Chapter I — The Shadow Acts

The glittering lights of Paris were a glorious sight from the window of Suite 15 in the Hotel Barzonne. But the man who sat beside the window had no interest in the spectacle. He was an American of dignified appearance — a man perhaps forty years of age.

Resting on the table at which the man sat were small piles of newspaper clippings, and neatly tabulated typewritten sheets. The man assembled them deftly.

As he worked, a strange, mysterious gem gleamed upon the third finger of the left hand, its light producing weird, changing colors.

The gem was a girasol — a fire opal of rare value. There was no other like it in the world.

The stone was a clue to the identity of the man who owned it; but no one had ever learned that clue. The gleaming girasol was the property of the mysterious man called "The Shadow!"

Comparing one stack of clippings with a corresponding sheaf of typed papers, the man at the table laughed softly.

The clippings and the data referred to an amazing murder case in Germany. They told of an unsolved mystery. With them was a small item that mentioned the finding of a body in the Seine. It had not been identified.

Neither newspapers nor police had connected that body with the murder in Germany.

They did not know that the drowned man and the German murderer were one and the same. Nor did they know that the drowning had not been accidental; that a fiend of crime had encountered just retribution. These were facts that only The Shadow knew!

The man at the table tore the sheets and the clippings. That case was ended. He referred to another. This was the account of a bank robbery in London — a mystery that had baffled the best sleuths in Scotland Yard.

The stolen money — sixty thousand pounds — had been recovered following a tip from an unknown source. The same night, two men had been discovered dead in a London rooming house; the victims of a gun fray.

There was no apparent connection between these persons — reputed to be criminals — and the restored bank funds. How they had met their end was a mystery.

The Shadow tore these clippings, and with them the typed sheets. That case was closed.

Those dead men were the robbers.

How they had stolen and lost the bank notes — how they had died, and why — these, again, were facts that only The Shadow knew!

There was a third pile of clippings. These related to a Parisian affair, the death of Herbert Brockley; the subsequent killing of Parisian criminals who had been responsible for it; and the flight and disappearance of one of the gang.

The American referred closely to this subject. He folded up the papers and inserted them in a secret drawer of a small steamer trunk that was standing in the corner. From another compartment of the trunk, the man produced a package.

Tucking the bundle under his arm, he left the suite, and descended to the lobby of the hotel. He walked along the street for several blocks; then stopped a taxicab, and spoke to the driver in perfect French. He ordered the man to take him to a certain cafe — the Poisson d'Or. The driver looked astonished. He could not believe the instructions. The Poisson d'Or was one of the worst dives in all Paris. It was patronized only by criminals of the most notorious type.

Unwelcome strangers usually met death there.

He doubted the sanity of this well-dressed American.

The instructions were repeated. They came in a firm, determined voice. The taxi driver shrugged his shoulders

He would take this fellow to the Poisson d'Or, since he was determined to go; but he resolved that he would notify the nearest gendarme as soon as he had left his passenger.

The taxi reached a squalid, unlighted street. One could not have picked out a more undesirable district than this. No tourists came here. It was the most dangerous portion of the underworld of Paris. The passenger had alighted from the cab. He was standing close by, and the driver could see only his hand as it extended the fare. The taximan noted that the hand wore a black glove. He looked around the moment that he had received the money. No one was in sight!

Had the American become faint-hearted? Had he stepped back into the cab?

The driver looked into the back seat. All that he saw was the wrapping of a package — a crumpled sheet of heavy paper that his fare had left.

The man had undoubtedly gone into the Poisson d'Or. The driver drove away to find a gendarme. The interior of the Poisson d'Or contained a series of small rooms, separated by rough partitions. In one of these, two roughly clad men were conversing in the dialect of Parisian ruffians. Their uncouth words, intermingled with oaths, related to the payment of blood money, which one of the men had received.

"Hubert is dead," said one. "I have his share. They will never find me. Bah! I would kill a dozen Americans for ten thousand francs. Now I have twenty thousand for killing one!" He drew a wad of bills from his pocket and divided the money into two portions.

"Here is half for you, Andre," he said. "I am going where these cursed police can never find me. I cannot understand how they caught Hubert. There is someone who knows more than the police." Andre grinned as he took the ten thousand francs. It was a payment in advance, for work that he was to perform while his crony was absent.

"Bah!" he exclaimed. "You can count on me, Louis. You stay away until this affair of the dead American has blown over. Then — "

He raised a glass of cognac, and his companion did the same. They were drinking to their future exploits, these Apache killers. But the glasses stopped before they had reached the lips for which they were intended.

The door of the small room had opened. There, framed in the narrow doorway, stood a man clad in black. His appearance was amazing — even to these men of crime.

