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THE THIRD SHADOW

Maxwell Grant

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CHAPTER I. THE MAN IN THE CAB

TRAFFIC was jammed about Times Square. The rush hour was on; a heavy drizzle added its impeding influence. Umbrella-laden pedestrians were blundering across crowded sidewalks; while taxicabs and other vehicles were skidding to sudden stops along the slippery paving.

A sallow, long-faced taxi driver was peering from the wheel of his parked cab. He was stationed on an eastbound street, fifty yards east of Broadway. Though his spot was a gloomy one, the cabby had high hopes of a passenger. On nights like this, wise persons who were seeking cabs invariably picked those that were parked away from heavy traffic.

Looking backward along the street, the cab driver was watching pedestrians on the other side. He was ready to hail any prospective customer who might be walking eastward. The cabby was counting upon a lucky break. He gained one unexpectedly. A man stepped up suddenly from the sidewalk on the right side of the cab, opened the door and clambered aboard.

The taxi driver heard the door slam. He swung about and looked through the partition to see a muffled man, whose overcoat collar was high above his chin. The driver spied the outline of a whitish face beneath a derby. He inquired:

"What address, sir?"

Huskily, the passenger gave an address near Park Avenue, on a side street. His voice choked as he completed the statement; and he followed with a spasm of heavy coughing. The driver started the taxi forward. The coughing ended; the passenger leaned forward and put a wheezy question:

"What time is it?"

The taxi driver pulled a cheap watch from his pocket and consulted it as he guided the cab toward Sixth Avenue. The light from a small hotel front enabled him to note the time.

"Quarter of six," said the driver. "I'll get you there in ten minutes, sir."

Swinging left on Sixth Avenue, the driver encountered trouble beneath the pillars of the elevated. Traffic was badly jammed; the cause was visible after the cab had managed to proceed one block. Smoke was pouring from the front of a little Chinese laundry; three fire trucks were on hand, dealing with the blaze.

A hoarse ejaculation of impatience came from the passenger in the cab. The driver responded. Without waiting for traffic to unsplice, he swung across to the left of the avenue; bucked oncoming cars, then thrust the cab between the "el" pillars toward his right. Skidding across the path of a southbound trolley car, he gained the slippery northbound tracks.

Safe from disaster, the driver regained control and spun for a right turn at the next eastbound street. An arm-waving traffic cop certified the driver's action. Away from the jam, the cab sped eastward.

THE cabby was still grinning over his smartness when he pulled up at the destination. He had made the trip in the ten minutes that he had estimated. A grunt of approval came from the muffled passenger. Then an inquiry:

"Do you have change for a large bill?"

The driver fished in his pocket.

"For five bucks," he stated. "Wait - maybe I've got enough change for a tenner -"

"A twenty is my smallest," interposed the passenger, huskily. "Here. Take this to the drug store." He thrust a twenty-dollar bill from a gloved hand. "Tell them it's change for Mr. Yorne. Bring the change to my house. The name is on the door-plate: 'Lucian Yorne.'"

The passenger stooped his head. The driver knew that he was reading the registration card, whereon the driver's own name - Luke Ronig - appeared with his photograph. A natural precaution, since the passenger was risking twenty dollars on Ronig's honesty. The driver saw his fare alight; he watched the muffled man ascend the brownstone steps of an old house.

Stepping from the cab, Ronig went to the drug store, which was at the corner, forty paces distant. The clerks were busy; it was a few minutes before one of them received Ronig's request to change a twenty. The clerk looked dubious, until he heard that the change was for Mr. Lucian Yorne. Then he changed the bill immediately.

"Talking to Mr. Yorne, were you?" he inquired.

Ronig nodded.

"How was his cold?"

"Sounded pretty bad. His voice was husky; he coughed like he was goin' to crack apart."

"Too bad. He's been that way for a week. Only yesterday, I told him he ought to stay indoors. Said he was too busy - didn't even have time to see a physician."

Carrying the change in his fist, Ronig left the drug store and went back to Yorne's house. He noted the name-plate as he rang the bell. A minute passed; then the door was opened by a tall, weary-faced servant whom Ronig took for an Englishman.

"Change for Mr. Yorne," he informed. "He told me to bring it to him."

"You may deliver the money to me," informed the servant, dryly. "I am Parlington, Mr. Yorne's butler. Kindly wait here a few moments, please."

The change amounted to nineteen dollars and forty cents. Parlington was counting it as Ronig watched him cross a gloomy hall and enter the distant door of a lighted room, which, from its location, might have been a study.

Ronig waited; the hall was silent except for the ticking of an old-fashioned grandfather's clock that registered a few minutes past six. The taxi driver compared the time with his watch. While he was doing this, he heard the sound of Yorne's hacking cough, coming from the open door of the distant study.

Half a minute later, Parlington returned. Eyeing the taxi driver rather dourly, the butler inquired:

"Your name is Luke Ronig?"

Ronig nodded.

"Mr. Yorne wanted to be sure," informed Parlington. "He does not trust cab drivers, as a rule. He saw your name on the card; so he told me to make positive that you were the right man."

"What's that got to do with it?" demanded Ronig. "I showed up with the dough, didn't I? Say -"

"Here is your tip," interrupted Parlington, frigidly. He handed Ronig forty cents. "Good evening."

RONIG pocketed the change. Parlington opened the door; the cabby went out and boarded his taxi. He headed for an avenue, swung southward and kept on until he reached a westbound street. Turning into that thoroughfare, Ronig looked over the pedestrians whom he passed. He pulled up to the curb and hailed a shabbily dressed man who was shambling through the drizzle.

"Hey, fellow!" greeted Ronig. "You walkin' over to Broadway?"

The shabby man nodded.

"Hop aboard," invited the cab driver. "I'll give you a lift; and a dime besides, for a cup of Java."

The shambler grinned as be climbed into the back of the cab.

"I get the idea," he chuckled. "Them coppers on Sixth Avenue won't let you jam into Broadway with an empty cab."

"You hit it, buddy," returned Ronig. "Half the cabs in town are over around Times Square, grabbing fares. The traffic cops keep us out until the lines get short. But they can't stop me if I've got a passenger."

Ronig was right. He crossed Sixth Avenue past the inspecting eye of a watchful traffic officer. When he neared the Times Square area, he spotted an opening and pulled up to the curb. The shabby man alighted and the taxi driver handed his fake passenger a dime.

"Here's your change," he said with a grin.

"And here's something for you, hackie," returned the shabby man. He held up an expensive umbrella with a gold handle. "Just found it on the floor when I was getting out. Guess your last passenger must have left it."

Ronig looked at the umbrella. Its handle bore the initials "L. Y." The cabby grunted and handed the shabby finder a quarter.

"I'll get a tip for takin' this where it belongs," said Ronig, "so the two-bits is yours, buddy. L. Y. - those initials mean Lucian Yorne. That was the name of the guy I just dropped."

"Better charge him for the full distance on the meter."

"Naw! That won't matter. I'm not takin' it back there now. Too much business around here; and there'll be plenty clear through until after the show-break. Plenty of fares from the theater crowds on a night like this.

"Yorne will have to wait until midnight for his umbrella. If he's asleep when I stop by there, I'll keep ringin' until I wake up his funny-faced flunky. Well - so long, buddy."

RONIG stood the gold-handled umbrella beside the driver's seat. The shabby man strolled away; a minute later, the cabby opened the door for two passengers who had spied his waiting taxi. Soon, Ronig was on his way again, wangling through traffic, making the most of the rainy weather that every alert taxi driver welcomes as a boon.

The umbrella was jogging by the cabby's elbow, its gold head catching the colored glimmer of passing neon lights. It would serve as a reminder of Ronig's later mission. As he drove along, the taxi man was repeating the names of Yorne and Parlington. He was wondering, too, how much of a reward he might expect when he returned the expensive umbrella to its owner.

Had Ronig been able to foresee the future, he would not have looked forward to it with pleasure. For that umbrella was due to cost him much in time and trouble. By the time Luke Ronig returned it, the law would be investigating the affairs of Lucian Yorne. For crime was abroad upon this drizzly night.

CHAPTER II. DEATH AFTER DUSK

A DOZEN minutes after Luke Ronig had driven from Lucian Yorne's, two other cabs pulled up in front of the old house near Park Avenue. Two couples alighted from each taxi. Prompt greetings were exchanged in the rain; then the four - two men and two women - ascended the steps of the house. Parlington admitted them.

Gravely, the butler greeted the arrivals by name. One was a middle-aged man, whom Parlington addressed as Mr. Elward; the lady with him was Mrs. Elward. The other man was younger. Parlington spoke to him as Mr. Renwood. The lady with Renwood was Miss Arthur.

Parlington ushered the guests into Yorne's study. Elward spoke in surprise when he saw that the room was empty.

"Where is Mr. Yorne?" he inquired. "Ah - I see that he is somewhere about. His coat and hat are hanging here."

"Mr. Yorne has gone out, sir," put in Parlington.

"But his coat and hat!" repeated Elward. "They are here, Parlington -"

"Only because I insisted that he don fresh garments, sir. His cold is quite severe; it would have been a great mistake for him to venture forth in a soaked overcoat."

"Yorne is making a mistake to go out at all," interposed Renwood. "You should take better care of him, Parlington."

"What can I do, sir?" pleaded the butler. "It was six o'clock when Mr. Yorne arrived home. I had been awaiting his arrival since five. I thought surely that he would stay; instead, he spent only a few minutes here. He went out, despite my protests."

"Quarter past six," remarked Elward, as the big clock chimed from the hallway. "Mr. Yorne told us that dinner would be at half past."

