Husky whistles seemed to bellow a welcome from the channel as The Shadow neared the end of the pier. Then came a silence of those blasts. The Shadow caught new sounds, faint ones. Mingled with the slight lapping of pier-nibbling wavelets was the groan and scrape of wood against wood.

Stooping, The Shadow ran a gloved hand along the edge of the pier, in the direction of the sound. His fingers encountered a water-soaked rope. Following that tracer, the cloaked investigator suddenly discerned a solidness in the blackness off the pier. Edging past the timbers, The Shadow dropped to the deck of a moored barge.

PROBING forward, The Shadow encountered new solidity. It was the top of a cabin that projected up from the barge deck. Searching hands found a closed door. Sinking into a cockpit, The Shadow opened the barrier. Light glimmered from within. A groaning voice came to The Shadow's keen ears.

Entering a first cabin, The Shadow closed the outer door as softly as he had opened it. He turned toward the light; it came from an inner door that stood ajar. Advancing, The Shadow peered into a dirty bunk room. The light of a hanging lantern gave him view of the scene.

Sailor Martz was stretched upon a lower bunk. The groans had been his. Eyes glassy, Sailor was holding conversation with a rough, sweater-clad barge-man who stood beside the bunk. The Shadow listened.

"I'm through, Beef," coughed Sailor. "I - I was out to get a guy; but some mug got me instead. I'm through."

A grunt was "Beef's" response. Sailor spoke again; his words were a mumble; the rough man was forced to lean forward to hear.

The Shadow crept into the bunk room. He moved almost to the edge of the light. He breathed a sibilant hiss that Beef alone could hear. The barge-man swung about. His eyes stared; an oath started from his lips. Then Beef's outcry ended.

With a swift drive of his gloved hands, The Shadow caught the barge-man in a twisting hold that brought choking fingers to Beef's throat. With a backward whirl, he snatched the big man away from Sailor's bunk. Out through the door into the darkened cabin; there, The Shadow's fingers tightened.

Beef subsided; his body sagged limp. The barge-man was out. The Shadow let him slump to the floor.

"Beef!" Sailor's hoarse gasp sounded from the bunk in the inner room. "Beef - where are you? I - I've got to talk! Beef!"

The Shadow reentered the bunk room. He approached Sailor's resting place and bent forward, his figure on the near side of the dying man's head. The Shadow spoke in a hoarse growl, that Sailor took for Beef's.

"Spill it, matey," he ordered. "I'm here, listening."

SAILOR strained his head upward, trying to see his companion. The effort was too great. Sailor groaned and closed his eyes. He heard a grunt from above. Satisfied, Sailor spoke wearily.

"You - you gotta do somethin' for me, Beef," insisted the dying man. "I - I fixed things, see? Fixed 'em with a guy named Rigger - Rigger Luxley. Shipped him and his outfit aboard the Zouave."

A grunt from The Shadow. It resembled Beef's usual type of comment.

"You know the ship," persisted Sailor. "Hilder's the skipper, Jason Hilder. Owns a half interest in the tub. Wasn't nobody wanted to ship aboard that tramp. I talked Hilder into takin' Rigger aboard, with a mob to fill out the crew. Hilder - Hilder got five grand for the deal.

"I was - I was coverin', here ashore - coverin' for Rigger" - Sailor paused wearily - "an' I - I gotta tip him off. You can do it, Beef - do it for me - with a wireless to the Zouave. I - I'll tell you how to spring it -"

A spasm of coughing shook Sailor's frame. Vainly, the dying man tried to speak. When he did find words, they were maudlin. Disconnected phrases came in a choking voice.

"I'm coverin' - coverin' - for Rigger. Aboard the Zouave. Gotta - gotta tip him, Beef. There - there's a guy here in New York. Yeah, I - I was coverin' when they got me -"

A snarling sound came from bloated lips. Sailor's body tightened; then dropped limp as a final gulp came from his throat. Glazed eyes froze. Sailor Martz was dead.

THE SHADOW stepped into the light. A sinister figure, he might well have represented death itself, come to gloat above the corpse of another traveler to the realm of oblivion. But The Shadow's purpose was one that concerned the living, not the dead.

He had learned much. He knew a spot where crime was due - aboard the tramp steamer Zouave, captained by Jason Hilder, with Rigger Luxley, missing mobleader, on ship accompanied by a squad of killers. The Shadow knew that the Zouave could be traced. The tramp had cleared port only a dozen hours ago.

But The Shadow wanted more facts. Swiftly, deftly, he searched Sailor's body for articles that might mean new clues. The Shadow found nothing of value.

Turning about, the phantom-like figure moved through the outer cabin. Beef was stirring on the floor; but the big man had not fully regained his senses. The Shadow went out to the fog-laden deck. He stepped back upon the pier and made his way ashore.

From then on, The Shadow's course tended away from the waterfront. It stopped at one point only; when The Shadow heard gruff voices and the clatter of footsteps. The Shadow flattened against a wall as three policemen shouldered past through the fog. The Shadow resumed his course; a soft laugh whispered from his lips.

The presence of bluecoats meant that Joe Cardona had learned that Sailor Martz was missing from the crowd hauled in during the raid. A search was on for Sailor; sooner or later, it would lead to the old barge at the end of the pier. But Sailor Martz, when the law found him, would be of no value as an informant.

Hazy street lamps showed a looming figure emerging from mist as The Shadow reached a lighted avenue beneath an elevated structure. A taxicab was standing by the corner, its driver lounging behind the wheel. The Shadow entered the cab; he spoke in quiet tones.

The driver heard the instructions and looked puzzled. He wondered why a passenger wanted to go to Newark in all this fog. That, however, was the passenger's business. The taxi driver chuckled at thought of the coming fare.

UP in a luxurious suite at the Hotel Marrington, four men had gathered for conference. Detective Joe Cardona was standing by the living room window, oblivious to the glistening glow of city lights that formed an aura through the outside fog.