A black cloak hung from his shoulders, and his hands were hidden in its folds. A large slouch hat was turned down to cover his features. All that was visible were two glowing eyes!

Those eyes were focused upon the money on the table. That represented a payment for the killing of Herbert Brockley, the American. Andre saw the direction in which the eyes were staring. He reached to grasp the money.

Quick as a flash, the man in black stepped forward. His left hand extended and fell upon the twenty thousand francs. An oath came from Louis, who sat at the left. Rising, he whisked a revolver from his pocket.

The weapon was never used. As Louis sought to level it and press the trigger, a shot came from the folds of the black cloak. The hidden hand had been covering the Apache. Louis toppled from his chair. Andre leaped forward to seize that hidden hand. He grappled with the stranger, and pressed him back against the wall. There was another muffled shot, and the second Apache fell to the floor. A soft, weird laugh came from the man in black, as he gathered up the twenty thousand francs and swept through the door, with the money beneath his cloak.

The Shadow — terror to the denizens of New York's underworld — had conquered two of the most murderous men in Paris. In the midst of their strong-hold, he had deprived them of the blood money that had been paid for the death of Herbert Brockley!

Those two were not the only Apaches in the Poisson d'Or. Gunshots were a signal to the bloodthirsty crew that frequented the Parisian dive.

As The Shadow stepped into the corridor outside the partition room, half a dozen men appeared from the other end of the passage.

There were two entrances to the corridor — one from the front room, whence these murderers were coming; the other toward an obscure door of the Poisson d'Or — the way by which The Shadow had entered, unseen.

The Apaches were flinging themselves into the attack in an effort to capture the intruder before he could flee to safety. There had been shootings in this dive before; and always the participants had tried to escape by the obscure door.

Two husky cutthroats were leaping forward with flashing knives; behind them were others armed with revolvers. Against such odds, only flight seemed feasible; but had The Shadow turned his back to flee, he would have become a target for six deadly weapons.

Instead, he did the unexpected. Barely a dozen feet lay between him and the surging crew. Two automatics were in The Shadow's hands. The pistols roared into the teeth of the attackers!

A knife slashed the side of the black cloak; the man who held the blade pitched headlong.

A revolver shot clipped the slouch hat; the man who fired fell before he could deliver another shot. The Shadow was among the Apaches now. All but one were sprawled along the corridor.

The one fellow had flattened himself against the wall. He had escaped the raking fire, and now his hand swung upward with its automatic.

The Shadow's aim was quicker. His final bullet struck the Apache's wrist. As the arm fell, The Shadow, with a burst of derisive mirth, reached out and plucked the gun away from its owner. The Shadow's empty automatic dropped at the man's feet.

Sweeping along the corridor, The Shadow reached the front room of the Poisson d'Or.

There, a crowd of grinning Apaches were awaiting the return of the killing squad. They were used to these affairs. Always, a gang of cut-throats would rush away and come back with a victim's bullet-riddled body as their trophy.

Into this scene came The Shadow! Before the Apaches realized that the impossible had happened, the cloaked man's automatic was again at work.

As one rising Apache fell wounded, the other mobsters dived for cover. With sweeping strides, The Shadow gained the door, and his sardonic laugh was loud with mockery and menace.

As The Shadow's hand pressed the knob, the door crashed inward, and a squad of gendarmes burst into the place. Coming to rescue a helpless American, they had heard the gunfire. The Shadow stepped back as the door burst. The gendarmes were hurtling upon him. His right arm swung with terrific force as The Shadow leaped among the officers.

Two gendarmes staggered. Their hands slipped from the black cloak. Diving forward, The Shadow broke loose and sprang to the street.

The Apaches had been quick to meet the double emergency. Their guns were barking as The Shadow swung his way through the gendarmes. They sought to slay the man in black, and to withstand the attack of the law.

Their first purpose failed. The hail of bullets was too late to thwart The Shadow's escape.

Gendarmes were falling; but others, dropping to the floor, blazed away at the mobsters. The Apaches were outnumbered. Those who were able, scurried to the corridor and fled.

With the mob subdued, gendarmes rushed to the street and scattered everywhere in search of the man who had baffled them. But in the darkness that reigned over that quarter of Paris, a man in black could make himself invisible.

Darkness shrouded the form of The Shadow. He was nowhere to be found.

While the gendarmes still persisted in their search, the dignified American reappeared in Suite 15 of the Hotel Barzonne.