"He told me to postpone dinner, sir," stated Parlington. "It will not be served until seven o'clock."

"Then Mr. Yorne will be back by that time?"

"I hope so, sir; but I am not positive. Mr. Yorne said that his guests should begin dinner even if he had not arrived."

WITH that Parlington left the study and crossed the hall to a kitchen. While the guests chatted among themselves, the butler brought drinks. After that, they could hear him busied in the kitchen. Parlington was a capable servant. Despite the fact that he was cook as well as butler, he kept paying frequent visits to the study to make sure that the guests were constantly supplied with preliminary refreshments.

Conversation was flowing well between the guests. Elward and Renwood were friends of some standing, although their talk showed that they had not met recently.

"It's good to see you again, Jerry," remarked Elward to Renwood. "I hope business has been picking up with you."

"Not much, Kent," returned Renwood, with a shake of his head. "Some brokerage offices have been doing fairly well; but ours has been practically at a standstill. How is the advertising game?"

Kent Elward considered the question, as he puffed at his cigar. He nodded slowly.

"Quite good," he stated, "so far as certain types of accounts are concerned. Jerry, if there happened to be a way of promoting advertising with certain untouched industries, there would be a fortune in it!"

"You mean that certain businesses do not advertise in proportion to their earnings?"

"Yes. That is when compared with businesses that do advertise. Take Lucian Yorne's business, for example. He sells jewelry. Does he advertise it?"

"I don't think he does."

"I know that he doesn't. He is connected with the Allied Jewelry Company. Not a line of advertising comes from their offices. Those offices, by the way, are important enough to occupy a full floor of the Tower Building, on Thirty-fourth Street."

"But they are wholesalers -"

"Granted. Yet wholesalers advertise in other lines of business. But let us take a more specific case. Lucian Yorne handles retail accounts. He does not advertise."

"Yorne handles retail? Does he have a store?"

"No. He has a little office on West Forty-third Street. He meets special customers there. That is the only way he does business. I have known him to carry jewels valued at more than a hundred thousand dollars, just to display them to special customers."

"Where does he keep all those gems?"

"In the vaults of the Allied Jewelry Company. Of course, I can see why Lucian should preserve secrecy regarding his present transactions. I find no fault with that procedure. But what I can not understand is why he does not open a store of his own and keep his jewels there."

"You are right. His special customers could come to the store. He would gain other trade besides."

"Particularly if he advertised. We are back to the original premise, Jerry. If Lucian Yorne -"

Kent Elward paused as Parlington entered. The butler had come to announce that dinner was ready. The company went to the dining room and began their repast. They dined from seven until eight. Lucian Yorne did not return.

AFTER dinner, the four guests went back to the study. Jerry Renwood remarked that Lucian Yorne must have met some special customers. Kent Elward looked worried.

"I doubt that Lucian would have forgotten us," he stated. "He should have called by telephone, to tell us that he would be delayed. Unless he forgot the time."

Renwood pointed to the desk, where a large gold watch was lying. He turned to Parlington, who had entered with a tray of cordials.

"Is that Mr. Yorne's watch?" inquired Renwood.

"Yes, sir," answered the butler. "Mr. Yorne forgot the watch two times today. When he went out at noon; and when he went out just after six."

"That is why Yorne has forgotten the time," said Renwood to Elward. "Don't worry about him, Kent."

An hour passed. It was after nine when the doorbell rang. Parlington answered; the guests expected to see Lucian Yorne. Renwood remarked, chuckling, that their host must have forgotten his key as well as his watch. But it was not Yorne who entered the study. The man who came with Parlington was a tall, bald-headed individual, whose face was serious.

"My name is Loftus," he announced. "Clark Loftus, from Detroit. Two friends and myself had an appointment with Mr. Yorne, at his Forty-third Street office. We were to meet him there at half past eight. He did not arrive. His office is locked."

"Mr. Yorne left here a few minutes after six," declared Elward. "We arrived about six-fifteen. We came to have dinner with him -"

"So the servant tells me," interposed Loftus. "Frankly, gentlemen, it worries me. Mr. Yorne has jewels of mine, along with others that I had not yet purchased. That is why I came here personally, to talk to him. My friends are still outside his office."

No one had a suggestion. Loftus went to the telephone.

"Does anyone object to my calling the police?"

There were no objections. Loftus made the call. He turned to the solemn-faced guests.

"Detectives are to meet me outside the office," he stated. "Do any of you wish to come along?"

Elward hesitated; then shook his head.

"No," he decided. "It would be best for us to remain here, in case Lucian arrives. We shall have him call his office as soon as he comes in."

Clark Loftus bowed, and donned his drizzle-soaked hat. Elward and Renwood followed him to the door. They saw the stranger enter a waiting taxi cab.

IT was fifteen minutes later when Clark Loftus arrived at a small office building on West Forty-third Street. A police car was already there; a man in plain clothes stopped the arrival. Loftus identified himself. The dick nodded.

"Thought it was you," he stated. "Come on up. We've broken into Yorne's office. Inspector Cardona wants to see you."

Yorne's office was on the second floor. Arriving there, Loftus saw his two friends standing by the door, a detective beside them. One started to speak; the dick ordered quiet. Loftus stepped into the office. His path was blocked by a swarthy, stocky man, whom Loftus guessed to be Acting Inspector Cardona.

"What about Yorne?" queried Loftus, anxiously. "Have you found him?"

In reply, Cardona stepped aside. Loftus stared aghast at the sight across the room. There, sprawled in a swivel chair, lay a man whose outstretched arms hung limply toward the floor. Loftus saw a bloodstained shirt front; above it, a face that was rigid in death. He recognized the countenance.

"Lucian Yorne!" gasped Loftus. "He - he is dead -"

"Murdered!" added Cardona. "Shot through the heart."

Loftus choked; his words were inarticulate. At last, he managed to gasp:

"But - but we have been here - since half past eight. I heard no shots. Did - did my friends -"

Cardona spoke to a police surgeon who was standing beside the desk. The physician responded.

"This man was slain before half past eight," he stated. "He has been dead at least three hours."

"It is nine-thirty, right now," added Cardona. "That puts the murder at six-thirty or earlier."

"Six-thirty!" exclaimed Loftus. "That is just about the time when Yorne should have arrived here. He left his residence shortly after six. It's only a dozen minutes or so, by cab."

"A good point," decided Cardona. "We'll go up to the house. I've already ordered two men to be there. But before we start, there are some questions I'd like you to answer, Mr. Loftus."

IT was nearly eleven when Cardona and Loftus arrived at Yorne's residence. An hour and a half had cemented their relationship.

Joe Cardona had long been recognized as the ace detective on the New York police force. In the capacity of acting inspector, he had enlarged his fame. There were times when Cardona was quick to recognize persons who were free from blame in crime. Tonight was one of them; for Joe's initial suspicion of Loftus had ended by the time they reached Yorne's.

At the old mansion, Cardona found four very impatient people awaiting him. They were the guests, all detained by the police.

Cardona listened to Kent Elward and Jerry Renwood. He believed their statement that they had arrived at six-fifteen. More than that, Elward and his wife both established the fact that they had come directly from their home; while Renwood proved that he and Miss Arthur had been with friends at a tea dance in the Hotel Goliath.

"None of you could have been at Yorne's office," stated Cardona, "but that's not the point we're after. What I want to know is, when and where Lucian Yorne was last seen alive."

"According to Parlington," declared Elward, "he was here between six and six-ten. Long enough to put on another coat and hat."

"So I've been told." Cardona studied the hat and coat that were hanging in the study. "An old coat and an old derby just about like the ones that Yorne was wearing when we found his body. What about these?" Joe turned to Parlington. "Did Yorne generally wear them?"

"No, sir," replied the butler. "He wore them this afternoon because the weather was inclement. I insisted that he change to his new hat and overcoat, despite the drizzle. He was almost drenched, sir, when he arrived at six o'clock."

"You're sure it was at six o'clock?"

"Positive, sir! He sent the taxi driver to the drug store to change a twenty-dollar bill. I received the cab man when he came to the front door."

"A twenty-dollar bill, eh?" queried Cardona. "How many of them did he have?"

"I don't know, sir. Mr. Yorne usually carried at least a hundred dollars."

"No money in his pockets when we found him. Whoever took the jewels must have lifted his cash, too. Suppose we find out who changed that money down at the drug store."

CARDONA eyed Parlington as if he doubted the servant's story. Parlington noted it and looked troubled. He began to protest, swearing that his account was a true one. Cardona silenced him.

"Yorne was murdered before six-thirty," emphasized Joe. "He could have left here at six-ten and gone directly to his office. But we only have one man's statement - yours, Parlington - that Yorne was here. We need more than that -"

An interruption. An officer had arrived from the front door, bringing a man with him. The fellow was a taxi driver; he was carrying a gold-headed umbrella. Parlington uttered an ejaculation of happy relief.

"This is the man!" exclaimed the butler. "He brought Mr. Yorne home at six o'clock! He is the taxi driver who changed the twenty-dollar bill! His name is Ronig -"

"How do you know that?" snapped Cardona.

"His boss told him," put in Ronig. "He took a squint at my license card. Wanted to lamp my mug and my moniker, in case I didn't show up with the change for his twenty. Then he was dumb enough to leave his umbrella in my hack. I didn't have a chance to bring it back here until after the show-break."

Another policeman was arriving with the clerk from the corner drug store. This fellow recognized Ronig and nodded to the taxi driver. Cardona began to quiz the hackie.