Vic Marquette, still in his rough disguise, was seated in an easy-chair. The secret service operative still looked weak from the slugging that he had taken in combat with two dicks. Dye, however, covered the pallor that would naturally have been upon his face.

The others were men of dignity. One was middle-aged, heavy-set and square-jawed. His black hair showed but traces of coming gray. He had the look and manner of a big business executive. This was Caleb Wesdren, whose name and address Vic Marquette had carried in his pocket.

The other was a kindly faced, gray-haired man, whose features, despite their mildness of expression, held a ruggedness that was backed by steely eyes. Joe Cardona had heard of this man often. He was Senator Ross Releston, who stood high in importance among the Washington solons.

Cardona felt a trifle sheepish as he caught the glint of the senator's steady-gazing eyes; then Releston's smile put the detective at ease.

"A mistake was made tonight," stated Releston, "but it was one of overreaction. It could have been avoided, Detective Cardona, had you been informed that Marquette was engaged in trailing Sailor Martz."

"That's a fact, senator," returned Cardona. "I wish I'd known what was up. Maybe we'll get Sailor, though. I've got a whole squad searching the waterfront. He was wounded. He couldn't have gone far. But maybe if I knew why Marquette here was after Martz -"

Cardona paused as Releston smiled. The senator motioned for silence, then began his explanation.

"Briefly," he declared, "the matter concerns war secrets. Various governments have been cooperating to prevent the theft of important inventions. Mr. Wesdren, as head of a large syndicate of manufacturers, has custody of valuable models and plans which pertain to devices useful in case of war."

"All these are protected in my vault at Washington," put in Wesdren. "But Senator Releston has informed me that international spies may be after them."

"We received information from England," explained Releston, "that involved thefts accomplished there. One of Scotland Yard's undercover men is coming to New York on the Steamship Doranic. He is due tomorrow. What is the man's name, Marquette?"

"Eric Delka," responded the operative. "But he's reserved his rooms at the Goliath under the name of Jarvis Knight."

"Delka will be contacted after his arrival," remarked the senator. "But, in the meantime, we received cabled advice from London which named two men for whom we should be on the lookout. Give Detective Cardona the details. Marquette."

"One chap," declared Vic, turning to Joe, "goes under the name of Jed Barthue. Slippery customer - I've heard of him before. Talks a bunch of languages and goes everywhere. International spy and nobody's got a good idea of what he looks like.

"Barthue swiped some British inventions and shipped the models out of Liverpool. That's as far as Scotland Yard traced him; but they did pick up a line on a fellow calling himself Sailor Martz. He had been seen around the Liverpool docks.

"The Yard found out that Martz shipped for New York. That made them think that Jed Barthue would be coming to America, too. Looked like another hook-up coming. So the idea was to find Sailor Martz and watch him. That was my job; I came to New York and spotted Martz on the waterfront."

"WHEN did you first see him?" inquired Cardona.

"Last night," replied Marquette. "I saw him coming out of Dory Halbit's. That's why I was back there tonight. This afternoon, though, I reported to Senator Releston, who was in town."

"I was stopping at the Hotel Nestoria," remarked Releston. "I am going to Washington by sleeper, tonight. That was why I gave Marquette the information that he could reach Caleb Wesdren here at the Marrington, in case of important news."

Cardona nodded. This explained why Vic had carried the slip of paper that dicks had found in his pocket.

"I telephoned here myself," went on Releston. "That was at four o'clock, Wesdren. You had not arrived; so I left Marquette's information for you."

"With whom?" demanded Wesdren.

"With Craig Jollister," replied the senator.

"Jollister!" exclaimed Wesdren. "I thought that he had gone to Washington. He was not here when I arrived."

"He left no message for you?"

"None. But, after all, the man is an absent-minded sort. Eccentric and useless except in his particular work."

"Who is Jollister?" inquired Cardona.

"A designer of safes and strong boxes," replied Wesdren. "He fitted the door to my vault room; also the door to the vault itself. He is in Washington most of the time; occasionally he has business here in New York. I suppose he stayed longer than he had intended to, on this present trip."

"Well," declared Vic Marquette, breaking a short silence, "I ran into trouble with this fellow I was watching. Sailor Martz was no easy customer. That raid of yours came in a pinch, Cardona. I needed help. It would have worked just right, if you men had nabbed Martz."

"It took a pair of mugs to muff it," chafed Cardona.

"So we will have to count on Inspector Delka," decided Vic. "I'll meet him tomorrow. You can come along, Cardona; we might as well cooperate on the New York end of this business."

"You will have Delka see me in Washington?" inquired Releston.

"Yes," replied Marquette, "as I bring him there, senator."

"When are you coming back to Washington, Wesdren?" asked Releston, turning to the black-haired executive.

"As soon as possible - tomorrow," replied Wesdren. "I shall communicate with you, senator, after my arrival."

"Do you think that Jollister has gone to Washington already?"

"I doubt it. He's probably staying here in New York, somewhere. He'd probably show up in a few days. After all, I cannot find fault with him. He has practically completed his work in my vault room. His time is really his own."

A TELEPHONE bell rang. Wesdren answered the call. He spoke a few words; then passed the instrument to Joe Cardona. The detective talked to headquarters then hung up with a sour smile.

"They've found Sailor Martz," declared Cardona, "but the fellow's dead. He got his in that fight at Dory's joint."

"Where did they find him?" questioned Marquette.

"In an old barge off the end of a pier," replied Cardona. "They heard some fellow scramble away; but they couldn't trace the man in the fog. A pal, maybe, of Sailor's. Sailor was dead in a bunk aboard the barge."

Marquette grunted; then Cardona added a comment in a tone that spoke of finality.

"It's a lost trail," decided the ace. "One that nobody will follow further, now that Sailor Martz is dead."

"You're right," agreed Marquette. "Whatever Martz knew died with him."

Ross Releston and Caleb Wesdren nodded their glum accord. The trail was lost; the only course was to await a new one, after the arrival of Inspector Eric Delka.