His face retained its calmness; there was no hurry in his action as he opened the drawer of the steamer trunk and removed the clippings and the typed sheets that referred to Herbert Brockley. In a blank space, the quiet man wrote the name of Louis Bargelle. The last of Brockley's slayers was gone. Methodically, the American tore the sheets and clippings. He laughed — and his laugh was an echo of those taunting jibes that had sounded within the walls of the Poisson d'Or. The next morning, two Parisian detectives were going over a report of the battle at the Apache dive. They were discussing the deaths of certain criminals — among them Louis Bargelle — when an attendant entered. He was carrying a tightly wrapped paper.

A detective opened it and gasped in surprise as he saw the contents — a mass of paper money. He counted it. Twenty thousand francs!

The only clue to the sender was an oddly shaped card among the bills; but the card was blank. The detective held the card to the light. It showed no markings whatever.

But upon the wall — unnoticed by the detective — the card cast a strange shadow that bore a grotesque resemblance to the profile of a human being!

Chapter II — The Storm of Death

Stuart Bruxton brought his automobile to a sudden stop in front of a dilapidated building beside the road. The place had been a filling station once — the rusted gasoline standard told that.

Now, the house was nothing but a deserted shack — yet it was the only human habitation that Stuart had seen for the past few miles.

Peering through the gloom of the gathering dusk, Stuart Bruxton tried to distinguish objects on the small porch of the battered building. He fancied that he had seen the figure of a man standing beneath that small and rickety roof.

It was impossible to observe anything now; but as Stuart stared toward the house, the whole building was suddenly revealed, in the temporary glare of a distant lightning flash. During that short, photographic scene, Stuart's first impression was justified. There actually was a man on the porch. He seemed to be hiding behind a battered pillar.

Stuart lowered the window of the coupe. He called out, but his voice was drowned by the long rumble of the thunder. When silence came, he called again; then waited while big drops of rain spattered through the window.

Stuart watched to see if the man would respond, waiting patiently for another flash of lightning. Before it came, someone spoke in reply.

The man had come from the porch through the darkness. He was standing beside the car.

Stuart could distinguish his face through the gloom.

"I'm heading for a town called Herkimer," explained Stuart. "How do I get there?"

"I'm going that way," came the reply. "Want to give me a lift? Guess I can show you the road."

"Sure thing," responded Stuart.

The man clambered into the car. Now, at close range, Stuart saw that he was evidently a man from the city. He was well dressed, even though his overcoat bore signs of long wear. He was about thirty-five years of age, and his face, while pale and drooping, indicated intelligence.

"Herkimer's straight ahead — for a while," the man remarked. "Glad you came along. I was kinda stranded there, on that porch. Waiting for the storm to pass over."

They were entering the storm zone as the man spoke. Stuart could feel the effects of the driving wind as he managed the powerful coupe. Rain was battering against the windshield, and the glare of the bright lights shone into an oncoming torrent.

Stuart pictured the porch where the man had been. It was hardly an enviable spot during a deluge, but it was better than the open.

"Hiking my way," explained the man. "Cut across this road because it was shorter, and figured I could pick up a hitch. But the people seem to be kinda leery of hikers. That's why I was watching, when you came along."

"You know this road?" questioned Stuart.

"Yeah," the man answered. "It's a good road, but it isn't on the map. Lot of them like that, down here in Maryland. They told me all about it, back in the last town. When we get a few miles farther on, I'll show you a short cut."

They drove along in silence for a few minutes; then the man at Stuart's side began a brief and disjointed explanation of his circumstances.

His name, it appeared, was Jefferson — he did not mention his surname. He had gone broke in a town outside of Baltimore and had decided to foot it for New York.

The man said nothing of his business; merely mentioned that he had friends in Manhattan, and was anxious to get there. Stuart asked no questions, so the man's talk ended. The fury of the storm had increased. The road, although narrow, was well paved, and Stuart handled the car in expert fashion. They were traveling nearly forty miles an hour — a high speed under the conditions. Stuart's eyes were glued to the road. He wanted to make Herkimer, where he could cut over to a main road, and reach Philadelphia within a few hours. The companionship of the hitch-hiker was not disagreeable, so he intended to take the man all the way.

"Must be pretty near there, now," the stranger remarked. "The road splits, and you can save five miles if you stick to the right. We'll see a detour sign, but it won't mean anything."

"How's that?" questioned Stuart.

"They're starting some repair work," explained Jefferson, "so they've closed the road.

Going to take down two bridges and put up new ones. But they aren't beginning until next Monday — even though they've had the signs up for a couple of days."

"You're positive about that?" Stuart parried.

"Sure thing," Jefferson continued. "Some of the road gang were talking about it, back in a lunch wagon where I stopped. Stick to the right fork, and you'll cut off five miles to Herkimer.

That's the way I was going to hoof it. Figured it would be a shorter walk, even though there wouldn't be a chance for a lift."