Ronig's account was concise. He gave every detail from the moment when his muffled passenger had entered the cab near Times Square. He gave an imitation of Yorne's husky voice. It was corroborated by the drug clerk; also by Elward and Renwood.

Parlington identified the umbrella. The initials on the handle supported the butler's testimony. Cardona took final notes; then announced that his quiz was finished. He departed with Clark Loftus. On the way to the Detroiter's hotel Cardona delivered an opinion.

"We've established the time of the murder," decided the acting inspector. "According to the facts at hand, it was between six-twenty and six-thirty. We knew that Yorne was killed before six-thirty; now we've found out just how long before. What's more, that time element has eliminated three persons who were pretty close to Yorne.

"Elward - Renwood - Parlington. Those three have a clean bill. The job is to find out who else could have known Yorne well enough to guess that he had jewels on him. I've got a hunch that the murderer won't be far away. It won't be long before I pick him out."

Though often blind ones, Cardona's hunches were usually correct. Such was the case with this one. Joe Cardona might have picked out the murderer tonight, had he used deduction with his hunch. That task, however, happened to be beyond Cardona's limit.

The murder of Lucian Yorne had been a clever crime; more than the direct killing which Joe Cardona supposed it to be. The ace detective had failed to guess the flaws. So far as Cardona was concerned, the crime would remain an unsolved one. Until some keener brain intervened, the murderer of Lucian Yorne would remain unpunished.

SUCH a brain would soon enter the case. For in New York was a master sleuth, whose specialty lay in solving crimes like this one. That being was The Shadow, mysterious avenger who dealt with men of evil. Perhaps Joe Cardona's confidence was due to the fact that the ace knew of The Shadow's presence.

It was The Shadow, not Joe Cardona, who would pick out the murderer of Lucian Yorne. Yet oddly, his detection of that crime when it came, would start a chain of other, unexpected circumstances. The Shadow, from the moment when he concentrated on this case, would be upon the threshold of criss-crossed adventures that would rival any that even he had previously experienced.

CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW DEDUCES

TWO days had passed since the death of Lucian Yorne. Joe Cardona was seated at his desk in police headquarters, fuming over a stack of typewritten reports. Across from him was a stolid-faced companion: Detective Sergeant Markham. He was listening to Cardona's comments.

"It's a one-man job!" Cardona thwacked his fist upon the desk. "And there are no thugs in it! They wouldn't have let Yorne get into his office. They'd have decoyed him - or snatched him -"

Cardona paused and shook his head. He glowered at a pile of newspapers - journals that blazoned the news of murder. The very sight of those stacked sheets was irritating to Joe.

"I talked with Barstow Leland," stated the ace, referring to a report. "He's the president of the Allied Jewelry Company. The only man there who knew that Yorne had gone out with a hundred thousand dollars worth of sparklers. Yorne left that office before five-thirty. At quarter of six, he entered Ronig's cab at Times Square."

A long, streaky shadow spread across the desk. Cardona looked up to see a lanky, stoop-shouldered man entering the office. Joe grinned at the sight of the wan-faced arrival who was carrying mop and bucket. The newcomer was attired in overalls.

"Hello, Fritz!" greeted the acting inspector. "Early again, eh? Five-thirty isn't soon enough for you. Every now and then you show up at five."

"Yah!"

Fritz uttered the reply in a guttural tone. He started to work with mop and bucket. Unmindful of the janitor's presence, Cardona resumed his talk with Markham.

"Yorne could have taken the subway to Times Square," declared the ace, "then hopped a taxi to avoid the jammed shuttle line over to the Lexington Avenue sub. Or he may have hopped a taxi right outside of the Tower Building, there at Thirty-fourth Street. If his cab got in that Times Square jam, he'd have been wise to ditch it and take another."

"He could have gone to his office," suggested Markham. "It was right there on Forty-third Street."

"I've thought of that," nodded Cardona. "But I can't see why he would have gone there once, then home and back again. If he'd gone to his little office and stayed there a half hour, that would have made sense. He could have had some work to do - some phone calls to make -"

"Maybe he stowed the jewels there, then got worried about them on the way home."

"Not a chance! There's no safe in the office. Yorne was no sap. He knew how to take care of gems when he carried them."

Glumly, Cardona began to finger the report sheets. One by one, he discussed the names mentioned there.

"CLARK LOFTUS was the only customer who knew that Yorne would be at his office at eight-thirty," declared Joe. "Half of the gems belonged to Loftus. The friends that he brought with him were reliable; they didn't know their destination until they arrived. I've double-checked on Loftus. He stands the strain.

"Kent Elward apparently knew a lot about Yorne's business. Elward is an advertising man of good standing; what's more, he has an alibi right up to the time when he arrived at Yorne's house. So the fact that he knew a lot doesn't hold against him.

"Jerry Renwood works in a stockbroker's office; he's sort of a man-about-town, so he doesn't rate as high as Elward. But Renwood didn't know much about Yorne's business. What little he learned was mentioned to him up there at the house, while they were waiting for Yorne to show up. That puts Renwood out.

"As for Parlington, the butler, he could have known a lot about Yorne. But Parlington was there at the house when Yorne came in at six. When Ronig, the cabby, showed up with that umbrella, it clinched Parlington's story. So there you have it!

"Beyond that, there's nothing. No customers of Yorne's; no friends who knew his business; no other servants who ever worked for him. I've tried to figure a team-up that might account for the crime; but that flops."

Rising from his desk. Cardona arranged report sheets in pairs and indicated them with his forefinger.

"Elward plus Renwood," he suggested. Then, with a shake of his head: "No. Their alibis are separate until they reached the house. The two women and Parlington substantiated the time that they arrived there.

"Another combination that don't click is Ronig and Parlington. You can't figure a cab driver and a flunky as pals; even if they were, what of it? Ronig could have laid outside the house and picked up Yorne for the trip back to the office; but how did he happen to get Yorne in the first place, except as a chance passenger?"

"Ronig is pals with the hackies who were in that line down by Times Square. Talking with some of them right up until the time he got his fare. I thought I was smart for a while, figuring Ronig as the one man in the game, but the more I quizzed him, the more I saw that he was out. And to try to tie with Parlington only made it worse."

Cardona picked up his report sheets. He donned hat and overcoat. Standing by the desk, he delivered final comment.

"It's a one-man proposition," he affirmed. "All five that I've mentioned are out of it, though. That's what I've got to tell the commissioner, when I see him at seven o'clock."

"Where?" inquired Markham. "At his office?"

"No," replied Cardona. "At the Cobalt Club. He's having dinner there. I'm going to grab chow before I drop in on him."

CARDONA stalked from the office; Markham followed. Fritz remained alone, conscientiously working with mop and bucket. Five minutes passed; then a change came over the stoop-shouldered janitor. A keen light awoke in his dull eyes. His frame straightened.

Even Fritz's blackened shadow seemed to gain life. Its profile formed a hawklike silhouette, as the janitor gathered implements and made for the door to the hallway. Spying no one in sight, Fritz showed briskness as he headed for an obscure locker.

There he put away the mop and bucket. From the locker, he drew forth folds of black cloth. A cloak settled over shoulders; a slouch hat fitted upon his head. Long hands drew on thin black gloves; a whispered laugh sounded from invisible lips.

This was not Fritz, the janitor. The masquerader had transformed himself into a weird, cloaked being, whose gliding course was an elusive path. A shape that belonged with night, the intruder edged out into the early evening darkness. Gloom swallowed his departing form.

He was The Shadow!

Made up as Fritz, The Shadow had listened in on Joe Cardona's findings. Thereby, he had gained his final check on circumstances involving the murder of Lucian Yorne. He had learned of Cardona's appointment with Police Commissioner Ralph Weston at seven o'clock. The Shadow had work to do before that hour.

HIS next appearance occurred within a black-walled room. A blue light clicked; focused rays spread downward upon the surface of a polished table. White hands came into the light. They fingered clippings; they made notations in ink of vivid blue, that faded away after it had dried. The Shadow was summarizing the case of Lucian Yorne.

His written comments concerned a most essential point: namely, Yorne's movements from the time that he had left the Tower Building at Thirty-fourth Street. The Shadow was banking on the testimony of Barstow Leland, president of the Allied Jewelry Company. He knew that others must have seen Yorne leave the offices of the jewelry company, even though they did not know that he was carrying gems with him.

Next: Times Square - after a gap of fully fifteen minutes. The testimony of Luke Ronig, the taxi driver. Circumstances alone had introduced Ronig to Yorne. Ordinarily, a cabby would have no guess as to the identity of a passenger, particularly on a drizzly night. That trip from Times Square to the house near Park Avenue was but a hazy episode in itself.

What gave it strength was the subsequent event: Parlington's testimony of Yorne's arrival and immediate departure. Ronig had talked with Yorne outside; he had given money to Parlington inside. The Shadow came to a definite conclusion that Joe Cardona had not actually considered.

Though Lucian Yorne's progress seemed distinctly traceable from the Tower Building to his home, it actually was not a trail. Only two men who knew Yorne had testified that they had seen him and talked with him in the light. One was Leland, president of the jewelry company; the other was Parlington, the butler.

Before five-thirty; after six o'clock. Therein lay a period that interested The Shadow more than the time space between six-twenty and six-thirty, the ten minutes upon which Joe Cardona had concentrated. Evidence - chiefly testimony - had caused the ace to establish the time of the murder; and therefore to minimize other factors.

Written words became concise deductions, as The Shadow inscribed them. He was putting down other facts that Cardona had mentioned. So far as his quizzes were concerned, Joe had done well. In a sense, he had done too well. He had swept himself away along a blind trail.