Four men had guessed the same; their unanimous conjecture was wrong. The trail that Sailor Martz had furnished was not one barren of results. The Shadow had gained facts when he had tracked the dying man.

Already, The Shadow was taking measures to follow up the word that he had learned. Craftily had The Shadow tracked the lost trail. On his own, that master who countered crime was preparing new action.

Hidden facts remained; cross-currents lay beneath the smooth surface that covered crime. The Shadow, himself, had taken it upon himself to enter a game already in the making.

CHAPTER V. MEN IN THE DARK

INCOMING fog had completed its conquest of Manhattan. The city lay almost at a standstill, awaiting the faint relief that grayish dawn would bring. Black gloom had swallowed The Shadow; even he, the master of darkness, had held no welcome for this shrouding mist.

Night, alone, was sufficient cover for The Shadow. He had set out upon a daring quest; and the fog was a handicap that threatened his purpose. He was gambling much upon the hope that the in-rolling fog would lessen elsewhere; for The Shadow had chosen a quick departure from New York. His next thrust against crime would involve a new objective.

Out at sea, the sky showed glimmering starlight, for the fog banks were rolling into shore. There, a great ship was plowing slowly shoreward, through waters streaked with remnants of the mist. The liner was the Doranic, on the last leg of a rapid schedule. The captain had chosen to let the fog roll in ahead; it would be noon before he brought the massive ship in through the lower bay.

Though midnight was long past, passengers were still about, for they had learned that the liner was to lie offshore. That gave opportunity for prolonged merrymaking; and it was rumored that Captain Joseph Murgin, grizzled commander of the Doranic, would drop in to observe the festivities.

The rumor was correct. Captain Murgin had left the bridge; but he was making a brief stop on his way to the main saloon. He had reached the door of a first-class cabin that bore the number 646.

A cautious voice had replied to the captain's knock. Murgin had announced his identity. Someone within was opening the door. Observant eyes had spied Captain Murgin's arrival. They were peering from the door of an adjoining cabin, no. 644.

As soon as the captain had entered 646, this watcher closed his door. Through darkness, he crossed Cabin 644 and listened at a door to the adjoining cabin. Cautious, chuckled breathing told that he could catch the words of a conversation.

CABIN 646 was dark. Within its gloom, Captain Murgin was talking to the man who had so secretly received him.

"I have come here, Mr. Knight -"

"You may call me by my right name, captain." The interrupting voice was quiet. "I am Jarvis Knight to other passengers; but you, of course, have known that I am actually Eric Delka, inspector from Scotland Yard."

"Of course," acknowledged Murgin. "I was informed of that fact when you came aboard. But tonight is the first time that I received a request to call on Mr. Jarvis Knight."

"I had no problems previously. But tomorrow, I shall be confronted by one. I am anxious to go ashore unobserved. Can you arrange it, captain, when we dock in New York?"

A pause. Captain Murgin was deciding upon a plan.

"It can he arranged," was his verdict. "Simply remain in this cabin, Inspector Delka. I shall tell Third Officer Donaghy to come here and ask for Mr. Knight. Answer to that name and he will conduct you ashore."

"My luggage is in the hold," remarked Delka. "The purser has the number of the locker which contains my trunks. Can you have them go through a customs inspection; then be sent directly to the Hotel Goliath, in New York?"

"Do they contain anything dutiable?"

"No. Of course, they hold papers of a semiconfidential nature -"

"Those will help me explain matters to the customs officials. Shall I have the trunks sent to the hotel under the name of Jarvis Knight?"

"Absolutely. I have reserved Suite 3612 under that incognito."

Delka struck a match and lighted a cigarette. The captain glimpsed the Scotland Yard man's face. He recognized it plainly in the glow.

"I have seen you before, inspector," remarked Murgin. "I was visiting aboard The P.O. liner Canopus when you took passage to Bombay."

"I was a mystery man on that trip, too," chuckled Delka. "I went to India to team with the C.I.D. on a matter that concerned counterfeiting. Incognito, as usual. Unfortunately, captain, there are certain criminals who would recognize me on sight, as well as by name. That is why I remain in my cabin, and cultivate the rather pleasureless habit of smoking in the dark."

Captain Murgin spoke in troubled tone.

"Do you believe," he inquired, "that dangerous criminals are aboard my ship, at present?"

"One may be," replied Delka, calmly. "Do not he alarmed, however. This fellow will not pillage passengers. He is an international spy, a most capable chap named Jed Barthue. It is possible that he may already be in the States, but I am taking no chances. Barthue has me topped in one respect."

"What is that?"

"He might recognize me; but I do not know him by sight. So I took this cabin, with a bulkhead for one wall, an empty cabin on the other side. I reserved 644, but never occupied it. Well, captain, our business is ended. I shall accept any word that comes from Third Officer Donaghy."

CAPTAIN MURGIN departed, leaving Eric Delka - otherwise Jarvis Knight - to the solitary darkness of Cabin 646. The Scotland Yard man continued to smoke beside the faint light of an opened porthole. Minutes lapsed, yet his ears were not keen enough to hear the slight noise within the adjoining cabin.

The door of Cabin 644 opened. An overcoated form appeared. Stooped and muffled, the eavesdropper closed the door softly behind him; then sneaked along a passage and found an opening to a deck.

Five minutes later, this same muffled man appeared upon a lower deck near the steerage. He had lighted a cigar; its glow produced a bright spot near the rail. As he stared across the water, the man moved the cigar end up and down.

A watcher saw the lighted speck from a bulkhead door. This fellow was a crew member; he sneaked away as soon as he caught the flash. Soon a white-coated room steward appeared at the bulkhead door. He approached the man by the rail and gave a whispered signal.

"Psst!"

The man at the rail turned about. The steward caught a glimpse of his face; then it was muffled again by the collar of the overcoat. The steward made whispered inquiry

"What's up, Jed? Kerry found me near the purser's office. He said: 'listen, Cull - Jed Barthue's ready.' So I told Kerry to slide back; then I -"

"Cut the details, Cull." Barthue's tone was gruff. "Can Kerry get those other blokes in a hurry?"