The Shadow's light clicked out. A whispered laugh resounded in this room he called his sanctum.

Then came silence. The Shadow had chosen a new destination. He needed time for preparation before he approached it.

SEVEN o'clock. Police Commissioner Weston was dining in the grillroom of the Cobalt Club, when someone approached his table. The commissioner looked up, expecting to see Joe Cardona. Instead, he recognized his friend Lamont Cranston.

An interesting chap, Cranston. He formed a contrast to the police commissioner. Weston was a man of military bearing, with brisk manner and pointed mustache. Cranston was of leisurely manner; his well-molded face was masklike and impassive. A globe-trotting millionaire, Lamont Cranston had gained his share of adventure. Yet when he was present in New York, he seemed indolent and bored with life.

Weston invited Cranston to sit down for a chat. Hardly had the millionaire taken his place across the table when Joe Cardona arrived. The ace nodded to Cranston; they had met before. Weston motioned Cardona to a chair. He asked for the reports. Joe gave them.

"Very unsatisfactory, Cardona," was the commissioner's verdict. "You are getting nowhere with this case!"

"But I have eliminated five men," protested Cardona. "That is something of a start, commissioner -"

"A start that you had two nights ago." Weston snapped his fingers. "Those men were out of the case like that. Their very testimonies cleared them."

"You said to check up on them -"

"Certainly! Partly as a matter of procedure; partly to see if they could name persons concerned with Lucian Yorne. Since they know nothing, you should make inquiry elsewhere."

"I intend to do so, commissioner. But in the meantime, I must know what to do about these witnesses. Some of them may want to leave New York City."

"Then let them."

"Very well, commissioner."

Cardona arose and gathered his report sheets.

"They will all be up at Yorne's house, tonight," he stated. "I told them to be there. That's where I'm going right now, commissioner."

"Wait here a few minutes," insisted Weston. "I shall accompany you, Cardona. Well, Cranston, would you like to come with us?"

"Sorry, commissioner." Cranston had risen. "I have another appointment. One of my own, with a man whom I must meet privately. Good evening."

A SLIGHT smile showed upon the fixed lips of Lamont Cranston, as he strolled from the grillroom. Reaching the lobby, the millionaire walked to the street; a doorman signaled to the chauffeur of a parked limousine. The big car rolled up to the door. Lamont Cranston entered.

"Drive northward," he said, through the speaking tube. "Along Park Avenue, Stanley. I shall tell you when to stop."

The chauffeur nodded. The big car pulled away. Lamont Cranston opened a small bag that lay upon the floor; from it, he extracted garments of black. A cloak slipped over his shoulders; a hat settled on his head. A soft laugh filled the closed rear of the limousine.

Like Fritz, Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. One guise served for visits to Cardona's office; another for meetings with the police commissioner. But when he traveled upon lone excursions, The Shadow preferred his chosen garb of black.

The Shadow was right when he had stated that he had an appointment with a man whom he must meet privately. But both Weston and Cardona would have been astounded had they known the name of the man and the place where the appointment was to be.

The man whom The Shadow expected to meet was the murderer of Lucian Yorne. The place that he had chosen for the meeting was the very spot to which Weston and Cardona would soon be on their way. The Shadow's meeting would take place at the home of the late Lucian Yorne!

CHAPTER IV. ONE MAN SEES

IT was nearly eight o'clock when Commissioner Weston and Joe Cardona arrived at Yorne's house. Cardona had deputed an officer to precede him. It was the bluecoat who answered the door and conducted the arrivals to a front reception room. Larger than Yorne's study, this room was a better place for such assemblage.

Elward and Renwood were present. They were seated, while Parlington was standing by the wall. Ronig was also at the meeting; the taxi driver looked ill at ease in these surroundings. While Cardona was introducing Weston to the group, the doorbell rang. The arrival was Loftus.

Commissioner Weston summarized the case. He made references to Cardona's report sheets; he repeated questions that Joe had asked before. They brought uniform responses from the witnesses. Weston was satisfied with the check-up.

"Apparently, none of you can offer further aid," decided the commissioner. "We appreciate the testimony that you have already given. We are sorry that any of you should have been inconvenienced. However, since developments are still pending, I should like to know regarding your individual plans."

"I should like to go back to Detroit," asserted Loftus, promptly. "Naturally, I shall be available at any time. Should you gain any trace of the stolen jewels, I can come to New York immediately."

Weston nodded his approval.

"I had planned a trip abroad," stated Elward, a trifle nervously. "My wife and I arranged passage one week ago. Of course, if - well, commissioner, if you have an objection -"

"I have none."

Elward smiled in pleased fashion. He mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. Parlington spoke up.

"I am a British subject, sir," stated the butler. "I came to Canada a few years ago, with Sir Arthur Grendenning. I was anxious to visit the States, so Sir Arthur arranged to have me take service with Mr. Yorne. They were friends, sir.

"I can return to service with Sir Arthur. He is still in Montreal, and would be glad to have me in his household. That is where I should like to go, sir, at whatever time would be convenient. Should I be required here, I shall return at once."

"All right, Parlington."

Weston nodded as he spoke. He had referred to Cardona's report on Parlington. It contained full details of the butler's past service with Sir Arthur Grendenning.

"I shall be right here in New York," remarked Renwood. He was lighting a cigarette as he spoke; his manner lacked nervousness. "Any time you want to see me, commissioner, just put in a call to my brokerage office."

Weston nodded and looked toward Ronig. The taxi driver grinned.

"My cab's outside, waiting," he said. "I'll be in it any time I'm wanted. If you don't mind doing me a favor, commissioner, give me a pass so I can bust past them wise traffic cops on Sixth Avenue. I'd like to go right through 'em and make the show-break."

The commissioner smiled indulgently. He drew a card from his wallet and wrote a brief order of approval. He handed it to Ronig. The taxi driver started toward the door, to find Loftus waiting for him.

"I'll use your cab," remarked the man from Detroit. "I want to reach my hotel in a hurry. You can drive me there, Ronig."

THE two left. Weston looked about and noted that Elward and Parlington had also gone. He glanced inquiringly at Cardona.

"Elward's in the study," explained Joe. "He's calling Mrs. Elward, to tell her that they can take their trip to Europe. Parlington went upstairs to get his luggage. He's going to take the late train to Montreal."

Renwood was a listener to this statement. Puffing at his cigarette, the young man watched Weston and Cardona begin a review of the report sheets. Casually, Renwood strolled from the room and entered the front hall. The front door was closed; apparently the policeman had gone outside. Renwood turned about; then stopped.

Footsteps were coming down the stairs, which lay past the door to the study, at the end of the long side hall. Renwood was standing where he could not be seen; but he chanced to notice a wall mirror that gave him a view directly to the stairway. There was a light at the foot of the stairs; hence Renwood's view was clear.

The man who had descended was Parlington. The servant was carrying two large suitcases. He turned right; Renwood knew that he had stepped into the pantry. It was then that Renwood saw the sight that held him spellbound.

Blackness moved. It came from the end of the hall just past the stairway. Shrouded, that mass looked vague, yet living. As it advanced, Renwood thought that it would take human form; then his view was clouded, for the shape had come in front of the stairway light.

Renwood blinked as vision cleared. The shrouded figure had faded into nothingness.

Where had it gone?

Renwood had two solutions. One was the pantry, where Parlington was; the other possibility was the study, where Elward was telephoning. The mirror gave no view of either door. Renwood had merely guessed that Parlington had taken to the pantry, for he had seen the direction of the servant's turn. But that shape in blackness had faded too mysteriously for anyone to guess its choice.

On tiptoe, Renwood moved from his place of obscurity. He went back through the hall. He stopped between two doors that stood ajar. On the right was the study; Renwood could hear Elward talking on the telephone. On the left was the pantry; a strange stillness reigned there.

On a hunch, Renwood edged to the left and peered through the crack of the door.

THE room was dimly lighted by a globe set in a wall niche. Within its walls, two figures formed a striking tableau. One was Parlington; the servant was standing beside the china closet in the corner. He had opened the door of the closet; from it, he had removed a stack of small black boxes. Turning, with these prizes in his grasp, he had stopped at sight of the being who had followed him.

This second figure was that of a black-cloaked intruder. Renwood could see the stranger clearly. The weird visitor was standing by the open door to the kitchen, turned half away from Renwood. Hence Renwood, though he saw the shape, was unable to spy the burning eyes that glared in Parlington's direction.

He could guess the power of those eyes only from his observation of Parlington's features. The butler's face had whitened; his whole frame was trembling. Then Renwood saw another threat: the muzzle of an automatic projecting from a black-gloved fist. He heard a whispered tone of suppressed challenge. He caught the words that Parlington uttered:

"The Shadow!"

Parlington's recognition revealed the servant's caliber. It told that he was a man of crime; one who knew the identity of the avenger who trapped him.

Renwood heard a hissed command. He saw Parlington's hands lower. The servant laid the boxes on a shelf beneath the china closet. Trembling, he opened them. The glitter of gems sparkled in the light.

The Shadow had stepped closer to his quarry. Renwood saw one gloved hand thrust a pen and paper toward Parlington. Still quaking, the servant took them. Then Renwood listened to a sibilant statement, as The Shadow dictated words to Parlington.

"THIS confession," hissed The Shadow, "is made by -"

A pause. Parlington, himself, blurted out the name:

"Henry Durwell!"

"Henry Durwell," repeated The Shadow, "alias Parlington, the murderer of Lucian Yorne."

With twitching lips, Parlington was writing the words. New statements came, in The Shadow's voice. He was speaking for Parlington; the man was writing, despite his tremors.

"I knew that Yorne would be coming to his office." The Shadow paused to watch Parlington write. "I waited for him there. I shot him when he arrived. I took the jewels and his money. Yorne had worn his new hat and coat; I was wearing his old ones.

"I took a cab that happened to be Ronig's." Coldly, The Shadow was still speaking for Parlington. "I talked in a hoarse voice to imitate Yorne. I sent Ronig to change the twenty-dollar bill. I received Ronig when he arrived with the change. I pretended that Yorne was in his study.

"That was just after six o'clock. When Elward and Renwood arrived at six-fifteen, they established my alibi from that time onward. I had carried Yorne's umbrella. I purposely left it in the cab. I made Ronig think that Yorne had told him my name, so that, later, if necessary, I could have the police find him.

"I, alone, was responsible for the crime. I was glad to leave England" - The Shadow's tone was significant - "because of robberies that I had committed there. Crimes which had remained undiscovered."

Renwood stared. He wondered how The Shadow had guessed the past of Henry Durwell, alias Parlington. Then, suddenly, the answer struck him. Parlington's recognition of The Shadow had been the clue. It proved the servant to be a man of former crime; one who feared this avenger, whose name was dreaded by all crooks.

"With this note" - The Shadow added final statements - "I leave the stolen jewels. The gun that you will find is the one with which I killed Lucian Yorne."

A pause, while Parlington completed the writing. The Shadow added:

"Your signature - and alias."

Fearfully, Parlington scrawled both names by which he had been known. Then came another order from The Shadow:

"The revolver!"

AMAZED, Renwood watched Parlington reach into his coat pocket and produce a .32. Trembling, the servant held the weapon, but dared not use it. The sight of the looming automatic made his gun seem puny.

Then The Shadow faded; his tall form blended with the darkness of the kitchen beyond the pantry. Parlington was alone, holding his revolver.

Yet the crook still felt The Shadow's presence. That mysterious visitor had completely sized Parlington's caliber. The Shadow knew what the crook would do, once his crime had been discovered.

Renwood watched Parlington raise the muzzle of the revolver to his temple. The murderer was bent on suicide. The shot that would produce his own death would bring Cardona on the run, to find the butler's confession lying with the reclaimed jewels.

As Renwood stared, a heavy hand clamped on his shoulder. The young man swung about, to be promptly thrust aside. The arrival was Joe Cardona. Stepping from the reception room, the inspector had seen Renwood peering at the pantry door. As he pushed the eavesdropper aside, Cardona gave a demanding growl; with his other hand, he shoved the pantry door inward.

Cardona saw Parlington, with gun still to his head. The ace sleuth spied the glittering jewels. With a roar, Joe drove inward, yanking a Police Positive from his pocket. His gun, like Parlington's glimmered in the light.

The effect was instantaneous. The Shadow's spell was broken. New murder - not suicide - became Parlington's desire.

As Cardona drew, Parlington jumped back and aimed his own gun for the ace. Renwood, back at the doorway, saw the snarling butler gain the bulge. He knew that Parlington would beat Cardona to the shot. But before Parlington could fire, a burst of flame spat from the kitchen; with it a reechoing roar that came as sequel to The Shadow's judgment.

A sizzling bullet speeded from the kitchen, to find its lodgment in Parlington's gun-wrist. A howl came from the servant's lips as his finger refused its task of pulling the trigger. Then, before the crook could recover, Cardona's own gun barked amid the echoes.

Firing instinctively, Joe drove a stream of bullets into the murderer's body. Parlington succumbed.

Renwood's gaze turned toward the kitchen door. For the first time, the eavesdropper saw the burning eyes of The Shadow. Glowing orbs from darkness, they made the startled observer drop back into the hall. As he retreated, Renwood heard the whispered sibilance of a triumphant laugh.

It was The Shadow's knell for the deserved fate that had come to a man of evil. Parlington, slayer of his master, was dead. Not by his own hand, but from the bullet justly dealt by Joe Cardona. The ace had taken quick advantage of the respite that The Shadow had given him.

WESTON and Elward were dashing into the hall to find Renwood gasping like a man who had experienced an apoplectic stroke. Renwood could barely point to the door of the pantry.

Weston and Elward kept on; Renwood managed enough nerve to follow. They found Cardona holding the signed confession and the jewels, with Parlington's body on the floor beside him.

Renwood glanced nervously toward the kitchen door. He saw no sign of The Shadow. The master sleuth had completed his appointed task. He had vanished out into the night.

In the talk that followed, Joe Cardona listened sympathetically to Renwood. The young man stated that he had seen Parlington go into the pantry; that he had wondered why the servant did not come out. He had gone to the door - so he said - just in time to see Parlington raise the revolver to his head. The sight, Renwood claimed, had unnerved him.

Joe Cardona believed the story. He wanted to believe it, because he was glad that no mention had been made of the shot from the kitchen. Joe knew that he had been saved by The Shadow; he could guess whose influence had impelled Parlington to turn yellow at the moment when his get-away was clear. But Joe knew also that The Shadow would prefer his part to be forgotten.

When he left the house, Jerry Renwood gave way to nervousness that he had managed to repress until he walked alone. Striding along Park Avenue, he felt the fearful sensation that eyes were watching him; that somewhere, an unseen figure was stalking his path.

Until tonight, Renwood had been calm, although he had been a possible suspect in the murder of Lucian Yorne. Parlington's confession and death had cleared Renwood of all implication. It was odd, somehow, that he should feel terror now that the case of Lucian Yorne was solved.

There was an answer. Jerry Renwood had seen The Shadow. He had learned how that weird master dealt with evildoers. Jerry Renwood feared The Shadow; the reason, logically, was because Renwood held a secret of his own. Though blameless so far as Yorne's death was concerned, Renwood knew that he could be implicated otherwise.

Contempt for the law had been his motto. But he had quailed at the sight of The Shadow, who had stepped in where the law had faltered. Jerry Renwood had seen The Shadow; and deep within, he felt the sinking fear that The Shadow had seen him.

CHAPTER V. THE SECOND SHADOW

AT two o'clock the next afternoon, Jerry Renwood came from the doorway of a restaurant on Broadway. He spied a waiting taxicab; one look at the driver worried him. He was sure that he had seen the same man earlier that day, near the downtown brokerage office.

It was partly on account of that cab that Renwood had come uptown for lunch. He had wanted to test his hunch that he was being watched.

Renwood turned about and walked up Broadway. Looking over his shoulder, he made sure that the taxi did not turn about to keep him in sight. The cab remained stationary; but Renwood was lucky enough to spot another man who might be a follower. This stranger was a young chap who happened to stroll from the restaurant where Renwood had lunched.

Increasing his gait, Renwood thought of a hasty plan to shake off the man who was trailing him. He was on the west side of Broadway; he quickened his pace to reach the next street. There he darted into a subway entrance; pulling a nickel from his pocket, he pounded down the stairs in hope that he might gain a break.

It happened as Renwood wanted. Just as he neared the turnstile, a south-bound local rattled into the station. Renwood dropped his nickel in the slot; he pushed through the turnstile and ran for the rear car. As he passed a news stand, he suddenly changed course. Backing against the wall, he used the news stand for cover.

Another man came through the turnstiles. It was the same fellow whom Renwood had seen coming from the restaurant. The arrival managed to squeeze aboard the local just before it started. The doors closed; the train rumbled southward. Renwood grinned as he stepped from his hiding place. This was a local stop only; the pursuer - if he was such - had taken it for granted that Renwood had boarded the train.

Still thinking of the taxi driver, Renwood dashed back through the turnstile and up the steps to the street. He ran into a frail, hunched man at the top, and nearly bowled the fellow from his feet. Mumbling an apology, Renwood resumed his dash and reached the street. There he dived into a doorway.

He was none too soon. As he peered from the obscure spot, Renwood saw the taxi that he had observed before. It was coming eastward along this one-way street. The driver had evidently made a quick trip around the block, hoping to spot Renwood somewhere.

Grinning to himself, Renwood watched the cab roll by and turn south on Broadway.

Sneaking from the doorway, Renwood remembered the man whom he had bumped on the subway steps. He threw a suspicious glance toward the subway entrance, but saw no sign of the man. Satisfied that he was no longer watched, Renwood threaded a circuitous course along various thoroughfares until he reached an old-fashioned building east of Sixth Avenue.

The door bore a sign that read: "Marimba Cafe."

RENWOOD entered. He ascended a flight of steps and came to a room that had only a few tables.

A man was seated alone; he looked up as Renwood entered. Dark-eyed, sallow-faced, the fellow delivered a suspicious glare.

"What was keeping you?" he demanded. "When I called you up, you said you would come uptown as soon as you had lunch. What's the matter with you, Jerry?"

"Nothing much, George," returned Renwood. "I - I thought I'd better get lunch uptown. That was all -"

"You could have called here. All you have to do is ask for Mr. Corbal. They'll look for me up here."

"I know. But - but -"

Corbal arose and shut the door. His eyes narrowed; his face hardened as he studied Renwood's worried countenance. Ordinarily, Renwood had an air of nonchalance that fitted with his light, well-featured face. Today, his ease was gone.

"Out with it," purred Corbal, his tone not unfriendly. "Come on, Jerry - something has taken your nerve. It can't be this Yorne business. That was settled last night. You're in the clear, so far as that is concerned."

"I know it," acknowledged Renwood. "Just the same, I feel jittery -"

"But you didn't yesterday. So why today?"