"Sure. They're on call, Jed. What's to be done?"

"First off" - Barthue's growl was brisk - "you're to go to 646 and rap until Delka answers."

"Blimmie, Jed! That will mean trouble -"

"Do as I say! Ask Delka if he is Mr. Jarvis Knight. Then tell him that Third Officer Donaghy wants to see him down here."

"Cull" nodded. He did not grasp the scheme; but he knew that Barthue was working to some definite purpose.

"After that," resumed Barthue, "wait for half an hour. Then come back to 646 and ask for Mr. Knight again."

"You mean that Delka will be back there, Jed?"

"Don't ask questions. Do as I order. On your way to Delka's cabin, right now; post Kerry and his pals by the bulkhead."

CULL departed, still half wondering. Jed Barthue, by the rail, raised one arm and drew back his sleeve to consult the luminous dual of a wrist watch. The time was ten minutes of two. Barthue chuckled, as he pitched his cigar stump overboard. He drew a fresh perfecto from his pocket and lighted it as he stood gazing toward the swishing waters.

Jed Barthue had planned well for this night. He had boarded the Doranic as a stowaway, thanks to Cull, the crooked room steward. He had guessed Eric Delka's real identity; figuring that the Scotland Yard man would not worry about the unoccupied cabin, 644, Jed had boldly taken it for his own quarters during passage.

Tonight, Barthue had been ready for a mass attack on Delka; for he was backed by bribed crew members, brought aboard by Cull. Luck had given Barthue a break. Overhearing Delka's chat with Murgin, Jed had found a way to lure Delka into a perfect trap.

Ten minutes passed. Jed Barthue glanced impatiently at his watch, then looked across the water. Wisps of fog made white apparitions in the darkness. The Doranic was gliding through a district where mists had but recently lifted. Barthue delivered an ugly growl; then shrugged his shoulders. Obviously, some portion of his plan was still to be established. Looking about, the muffled man saw someone coming from a passage. Despite the darkness, Barthue knew that it must he Delka.

"Mr. Knight?" he inquired, his gruff tone cautious.

"Yes." Delka's tone was quiet. "You are Third Officer Donaghy?"

"The same. Captain Murgin told me to get in touch with you. I put on civvies, to look like a passenger. I thought it best to see you tonight -"

"I understand," interposed Delka, his voice hardening. "I've caught on, Barthue. It looked like a spoof, that steward coming to my cabin. I doubted that I would find Donaghy here.

"Keep your hands as they are! Hold the cigar just as it is, in your right. Your left is nicely placed along the rail. I hold you covered, Barthue!"

Delka's right hand was in the pocket of a light overcoat. Barthue knew by Delka's tone that this was no bluff. Nevertheless, the crook managed a harsh chuckle.

"Clever of you, Delka," he sneered. "Jarvis Knight, eh? Well, it didn't work with me, old top. That's why I sent for you - so we could talk things over, on neutral ground, so to speak."

Barthue's tone had gained a persuasive smoothness, despite the slight persistence of the gruff voice which seemed part of his personality.

Delka started to reply; his voice was drowned by a deep-throated blare that sounded high above. The mighty whistle of the Doranic was delivering a blast. An answering whistle sounded, from off the liner's starboard bow.

"Seven minutes after two -"

Barthue made the comment, staring at his wrist watch without moving his left arm. Casually, he let his right hand move slowly up and down.

Delka noted the motion; but never guessed that watchers were spying it from the bulkhead, spotting the motion of a glowing cigar tip.

The Doranic whistled another basso signal. Amid that drowning sound, three men surged from the opening in the bulkhead. Kerry and two others formed the trio; they drove upon Delka in a body, burying the Scotland Yard man beneath them.

Delka's head cracked against the planking of the deck. Kerry yanked Delka's hand limp from its pocket. The blow had knocked the victim senseless.

A SHIP'S whistle was again answering the Doranic's signal. Tiny lights showed from the ocean's half haze. A boat lay off to starboard, engines stopped, awaiting the passage of the liner. The vessel looked like a small freighter, its lights far apart.

"The Zouave," chuckled Barthue. Then, surveying Delka: "Well, it's lucky for this blighter. He may have information that might prove valuable. My instructions were to take him alive, if possible. Come on, Kerry! Don't start to tie him up. Strap him with the life belts. Give me the flare. Hurry!"

While Kerry dashed back to the bulkhead, the other two men tossed aside a rope and produced two life belts from a rack. They strapped the preservers under Delka's shoulders. Kerry came back with a flare. Barthue pointed it upward and attached it to the belt on Delka's back.

"Set for fifteen minutes?" he inquired. "Waterproof, as I ordered?"

Kerry nodded.

"Overboard," ordered Barthue.

The three underlings hoisted Delka's unconscious form. Over the rail plopped the inspector's helpless form, scraping the side as it fell. The life belts brought Delka's head upward. Barthue chuckled; then motioned his aids back to the bulkhead. He saw a distant spurt of flame from the deck of the freighter.

The liner's engines were thrumming. The Doranic was again moving forward. Leaning outward from the rail, Barthue saw Delka's figure float away into darkness. Chuckling, the crook strolled in from the deck.

WHEN Cull knocked later at the door of 646, he was astonished to hear a growled command to enter. Cull had recognized the voice of Jed Barthue. The steward entered, to find the man who had taken Eric Delka's place.

"The job is done," announced Barthue. "Send the radiogram. It was the Zouave, Cull; but they were late with their flare. Delka's flare was set for fifteen minutes. They've seen it by this time.

"Tomorrow morning I meet Third Officer Donaghy when he comes here. I shall be Eric Delka - or, rather, Jarvis Knight. Always Jarvis Knight, except to those who know that Knight is Delka. But I shall not go about it badly.

"Suite 3612, at the Goliath. The luggage will be there. As Jarvis Knight, I shall prove that all the competent investigators are not in the employ of Scotland Yard."