Renwood fumbled for a cigarette. Corbal passed him one; then clapped him on the shoulder.

"Let's hear it."

"All right." Renwood nodded with an effort. "It's about Parlington. You've read the newspapers, George. Don't you think it was odd, the butler giving up just when he had the swag?"

"Yes," admitted Corbal, sourly. "And the worst part of it was that we didn't guess he had it. There you were, making friends with Yorne, so we could build up to a swindle. Along came Parlington and finished him. Kept the jewels and the gun right there in the house.

"We could have shaken Parlington for a divvy, if we'd known it. Bad business, maybe, dealing with a murderer; but he was a smooth one. Yes, it does look funny that the fellow turned things on himself. Why was he fool enough to write out that confession? Could you guess it, Jerry?"

"I saw him write it," stated Renwood, slowly. "I was watching, all the while."

"Did he look nervous?"

"Yes. He had reason to be nervous. That confession was dictated to him, George."

"Dictated? By whom?"

"By someone who was in the room with him - someone in black. Parlington called him 'The Shadow' -"

AN exclamation from Corbal. Renwood was surprised at its sharpness. It reminded him of Parlington's ejaculation.

"The Shadow," repeated Renwood. "He had the goods on Parlington. The fellow wilted. I would have, too, if I'd been him. Black cloak - slouch hat - an automatic that looked like a cannon. That describes him, George. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper - a fearful whisper that -"

"I've heard of The Shadow," interposed Corbal, as Renwood faltered. "I never met anyone, though, who had seen him. He must have a lot on the ball, to scare the daylights out of a cool card like Parlington. The fellow folded, you say?"

"Absolutely! He took it while The Shadow told him every detail of his crime. It left me woozy, George!"

"I'd like to have seen it."

"You wouldn't have forgotten it. Listen, George: After I left Yorne's, I'd have sworn that I was being tagged. Today, everywhere I've been, I've felt that eyes were watching me. A taxi driver - a man in the subway -"

"That's why you went to a different place for lunch?"

"Yes. Until I was sure I'd shaken off trailers, I was afraid to come here."

Corbal strolled about the room, eyeing his informant. At last he put a question:

"Getting cold feet, Jerry?"

Renwood nodded, though reluctantly.

"Don't want to go through with the next job?" queried Corbal. "Not anxious to help in the Garraway frame?"

"It's bad business, George," returned Renwood. "We don't deal in murder, either of us. Nor burglary, nor any regular crime. But we've staged blackmail -"

"Only when we've dealt with people who can't afford to squawk. There's no comeback from the law."

"I know that. But I've seen one different than the law. I've seen The Shadow."

"And if you saw him again, would you fold like Parlington did?"

"I don't know. I might. Anyone would."

Corbal laughed harshly. A slow hard smile appeared upon his features. At last he spoke.

"Suppose we call the Garraway job the last one," he suggested. "Make it the payoff; then travel our own ways. How would you feel about it, Jerry?"

"I'd rather quit right now."

"Suppose I can fix it so there's no comeback."

"There's still The Shadow -"

"That's what I mean - no comeback from The Shadow."

"If you're sure you can spring it, George -"

Corbal again clapped Renwood's shoulder.

"Eight o'clock tonight," he said. "You know where to meet me. At the new apartment. If you arrive ahead of me, open up the cash box and count over the swag. That will make you feel good. Then we can talk over the Garraway deal."

"You've figured a way to pull it, George?"

"Just about. We'll talk it over when we get together. I'm going out from here by the back away. You stick around, have dinner here, then go out by the back and head for the apartment. You know you haven't been trailed here, so it's a good place to stay until after dark."

WITH that, Corbal departed. He left Jerry Renwood in a strengthened frame of mind; for his words had been persuasive.

Alone, Renwood pulled a large envelope from his pocket and took out a stack of investment literature. These papers would be useful in tonight's game. Renwood had worked his racket often, always with Corbal.

Renwood, because of his brokerage connections, served as the "blind"; actual blackmail was always staged by Corbal. That had lulled Renwood in the past, for it placed the burden on his pal. As Corbal had remarked, there had never been any "comeback." But Renwood had felt some worriment, for he had frequently supplied information to Corbal.

Through various connections, Renwood gained inklings of doubtful deals that had been worked by persons of good standing. Whenever such cases showed new developments, a trimming was in order. No one knew that Renwood was acquainted with Corbal; hence they set the stage so that Renwood would be a witness to Corbal's black-mail. Always, Renwood would soothe the victim afterward, advising him to say nothing; also promising to stand by him.

Experience had shown them that a blackmailed party would come across for the first time; but from then out, would constantly devise ways to prevent a second attempt. Hence they never played the same sucker twice.

They had gone through a fat list; the next man in line was Machias Garraway, the banker. Renwood had looked forward to this trimming. But last night, his enthusiasm had faded. Today, encouraged by Corbal's confidence, Renwood's interest was returning.

Afternoon waned. Renwood's plans were complete. The young man was nonchalant when he strolled downstairs to the cafe and ordered dinner. He sat by a front window that was heavily curtained. Peering through, he eyed the street.

A taxicab was dim beyond a street lamp. Renwood hoped that it was not the one that he had seen on Broadway.

There were few diners in the restaurant, a fact that Renwood noted with satisfaction. He saw no one who looked suspicious; nevertheless, when he left, he took the door that few persons knew about - the exit to the rear street. He walked several blocks; then became cautious as he neared a secluded apartment building.

IT was nearly eight o'clock. Darkness had brought worriment. More and more, Renwood had felt the strange fear that had gripped him the night before. The Shadow might be anywhere, Renwood decided. Perhaps he had learned of the Marimba Cafe; possibly he had discovered the rear exit and had lurked there.

Entering the apartment house, Renwood felt new terror as he ascended to the third floor. He had a key to the apartment; it was at the rear of the house. Its side windows overlooked the low roof of a garage that wedged almost to the apartment wall.

Renwood was nervous when he opened the window and peered out into the darkness. The roof - the narrow space between the buildings - either might have held an unseen watcher.

Steadying himself, Renwood went to a corner of the living room. Stooping, he pressed a section of the baseboard. It clicked open, to reveal a cavity that contained a large metal box.

Renwood opened this container; from it, he removed stacks of currency, bundles of securities - all labeled with the names of former owners. As he counted this swag, Renwood kept darting new glances toward the window. Strained, he could think only of that menace; he gave no heed to the locked door behind him.

It was not until he heard the slight thud of a closing door that Renwood remembered the entrance. Hands filled with spoils, the crook came to his feet and spun about. Horror seized him; his face froze rigid. Renwood, indeed, became an exact copy of Parlington, as the crooked butler had been the night before.

The reason for Renwood's startlement was the same as Parlington's. Within the door stood a figure garbed in black - one whose cloak collar was high about his chin; whose hat brim, turned downward, obscured his visage. A gloved fist extended from the intruder's cloak; a steady hand gripped a leveled automatic.

In one brief instant, Jerry Renwood broke. Stolen wealth dropped from his hands; his quivering shoulders sagged. He had seen The Shadow once before; this time, he was faced by that formidable foe. Terror-stricken, the cornered crook awaited The Shadow's judgment.

CHAPTER VI. SPOILS TO THE VICTOR

STAMMERED words came to the lips of Jerry Renwood. Pleading, incoherent, he was begging mercy of The Shadow. Upon the floor lay proofs of crime; the spoils that he and George Corbal had gained from blackmailed victims. Renwood was ready to part with all such wealth, could he avoid the fate that had overtaken Parlington.

Renwood was not waiting for dictated terms. He was blurting all he knew; blabbing the name of Corbal; blaming all he could upon his partner in crookery. The vengeful form in black came closer. Renwood tried to back away. Quaking pitifully, he slumped to the floor, his hands raised piteously.

A harsh laugh sounded. Venomous, rather than sinister; yet the gibe had effect. To Renwood, the mere sight of The Shadow's shrouded shape had been sufficient. He expected instant flame from the looming gun muzzle. He buried his face in his hands. The laugh changed. It was raucous. Surprise made Renwood raise his head. He realized suddenly that no burning eyes were peering from beneath the hat brim. He wondered.

The slouch hat whisked backward as a gloved hand impelled it. The same hand threw aside the collar of the cloak. As the automatic lowered, Renwood saw a face he recognized. The man in black was not a strange unknown; he was Renwood's partner, George Corbal.

"YOU - you were at Yorne's last night?" Renwood sputtered the question, almost unbelieving. "You were - you were The Shadow?"

"No." Laughing, Corbal was laying aside his garments. "It was The Shadow who was there last night. The real McCoy. You gave me an idea when you spitted your story, Jerry. I rigged up this trick outfit, after I left you at the cafe. I wanted to see how it would work on you."

Renwood was losing his sheepishness. Fists clenched, he had risen from the floor. He was angered, now that his terror had passed. Corbal purred quieting words.

"Don't act sore, Jerry," he argued. "I had to spring this gag on you. I wanted to see how it would work. So you would be set for what's to come."

"You made a sap of me," interjected Renwood. "Because I was on the level; because I let you know that I was nervous -"

"Easy, Jerry. I could be peeved, too. You squawked a lot while I had you covered. Mentioned my name, as I remember. I'm willing to forget that part of it."

Renwood subsided.

"This rig is a swell idea," resumed Corbal, placing his discarded garb upon a chair. "It worked even better than I thought it would. I don't think that it would shake you, though, if you knew that I was inside it. That's why we're going to use it again tonight."

"Use it tonight?"

"Sure! After you've dropped in to see Machias Garraway!"

Renwood looked bewildered. Corbal chuckled.

"All this swag of ours," said Corbal, indicating the securities and the cash, "was plucked from people who had duped others. Garraway is just another in the crowd. You know why he wants to talk to you, Jerry. Garraway had juggled the trust funds of several estates. He switched bum stocks for good ones. He wants to unload the worthwhile paper.

"Garraway figures you're too dumb to know it. He wants to use you for a fence. Your job is to keep on playing dumb. Mine is to walk in when he's showing you the stuff; to tell him what it is and to make him come across. The trouble was just how to work it. I've found the answer."

"You - you're going there as The Shadow?"

"That's it! Remember that I'm the man behind this batch of crepe and watch Garraway for your cues. Act just about half as scared as he does. Come along, Jerry - pull yourself together."

Corbal was stooping on the floor, picking up bundles of currency that Renwood had scattered. He saw his companion steady. Corbal motioned to the door.

"Slide on up to the Hotel Dothan," ordered Corbal. "You know Garraway's suite - No. 1200 - and he's told you that he'd like to see you. Breeze in on him. I'll come later."

"But what about the cloak -"

"I'll put it on after I get to the twelfth floor. I'll carry one of the suitcases that we have here in the closet. It will do to lug the swag, as well."

Renwood donned hat and coat. His shaken confidence had been regained. He strolled to the door and nodded wisely as he gave a parting wave.

"I'll be there in ten minutes, George," he assured. "Waiting for you to show up. Pull the stunt as strong as you did; but make the laugh a little smoother. That's the one touch it needs."

RENWOOD made the trip in the time that he had estimated. Arrived at the Hotel Dothan, he went up to Garraway's suite. He rapped at the door. A slouchy, bald-headed man admitted him. This was Garraway, himself.

"Well, well!" greeted the banker. "So you have come to see me, Mr. Renwood! I had not expected you tonight, or I would have kept my servant here. He knows how to prepare refreshments better than I do."

"I have come on business, Mr. Garraway," returned Renwood, briskly. "About investments. I have prepared some lists that may interest you."

As they walked into the suite, Renwood pulled an envelope from his pocket. He noted that Garraway did not latch the door; that fact pleased Renwood at the outset. By the time they had reached a room that served as an office, Renwood had extracted papers from the envelope. He spread these upon the banker's desk.

"My assumption," stated Renwood, "is that you intend to purchase some substantial securities. Of course, I may be wrong. Sometimes I meet clients who wish to sell some of their own. In fact" - he paused wisely - "certain of my offerings are the property of customers whose names I never mention."

Garraway was looking over Renwood's data. Hearing the visitor's last remark, the banker raised his head.

"Do I understand," he inquired, "that you make a custom of handling such transactions? That you ask no questions; and answer none?"

"That has proven to be a good way of doing business, Mr. Garraway."

"And if you could acquire securities as sound as those that you have listed?"

"I should be glad to purchase them at a few points below the current market price."

GARRAWAY arose from his desk. He went to a safe in the corner. He handled the combination; then opened the door and brought out a narrow box. From its depths, he produced a bundle of securities.

"These should satisfy you," assured Garraway. "They happen to be some stocks that a friend of mine must sacrifice. An old friend - let us say a friend who is in difficult circumstances, one who would not care to have his name mentioned."

"I understand."

"Look them over. Confidentially, of course. Perhaps you may wish to buy some of them. Of course, if it requires too much cash, we can arrange some other method of transaction."

Garraway was rubbing his hands. He was just about to make reference to the mythical friend whom he had previously mentioned. Then, suddenly, words froze upon his lips. Renwood saw the banker stare toward the door of the little office. Catching the cue, Renwood swung about.

For the third time, he was viewing a figure cloaked in black. Knowing of the part that Corbal had planned to play, Renwood had imagined that he would need to fake startlement for Garraway's later benefit. Such pretence, however, proved unnecessary. Despite himself, Renwood felt a chill of fear.

Last night's episode with Parlington; the bluff that Corbal had staged tonight at the apartment - these had left Renwood in a jittery frame of mind. Past recollections made this spectral figure seem a living threat. The tension remained until the intruder laughed. A harshness in his mirth reminded Renwood of Corbal.

Slowly, steadily, the masquerader approached the desk. Garraway cowered before the gun muzzle. Renwood, feigning fear without great effort, heard another tone of whispered mockery. This taunt was an improvement; Corbal, apparently, had profited by Renwood's criticism. Then the intruder spoke.

"Stolen goods," he sneered, his tone smoothening as he proceeded. "Wealth that you have rifled from those who trusted you. I am The Shadow! I have come here to right a wrong! Tell me the names of those whom you betrayed." Lips quivering, Garraway confessed. He blurted names of persons; amounts of cash; the specific securities that had been transferred. All the while, he stared as though entranced, looking straight toward the black-clad inquisitor.

Renwood, standing at one side, remained motionless. "These holdings will be delivered to their owners," ordained the cloaked visitor. "I shall see that the right ones receive their property. You will do wisely, Garraway, to notify them to expect specific securities. Wise, also, if you remove the worthless paper with which you salted the trust funds.

"As for you, Renwood" - the cloaked figure wheeled - "I regard you as an accomplice of Garraway's. You are to leave this city. You are to maintain silence. If you fail to do so, you will suffer. Go, before I regret my merciful decision!"

MECHANICALLY, Renwood walked from the room, skirting wide past the figure in black. He reached the outer door; there he paused to dart a quick look over his shoulder. He could see the open doorway of the office. The figure in black was backing outward; beyond, Renwood could see Garraway.

The banker had crumpled; he was slumped upon his desk. Terror had overpowered him.

Closing the door of the suite, Renwood crossed the hall and rang for an elevator. He was still tingling when he left the lobby of the Dothan. Corbal's impersonation had been a marvel of realism. When he reached the apartment where the swag was hidden, the young man unlocked the door. Muttering to himself, he was planning the opening remarks that he intended to give when Corbal arrived.

"Great work, George!" mumbled Renwood, grinning. "You bowled out Garraway. You forced me clear of the picture. We're set to take it on the lam - before Garraway has sense enough to get wise -"

Renwood stopped short. He had opened the door; he was on the threshold of the apartment, staring into the lighted living room. On the floor lay the metal box, opened and empty. Beyond it was a sterner sight - a figure, bound and gagged, sprawled in a large chair. A man in a crumpled cloak of black, a slouch hat wedged hard upon his head.

With a cry, Renwood bounded forward. He yanked the hat from the bound man's forehead. He stared at the face beneath. Sullen eyes met Jerry Renwood's startled gaze. The helpless man in the chair was George Corbal!

IN that instant, Renwood knew the truth. His qualms about the opened window had been real ones. A watcher had lurked outside the window; one who had followed the trail from the Marimba Cafe. The Shadow had been here, a silent, invisible observer, when Corbal had first entered in his guise of black.

The Shadow had struck as soon as Renwood had gone. He had overpowered Corbal. He had taken the spoils from the metal box. It was The Shadow, not Corbal, who had followed to Garraway's. Gone, vanished, The Shadow had added Garraway's ill-gotten proceeds to the swag that Renwood and Corbal had accumulated.

Wealth would be returned to proper owners - by The Shadow. And here was the sequel to his successful exploit, a grim jest wherein one crook discovered his companion, that both might discuss the futility of crime. To murderers, The Shadow dealt death: to such schemes as Corbal and Renwood, he dealt ridicule.

Thus had The Shadow ended the Masquerade of George Corbal, the man who had posed as a second Shadow. Upon it, he had allowed Jerry Renwood to return. Two crooks, deprived of spoils, had learned that their crimes did not pay.

CHAPTER VII. ONE MAN RETURNS

THE next morning, Jerry Renwood awoke in his old apartment; but it took him a full minute to recognize his surroundings. A deluge of scattered thoughts dominated his brain. Yorne's - the Marimba Cafe - Garraway's - the apartment where he and Corbal had kept their swag - all these formed a confused recollection. At last, he remembered releasing George Corbal; coming back here afterward.

Clear was his memory of The Shadow. A specter in black, who persisted even in daylight. Then to Renwood's ears came a repetition of the sound that had awakened him. Someone was pounding at the door of the apartment. Nervously, he donned slippers and dressing gown. He answered the summons.

A messenger was outside the door. The fellow handed Renwood an envelope and a pad to sign. Mechanically, Renwood wrote his name; then, as soon as the messenger had gone, he opened the envelope. From it, he unfolded a note that was inscribed in ink of vivid blue.

He read as follows:

Environment aided you in crime. Therefore, my order for

departure must be obeyed. Your companion in past activity

will accompany you. He was the sponsor of evil deeds; it

will be your part to show the way to honesty.

Urge him to follow your lead. When called upon to report,

do so. Good faith will be your only hope of safety. Follow

instructions as you receive them. Your countersign is one

word: Black.

There was no signature. The message did not need one. Renwood knew that it had come from The Shadow. As if in final proof, the note itself performed a mysterious deed - one that matched The Shadow's own performances. While Renwood stared, the written lines erased themselves, word by word, until blankness alone remained.

There were other papers in the envelope. Examining them, Renwood found that they were one-way tickets to San Francisco - two in number. He shoved them in the pocket of his dressing gown, then crumpled the blank paper and tossed it in the wastebasket.

The Shadow's purpose was plain. He was giving the partners in crime another chance. He was depending upon Renwood to see that Corbal went straight. Somehow, The Shadow must have looked into the affairs of the pair; for those tickets to San Francisco meant more than a mere trip.