Cull, leaving the cabin, pulled out a written radiogram. It was addressed to Stephen Lorry, Altano Building, New York. It contained a home-coming greeting signed "Wallace"; but Cull knew that it was word to someone higher up. Word to a hidden master crook, telling that Jed Barthue had succeeded in his scheme.

Crime had struck the Steamship Doranic; cunning crime that none aboard would suspect. A smooth crook had gained an opportunity to pose as a man from Scotland Yard. The Shadow, wherever he might be, as yet lacked any inkling of the full events aboard the liner that lay beyond the fog banks.

CHAPTER VI. HOPE IN THE NIGHT

CLICK - CLICK -

The half-muffled sound came dully to the ears of Eric Delka. Amid darkness that seemed abysmal, the Scotland Yard man listened. Delka's eyes had opened but they could see nothing. His ears, however, had managed to hear the repeated sound.

Click - Click - Again the noise ended. All remained black to Delka; but by this time he had sensed something of his surroundings. Stretching out a hand, he could feel the blankets of a bunk. From somewhere, came the throb of ship's engines.

Hazily, Delka remembered that scene on the Doranic. Jed Barthue, muffled in darkness, backed against the rail. Delka had covered the man he was after; he had felt the joy of triumph on that lower deck of the big liner.

Then had come a sweeping surge. Oblivion; after that, a brief respite of semiconsciousness. Delka could recall floating in the water. He remembered hands pulling him aboard a small boat.

Also, he recollected a struggle. A fight against men who seemed to be new enemies. He had tried to ward off a swinging oar blade. He had failed. Again, in that small boat, he had been treated to a knock-out blow.

Throbbing of engines meant that he was again aboard a ship. It was not the Doranic; the liner's engines were smooth, almost vibrationless. Delka knew that this dank cabin wherein he was bunked must be aboard an older, smaller ship. Some freighter, perhaps, from which the small boat had come to pick him up.

His clothes were dry; but they were not his own clothing. Rubbing fingers along a sleeve, Delka found that he was wearing a rough sweater. His trousers were of khaki. His shoes, when he felt them, proved to be canvas sneakers, three sizes too large.

Click - Click -

Again the Scotland Yard man heard the sound. This time, he located it on the opposite side of the cabin. Rising from his bunk, Delka felt his way through darkness. Reaching the wall, he discovered a closed porthole.

The rounded window was covered with cloth. Captors had made a blackened cell out of the cabin. Delka's first thought was to snatch away the covering; then he changed his mind. He found the catch of the porthole and began to undo the screwed fastening.

Click - Click -

The sound was from the other side of the porthole. Something tapping twice against the glass. The fastening was loose! Delka yanked open the port.

It was black outside; but the air of the sea came surging into the cabin. Then, as Delka thrust a hand out through the porthole, he encountered a smooth object in the space.

A small bottle. Hanging from a string.

THE bottle slipped momentarily from the prisoner's hand but it swung back again, in pendulum fashion. Delka drew it into the cabin. He shook the bottle. Something clattered softly inside it.

Light objects slipped into Delka's hand as he inverted the bottle. The prisoner recognized them by their touch. Loose matches, wisely provided by whoever had lowered the bottle. Delka struck match against the wall beside the porthole. The glimmer showed him that the bottle contained another item - a twisted roll of paper.

This proved to be a message, when Delka opened it. By the tiny flare of a match, the Scotland Yard man read a note inscribed in pencil. Hastily written, crudely spelled, it offered opportunity:

Dear Sir: We are loyal crew members who want to give you help.

You hav enemys on bord. May be we can sav you from them. It will meen

risk for us so we want 1000 dollers you must promis.

Friends.

The match light showed the stub of a pencil in the bottom of the bottle. The men on the deck above required a reply. Delka did not doubt that they were actually friends. The note asked for money only; to promise it would mean no greater risk than that which already existed.

Extinguishing a match. Delka felt in the pockets of his trousers; then realized suddenly that his own clothes were gone. He had been carrying a considerable amount of cash at the time of his capture. The money now belonged to his enemies.

But Delka had another possibility. He stretched his right hand to his left wrist and gripped a bulky wrist watch that was strapped there. His captors had not removed the timepiece. Probably they had considered it worthless after being in the water.

Delka removed the watch from his wrist. He pried open the back. Dry paper crinkled; its presence indicated the reason for the bulkiness of the wrist watch. Only a portion of the interior contained watchworks. The rest was a half-inch cavity wherein Delka kept reserve funds.

The prisoner struck another match. This glow showed British bank notes, all of high denomination. Delka knew that his would-be rescuers would accept pounds as readily as dollars.

He stuffed a few large notes into the bottle; then returned the others to his wrist watch. He tugged at the cord as signal; then let the bottle swing from the porthole. He heard the bottle click upward.

Crumpling the note, Delka tossed it through the port and chucked the matches after it. He closed the porthole; the wisdom of his prompt action became apparent just as he was fixing the fastening. Behind him, Delka heard the sound of a key grating in a lock. Someone had come to the cabin.

DELKA slid across to the bunk and slumped there. An instant later, dull light flooded the cabin from an outer passage. Two ruffians entered the cabin; one flashed a light in Delka's face. The Scotland Yard man opened his eyes and blinked.

"Come along," growled one of the arrivals, grasping Delka's shoulder. "Get movin', you! We've been waitin' for you to wake up."

Delka started to rise: then made a pretence of weakness. He sagged back with a groan and lay motionless upon the bunk. The man started to shake him; then the fellow's companion offered an objection.

"Leave him lay, Steve," said the second rowdy. "Wait'll I yank open that porthole an' give him some air."

"Oh yeah?" growled Steve. "Well, what's Rigger goin' to say about it? He said bring the mug up to the bridge."

"He said bring him up if we can move him."

"Well, ain't that what I'm doin', Bert? Wakin' him up?"

Bert had opened the porthole. He turned around to argue with Steve, while Delka continued his role of possum with two purposes. His first was to give opportunity for the men who had sent down the bottle; they might need the time to plan his rescue. His second idea was to learn all he could by listening to Steve and Bert.

"Rigger ain't in no hurry, Steve," Bert stated. "He's got to talk with the old man, up on the bridge. Get him primed to lay down the terms when we show up with this bird Delka."

"The skipper's welchin', eh?" questioned Steve, glancing at Delka and flicking his light to make sure the prisoner was motionless. "I thought maybe he was gettin' cold feet. What's Rigger doin' about it?"

"He don't have to do nothin'. We own the boat, don't we? Hilder may he captain of the Zouave, but Rigger Luxley gives the orders."

"Then why is he lettin' Hilder stall?"

"Just soft-soapin' the old man, that's all. Makin' him think we ain't goin' to be too tough. Hilder's got to cruise aroun' in this tub after we're through with it. An' what's more, he's got to navigate it while we're still on board. Savvy?"

"Sure! I get it, Bert. Well, leave it to Rigger. He'll keep the old man in line."

Steve began to shake Delka. He waited after one attempt; then became more rough. This time, the prisoner decided to respond. He came up to a sitting position and stared stupidly at the men who had come for him.

"O.K., Steve," decided Bert. "Hoist him up."

BETWEEN them, the two thugs supported the Scotland Yard man and moved him from the cabin. Stumbling between them, Delka kept up the pretence that he was groggy. They reached a companionway. Delka became a heavy burden going up the steps. At last they reached the deck. Here the pair halted to regain their breath.

Eyes half opened, Delka looked cautiously about. He was on the forward deck of the tramp steamer. Dim lights showed battened hatches and small, antiquated loading cranes. The bridge was just above; another flight of steps would be the next course.

There were men about the deck. Delka could make out their scattered figures. They looked like seamen but probably they were ruffians, like Steve and Bert. All except two; perhaps a few more. For Delka was positive that the note in the bottle had come from real friends on board.

Crew members had promised to aid him, if they could. But would their task be possible? From the conversation between Steve and Bert, Delka had learned that crooks must certainly outnumber real seamen aboard the Zouave. Hope dwindled within the prisoner as Steve and Bert began to move him toward the steps to the bridge.

It was then that Delka sensed a peculiar thrumming that sounded above the pounding of the Zouave's engine. The purr was from high above, like the roar of an airplane motor. Steve and Bert heard it also; they stopped short and looked upward.

Dark night persisted above the feeble glow of the freighter's top lights. No sign of an airplane's riding lights. Nothing but a dreary half haze that formed a remnant of the broken fog.

Then the thrumming ceased. Silence reigned and the higher blackness. Steve and Bert stood puzzled. They exchanged remarks.

"Sounds like some airplane," growled Steve. "But what's it doin' offshore without no lights?"

"Maybe some guy got lost in the fog," returned Bert. "Comin' up from Florida or somewhere, maybe. Guess he's spotted our lights, an' is takin' a chance on landin' in the water."

"So's we'll pick him up, huh? That's a laugh, ain't it? Fat chance Rigger will worry about that guy."

"Well, it's a cinch he won't try to land on the deck. So what's we got to do with it?"

The two thugs turned to drag their prisoner toward the steps to the bridge. At that moment, a man appeared at the doorway from the steps.

Delka was the first to see the new-comer, he needed no introduction to know that this was Rigger Luxley. Hard-faced, big-fisted, the man from the bridge glared at Steve and Bert."

WHAT'S holding you mugs?" demanded Rigger. "I told you to bring Delka up to the bridge."

"We're bringin' him, Rigger," replied Steve.

"And mooning on the way," snorted Rigger.

"On account of the airplane," stated Bert. "We was listenin' to it, Rigger. Up over the ship."

"What airplane?" quizzed Rigger. "I didn't hear any. I don't hear one now."

"Maybe it's hit the water," returned Steve. "We was just wonderin'. Anyway, Rigger, we had to get Delka awake before we could move him."

"An' we knew you was talkin' to the skipper," put in Bert. "Primin' him for -"

"You mugs know too much!" rasped Rigger. "Come on! Load this dope up the steps so's the old man can talk to him. I'm following."

Rigger glared as his henchmen shoved Delka toward the steps. With a snort, the mobleader prepared to follow. Then, suddenly, Rigger wheeled. A downward swishing sound had caught his attention; following it came startled cries from along the deck.

Staring, Rigger saw a monstrous object as it swooped straight downward like a bird of prey. An autogiro, descending straight from the night, squarely upon the deck of the Zouave.

The huge, windmill blades above the ship were spinning as the pilot made his precarious landing. Then the autogiro reached the end of its descent. One wheel struck a hatch and jounced; the other wheel tilted to hit the deck.

For an instant, it looked as though the landing would prove disastrous. The lower wing keeled heavily, starting toward a sidewise overturn. Then the autogiro righted, swung half about. The lower wing crashed against a derrick. Struts crackled momentarily then the craft wavered to a standstill.

RIGGER LUXLEY bounded forward upon the deck, hand thrust to pocket, ready to draw a revolver. He wanted to meet these intruders from the air; to challenge them and learn their identity. Rigger wanted no uninvited guests aboard the Zouave.

Half way to the autogiro, Rigger stopped short. He saw someone dropping from beside the plane. Rigger stared into the gloom, to make out the figure that he could barely discern.

Then from Rigger's startled hips came a wild cry - one that was echoed by his minions as they rose from beside the rails of the Zouave. Leader and henchmen - all of New York's underworld - had recognized the being from the autogiro.

In mocking challenge to the shouts of crooks came the burst of a strident laugh. Weird merriment broke from hidden lips beneath the lowered brim of a slouch hat. Automatics showed in the gloved fists of the cloaked figure that swept toward the center of the deck.

In one amazing second, men of crime had recognized their unexpected foe; and had heard his answer to their frantic outcry. The Shadow had come aboard the Zouave!