Not long ago, Renwood had received an attractive offer of employment from a Pacific coast brokerage house. He had been asked to come West and bring along any capable man whom he might recommend. Renwood had passed up the offer at Corbal's urging; but he knew that the jobs were still open. The Shadow, too, had learned that fact.

THE telephone rang. Renwood answered it, to hear Corbal on the wire. Corbal had stayed at the apartment where they had kept the swag. This morning, he had received a mysterious telephone message, telling him to communicate with Renwood. Having given that information, Corbal said that he would arrive in fifteen minutes.

Jerry Renwood engaged in sober thought while he waited. He had formed a plan of discourse by the time George Corbal arrived. As soon as the two ex-blackmailers were together, Renwood produced the railroad tickets.

"From The Shadow," he stated. "It looks like a friendly gesture, George."

"Meaning that we're to grab those jobs in Frisco?" inquired Corbal.

"That's it," nodded Renwood. "I can fix it when we get there."

Corbal scowled.

"We'd better grab the chance," urged Renwood. "We've crossed The Shadow once. We're lucky we didn't get what Parlington did. How much money have you in the bank?"

"Five hundred bucks."

"I have about six hundred. That's eleven hundred - actually our own. Suppose we draw out the money, George. We can make a fresh start in Frisco."

"Who do you know there?"

"Only the head of the brokerage concern."

"Then we don't go to Frisco."

Renwood stared, puzzled. Corbal laughed, disdainfully.

"Maybe we did cross The Shadow," he asserted. "But what of it? Just because he piled in from the window and smeared them once is no reason that he can pull that gag again! We've lost a pile of gravy, Jerry. It's up to us to get it back."

"How? Where?"

"How? The way we did before. Where? Right here in New York."

Renwood shook his head.

"We'd be licked from the start, George," he insisted. "The Shadow has us ticketed. We've got to get out of town."

"But how can you stage the racket in Frisco? It will take you months to get acquainted well enough to build a new sucker list. If I'm in the office with you, we can't work together -"

"Not as crooks, no. But we can both make an honest living."

"Bah! So you've gone goody-goody, eh? Well, you've got your car fare. Beat it for Frisco if you want. But take someone else along with you."

"You mean that you'll stay here?"

"Yes. What's more, I'll play a lone hand. One that will drive The Shadow woozy! Listen, Jerry - I know a lot I haven't told you. While you've been getting the lowdown on respectable people, I've been looking into plenty of tough joints. That's how I happened to know about The Shadow."

"And now you've seen him, George. You know what he can do."

"What he can do, I can do!"

CORBAL eyed Renwood while making this final statement. Shrewdly, he noted the strained expression that showed upon Renwood's face. Corbal started to ask a question; then paused. Renwood spoke.

"I'm through with the racket, George," said Renwood. "I want you to drop it, too. For your own good. You showed the way when we worked crooked. Give me a chance to lead when we go straight."

Corbal nodded. His whole face had sobered. Renwood was surprised at the sudden change. He did not realize what was going on in his companion's mind.

"You're right, Jerry," declared Corbal. "Yes, you've picked the one way out of it. Let me see those tickets."

Renwood handed them over.

"Not a bad guy, The Shadow," purred Corbal. "He's staked us to the tickets. It's up to us to make the reservations. Suppose I attend to that, Jerry."

"All right."

"I'll go down to Grand Central. I'll arrange for a compartment to Chicago; another from there to San Francisco. We might as well travel comfortably. We can afford it."

Pocketing the tickets, Corbal strolled to the door. He paused.

"There's a good train out at nine o'clock tonight," he said. "I'll meet you on it, Jerry. Ask at the gate for the compartment number, if you don't see me waiting there. I may go in ahead of you."

TO Jerry Renwood, that day became a strange one. After Corbal's departure, Renwood dressed and went down to the office. He announced that he had taken the San Francisco offer; and gave up his New York job therewith. Later, he went to the bank and drew out his six hundred dollars. After that, he wired the concern in San Francisco, stating that he and another were coming to take the jobs.

Renwood had dinner at his favorite Times Square restaurant. With that farewell to Manhattan finished, he headed for Grand Central Terminal. He arrived at the train gate at quarter before nine. He asked the gate attendant if Mr. Corbal had gone aboard.

"What's your name?" came the query.

Renwood gave it. The attendant nodded. He nudged his thumb toward the gate.

"Mr. Corbal is on board," he said. "Compartment B, Car J 3. He has your ticket with him."

Renwood beckoned to the porter who was carrying his bags. As he did so, a man beside the train gate brushed against him. Renwood did not see the fellow's face. All that he heard was the word that the man whispered:

"Black!"

Renwood nodded without turning. A folded piece of paper was thrust into his hand. Ordering the porter through the gate, Renwood followed. Walking along the platform, he opened the wadded note.

He read the message:

Signal from car door. Up and down if Corbal is aboard.

Across if not. If Corbal is still with you, wire if he keeps

on from Chicago or decides to stop there. Address: Lenning

Service, Sharon Building, New York. Expect new contact in

San Francisco.

The writing faded as Renwood neared Car J 3. Renwood understood. This man who had slipped him the note must be an agent of The Shadow. One who had been on yesterday's trail. The man had been watching for Renwood, not for Corbal. He must have written the note while Renwood was talking with the man at the train gate.

Instructions from The Shadow; and Renwood was ready to follow them. Instructions without a clue, for the Lenning Service mentioned in the note was evidently a place that received telegrams and held them until the proper person called on the telephone to make inquiry. Renwood realized that he was working with The Shadow. He was pleased; for he knew that it would be to Corbal's eventual benefit.

Entering his car, Renwood reached the door of Compartment B. He started to open it; pressure blocked him. A query came in strained whisper:

"That you, Jerry?"

"Yes," replied Renwood, "What's up, George?"

"Nothing. I'll tell you later. Bring in the bags yourself. Keep the porter out."

"All right."

Renwood walked back to the platform, where the station porter was standing with the bags. He tipped the man; then waited while the porter walked away. Stepping to one side, Renwood saw a clear path to the train gate. He signaled with an up and down motion of his arm.

Corbal was aboard. That was all that Renwood had to flash. Yet he was puzzled when he walked back into the car. He could not understand Corbal's desire for secrecy. Nevertheless, Renwood stopped the car porter, just as the fellow was about to open the door of the compartment.

"I'll take the bags in."

With that remark, Renwood sent the porter on his way. Opening the door, Renwood pushed the bags into blackness. Again he heard the cautious whisper:

"Close the door before you turn on the light."

Renwood complied. When he clicked the light switch, he turned about, questioning words on his lips. He stopped short as he saw the man who was seated by the windows, backed by lowered blinds.

It was not Corbal. In his friend's stead sat a rough-faced rowdy who was holding a leveled revolver.

"Sit down!" growled the man with the gun. "Don't forget that I've got this gat. We're goin' to be friends, pal, after I've done a little talkin; so there's no use gettin' funny!"

Renwood drew over the chair that was by the door.

"My name's Spike Gonley," grinned the thug. "George Corbal sent me in here. I've got your ticket, too, an' his, too. I'm ridin' through with you to Frisco. He ever tell you about me?"

Renwood shook his head.

"We was all set," resumed Gonley. "Goin' to knock off the joints together; with me slippin' the info to George. We figured he'd need a mob, though. While we was still waitin', George rigged up another racket. The one you worked with.

"A good pal of yours, George is. He ain't sore just because you got cold feet. He was just wise enough to know that you couldn't stand the gaff. When he talked with you this mornin', he knowed that you was ready to pull a fast one on him, because you thought it was for his good. So he switched it. Savvy?"

Renwood nodded automatically. "Spike" Gonley was looking for such a gesture. The thug grinned.

"Hit it right, didn't I?" he jeered. "Well, I'm just tellin' you what Corbal guessed. He's a smart guy, George is. What did you do - shoot a tipoff when I seen you go back to the platform?"

Renwood realized that Spike must have peered from the door of the compartment. Looking through the passage window, the thug had seen the signal. Renwood decided that partial admission would be wise.

"Yes," he stated. "I passed the word that Corbal was aboard. I thought he was."

"An' what's the gag in Chi?" demanded Gonley. "You're to send a telegram from there, huh?"

"Yes," admitted Renwood. "To the office of the Lenning Service, in the Sharon Building. Just to say that Corbal is still with me."

"He figured something like that," clucked Gonley. "An' after that - when we get to Frisco - what's the gag then? Another telegram?"

Renwood had his opening. He nodded. A jolt told that the train was starting. Spike Gonley pocketed his gun.

"We'll split, after you send that telegram from Frisco," he stated. "Until we get there, though, I'm watchin' you. Corbal says you ain't a bad guy; so we might as well be friends. Only if you try any wise stuff, it'll be curtains for you. That's why Corbal fixed it so we'd be by ourselves while we're travelin'; he knowed I could figure a get-away, if I had to plug you."

RENWOOD forced a smile. The train was gliding northward. It was too late to get word to The Shadow. Nor would there be a chance in Chicago.

Spike Gonley evidently intended to stick close, all the way. Renwood decided that the best he could do was grin. He felt a sudden, complete contempt for George Corbal.

His former pal was a criminal at heart, and Renwood knew it. Corbal had gained a fair chance to go straight. He had preferred to stay with crime. He had made his opportunity. By the time Renwood gained contact in San Francisco, Corbal would have the start he needed. That was Renwood's only regret.

For he could guess the part that Corbal intended. The same game that he had tried to play last night. Only this time, he would thrust himself into the affairs of the und