CHAPTER VII. THE RESCUE

To Eric Delka, the events which succeeded The Shadow's arrival were startling episodes of furious battle. Steve and Bert had turned about at the foot of the steps, their action an instantaneous response to Rigger's cry.

To Delka's amazement, he was forgotten. He saw a revolver glimmer in Rigger's hand; he realized suddenly that Bert and Steve were yanking guns as well. Like their leader; like the thugs along the deck, these two were springing out to deal with the common foe.

Automatics roared the opening of the fray. Delka saw tongued flashes from the cloaked apparition on the deck. He watched The Shadow whirl about and perform a sweeping fadeaway, as crooks fired in return.

Revolvers were barking in staccato unison. Wild men were aiming toward an elusive target. All the while, automatics were tonguing flame. The Shadow had become a living turret, stabbing shots toward every quarter.

Blinking, Delka saw men plopping to the deck. Sprawling figures were an immediate sequel to The Shadow's swift barrage. Others were pumping bullets viciously; but they lacked the uncanny prowess of the cloaked opponent.

Rooted during those first swift seconds, Delka realized that force of numbers could down that formidable fighter. The Shadow would be doomed, unless aid came. His deceptive tactics had succeeded only because his foemen had been too quick with their first shots.

Rigger Luxley had fired four wild bullets. The chief crook steadied for his next delivery. Then came the aid that The Shadow needed. A gunshot ripped from the cockpit of the autogiro. An unsuspected marksman - companion of The Shadow - had taken steady aim.

Rigger spun about, clipped by that timely shot. The Shadow's laugh resounded. Crooks wavered as they saw their leader slump. Delka heard a loud shout from the bridge above. He caught the boom of another timely weapon. An aiming crook sprawled. The captain of the Zouave had sided with The Shadow.

That shout was a command. Men came bounding out from crannies. They were crew members who had resented the skipper's sell-out to Rigger Luxley. They were eager to aid in downing men of crime.

Unarmed, they leaped for spots where crooks lay sprawled. They seized upon ready revolvers that had dropped from loosened hands. Crooks turned to meet these unexpected fighters.

THE sudden turn was fortunate. Rigger had brought more henchmen than those who had been on deck at the start of the swift battle. Reserves were surging up from the companionways. Crooks still outnumbered those who fought them.

But The Shadow had gained the edge. He had swung beyond a hatchway, having cleared away the closest opposition. While crew battled crooks, The Shadow dropped his guns and produced a second brace of automatics. With these new weapons, he thundered destruction into the ranks of new attackers.

The aid in the autogiro was sniping crooks. The captain was adding new shots from the bridge. It was Delka's turn to enter. The Scotland Yard man saw his opportunity. It lay against the very men whom he preferred to combat: Steve and Bert.

That pair had dropped back when Rigger staggered. Forgetting Delka, they were concentrating on The Shadow's hatchway, hoping to bag him while he fought the others. Steve and Bert were prone upon the deck, hard targets for The Shadow to uncover.

Fiercely, Delka pounced forward and landed squarely upon Steve's back. With downward driving fist, he smashed the crook's head to the deck. One instant more and he would have had the man's gun. Bert, however, intervened.

Swinging up, the second crook snarled an oath and jabbed his gun at Delka. Too late to get Steve's weapon, the ex-prisoner made a grab at Bert's revolver. He caught the thug's wrist. Bert's shot went wide. Then Delka and Bert went into a rolling grapple.

It was fast, equal combat, to the tune of roaring guns. The strugglers came half to their feet and staggered to a companionway. Bert twisted free and tried to aim. Delka jammed a punch to the crook's jaw. Bert toppled; then caught Delka's neck. Together they wavered, then pitched head-foremost down the companionway.

The fall favored Delka. He was resisting Bert's attack as they took the unexpected drop. He managed, somehow, to twist himself about as they skidded down the precipitous steps. Bert was beneath when they struck. The skull-crushing fall finished the vicious crook.

Delka rolled jouncingly along the passage. Eric thudded a wall; then came up to his hands and knees. Dizzy, weakened, he looked for Bert and saw the crook lying motionless. From the deck above, he heard the barking of guns, a sound that seemed strangely far away.

Delka came unsteady to his feet. He stared at an opened door; he saw two rough-clad men come into view. One uttered an excited cry as he observed Delka's face in the passage light. The other answered with a nod. Together, they grabbed Delka's arms.

The Scotland Yard man took them for new enemies. Vainly, he tried to use his fists to beat them off. Weakened by the fall, he found resistance useless. The pair overpowered him and dragged him, limp, along the passage toward the stern of the freighter.

IT was fresh salt air that revived Eric Delka. He had taken his share of beatings tonight; his final lapse into unconsciousness had been through sheer exhaustion. Once again, Delka came into hazy surroundings.

He was in a small boat, chugging under the power of a wheezy motor. Back through the darkness were the distant lights of the Zouave. Faint crackles announced that the battle had not yet ended aboard the freighter. Apparently crooks must have scudded through the ship, followed by vengeful crew members.

Two men were in the boat with Delka. As the Scotland Yard man groaned, one reached forward and roughly clamped his shoulder. The fellow spoke in a gruff but friendly tone.

"You're all right, matey," he informed. "We was comin' up to get you when you spilled down the companionway. Guess you didn't figure who we was."

"We're taking you ashore," volunteered the second. "Like we promised, when we sent you the bottle. It ain't far to the Jersey coast. We knows our bearings."

"We snook up from the engine room," said the first man, "so's we could slip you the bottle. We had to go down again. We was there when the fight started. That's why we couldn't come no sooner."

These were the crew members who had promised aid. They were stokers that accounted for the fact that they had been unwatched by Rigger. Delka knew that these loyal men must have overheard talk concerning his capture. They had done their best to rescue him. Nevertheless, he had cause for protest.

"Go back to the Zouave," he ordered. "We may be needed there, to help defeat the criminals."

One of the stokers shook his head.

"No use, matey," he decided. "That fight's won or lost by this time. Three of us ain't enough to cut no figure one way nor tother."

"Besides," prompted his companion, addressing Delka, "you're done up, matey. You wouldn't be no help, no-how. We're sticking to our bargain. You're going ashore."

Delka nodded weakly as he rested back on a gunny sack at the bow of the little motor boat. The lights of the Zouave were gone. The distant bark of guns could be heard no longer. There could be no use in returning.

Yet, as the boat chugged shoreward, Delka could do nothing but remember that fierce fray that he had witnessed. His thoughts concentrated upon that amazing figure of the night, that master battler who had come from nowhere, to overwhelm men of crime.

Dimly, Delka could remember rumors of strange events in London, years before. Of a fight down Limehouse way, in which a cloaked avenger had wiped out a horde of ruffians, to save a squad from Scotland Yard.

He had heard that being mentioned by a name. "The Shadow," they had called him. As he pieced together those recollections of the past, Delka decided that, once again, he had been treated to a sight of that weird battler's power.

Eric Delka was sure that he had been rescued by The Shadow. He felt elated at the thought that he was going safe ashore; he felt sure that The Shadow had triumphed in the fray aboard the Zouave.

Events had taken a turn to the Scotland Yard man's liking; but it was well, perhaps, that Delka's thoughts were dwelling on the past and not the future.

For Eric Delka, unsuspecting, was going straight toward new danger; into a spot where The Shadow would not be present to aid him against the threat of death.

CHAPTER VIII. ABOARD AND ASHORE

FAINT streaks of clouded dawn had touched the ocean's sky. Battle had long since ended aboard the tramp steamer Zouave. Sprawled bodes lay upon the forward deck; beyond them, the hulking shape of The Shadow's autogiro.

Captain Jason Hilder stood at the wheel, looking downward from the bridge. He was a rough man, calloused in his ways; but this morning, Hilder's face was grim. The skipper felt that tragedy had stalked the Zouave; and he knew that the fault was his own.

A mysterious fighter had dropped aboard to wage combat with crooks. Crew members had aided at Hilder's word; criminals had been driven below and hunted until all were annihilated. Full reports had come to the bridge.

But nothing had been heard from the real victor - that cloaked battler who had come by autogiro. He, too, had followed the fray when it went below; a man had sprung from the autogiro to join him. Both had taken up the chase of Rigger Luxley's evil cohorts; neither had returned.

Hilder wondered. Two of his crew had been killed: three had been wounded; two were missing. Reports had accounted for all of them. But the cloaked fighter had faded ghostlike, as weirdly as he had arrived. A complete search of the ship would be the only way to solve the mystery.

As he pondered, the captain gained the sudden impression that someone had come beside him. Turning from the wheel, he stared at a calm-faced stranger who had entered without a sound.

The arrival was attired in a well-fitting suit of black. His countenance was the most extraordinary one that Hilder had ever seen. It seemed masklike, with features chiseled as firmly as the profile of a statue.

Instantly, the captain realized that this must be the battler of the night before. Shifting to the wheel, Hilder stared uneasily toward the bow.

He felt qualms of conscience, even before the stranger spoke. When words did come, they were in a level monotone that told the captain that his guilt was known.

"MEN of crime," came the accusing words, "were aboard this ship with your knowledge. You were paid to take them as members of your crew. The sum that you accepted was five thousand dollars."

Hilder thrust a hand to his belt. He pulled out a thick wad of currency and tremblingly thrust the money toward his accuser. Huskily, the captain spoke.

"I took the money," he admitted. "I made the deal through a fellow called Sailor Martz. It was Rigger Luxley who came aboard. But I didn't know their game; that didn't come out until too late. I don't want the money that they paid me."

"You will keep it," stated The Shadow, "to be divided evenly between the families of the two loyal men who died in last night's battle."

"All right." Hilder nodded eagerly. "I'll do more than that! I have money of my own. I want to make amends for my mistake."

"Then state exactly," prompted The Shadow, "what occurred on board after you cleared New York. Tell why you shipped the criminals at all."

"They wanted to get away from New York," blurted Hilder. "That was what Martz told me; and I believed him. He said the police had nothing on them; but the town was too hot for them. Or likely to be. I was wrong -"

"Yet Martz made no statement of crime on sea?"

"Absolutely none! It was Rigger who brought that up, after we had cleared. He told me to lie to; near the path of the Steamship Doranic."

"State his purpose."

"He was to pick up a man thrown overboard from the liner. An Englishman named Eric Delka, from Scotland Yard. Rigger had a pal on the Doranic. He mentioned the crook's name. It was Jed Barthue."

"Continue."

"Rigger had brought more men than I expected. He held control of my ship. I had to follow his instructions. He picked up Delka, about a half hour before you came aboard. Maybe longer than that - pretty near an hour, I reckon."

The Shadow made no comment. Hilder stared straight ahead and continued his story.

"Delka was a prisoner in a cabin," stated the captain. "Rigger wanted to question him; to find out how much he knew about Jed Barthue. But Rigger wanted me to do the dirty work; to question Delka and to threaten him."

"Two men were bringing Delka up to the bridge. I was up against it; only thing I could do was go through with Rigger's orders. I was looking for a way out; but there was none, until you arrived."

"When you started that fight, I had my chance to chip in. I had a revolver hidden away up here. I used it, and I shouted to the crew to help. They knew what I was up against. They didn't lose much time.

"After the fight was over, I sent men to look for Delka. He was gone; but the first mate found out where he went. Two of the stokers had managed to make a deal with him. They took him ashore in the little motor boat. That happened while the fight was still going on."

HILDER ended his statement. His words had been spoken frankly. The Shadow knew that the captain honestly regretted his past actions. Steady eyes fixed on Hilder's troubled face, The shadow understood more.

Hilder was thinking of the future wondering how he could explain matters when the Zouave reached port. The Shadow spoke an answer to that problem.

"Send out a wireless report of mutiny," he ordered. "State that the mutineers were criminals who shipped as crew members. Chart your course to Norfolk. M