"All right," said Stuart.

The road was winding now, and Stuart reduced speed slightly. The lightning flashes were blinding; the roar of the thunder was continuous. They were in the thick of the storm. A dazzling glare revealed the road ahead, and Stuart saw the spreading of the fork. Jefferson observed it, too.

"The right," he said.

Both roads looked good. Stuart swerved the big car to the right. Whirling through the storm, they began to descend a constant decline.

"Getting down to a river," observed Jefferson. "That's where the bridges are. Two of them. One on each side of an island. I heard the gang telling about them.

"They haven't even been down there, yet. Just stuck up barriers at each end. Waiting to get the order to go. That's the way they work. Better watch out, because we may hit a block across the road." The man's suggestion was a timely one. They were passing a dirt road that led off to the right. The headlights shone upon something white. A flash of lightning came, an instant later, and Stuart applied the brakes to keep from running into a broad, whitewashed board that blocked his path. The car began to skid, but responded to the driver's touch, and came to a jolting, sidewise stop, only a few feet from the barricade.

"No light," muttered Stuart.

"Wouldn't do much good," said Jefferson. "That white board shows about as well as a red light. Wait. I'll lift it so you can go through."

The man clambered from the car and walked in front of the headlights. He swung the board to one side, and Stuart guided the car through. A few moments later, his companion rejoined him. The man's coat and hat were dripping.

"What a storm!" he exclaimed. "Wouldn't like to be out in it long." THE road lay straight ahead, past the barrier. Stuart speeded up. He remembered what Jefferson had said about the two bridges. There would be no other obstacle until they passed the second bridge. Stuart was in a hurry, not only because he wanted to reach his destination, but also because he wanted to be off this road, and clear of the storm.

There was a twist; then came a straight downward hill, and at the end of it, the first bridge. Jefferson saw it as soon as the driver, and added another bit of information.

"The bridges are O.K.," he said. "They're taking them down because they're only wide enough for one car."

The headlights were revealing the fact that the bridge was narrow. A flash of lightning showed the complete structure, and the straight road on the island beyond.

Thus assured, Stuart pressed the accelerator, and the roar of the motor vied with the surging sound of the swollen stream that swept beneath the bridge.

The big car reached the bridge, traveling forty miles an hour. Hardly had the crossing begun before a strange vibration seemed to seize the bridge. The firm, level roadway was swaying!

For a brief second, Stuart felt that he was at the helm of a ship at sea. The automobile was in the midst of a skidding course. The bridge was giving way beneath its weight!

Instinctively, Stuart pressed the accelerator to the floor, knowing that his only salvation was to get clear of the collapsing bridge. The response of the car was instantaneous. It shot forward as Stuart passed the center of the bridge. The front wheels struck some obstacle, but kept on. As the rear wheels hit the same spot, there was a terrific crash.

The front of the car was almost to the end of the bridge, as a mighty sound — louder than a thunder roll told that the bridge had gone down beneath the rear of the car!

Only the momentum of the automobile prevented the car from falling into the engulfing stream. The bridge, collapsing at an angle, threw the rear of the coupe to one side. The hurtling machine shot on to the solid ground ahead. No longer under control, it swerved to the left of the road. The right side of the car rose like a mountain as Stuart applied the brakes. They were headed for a clump of saplings, and they crashed through the obstacle like an avenging Juggernaut. All was wild confusion before Stuart's eyes as he felt the car lunge forward and downward. It seemed to spin spirally to the left; then came a crash as the car smashed into a tree.

The motion ceased. Stuart recovered from a momentary daze to realize that the car was lying at a precipitous angle to the left. The whole front of the car was a mass of wreckage.

Something weighed heavily upon Stuart's body. He discovered that it was the form of Jefferson. His companion was lying almost over the steering wheel.

"Are you all right?" questioned Stuart.

A groan was the response, but it was satisfying. The man was hurt, but still alive. A flash of lightning showed his face, the right side gashed and bruised.

Amidst the rumble of thunder and the roaring of the stream beside the car, Stuart realized that he must extricate himself; then look to the other's welfare. Cautiously, he opened the door of the car and started to slide free.

There was a depression in the ground below; but the car could not topple farther, for it was wedged against a good-sized tree.

As Stuart slipped downward, he realized that Jefferson's inert form was following him.

He managed to stop the helpless man's progress by pushing him forward so that he rested against the steering wheel. Once out and looking up into the car above, Stuart saw that Jefferson's body was slowly gliding downward. The car would be a better place than the ground, Stuart decided, pushing the door shut. Jefferson's sagging form stopped as it settled into the driver's seat.

Stuart had lost all sense of direction. The winding course of the stream confused him. He stumbled through dampened underbrush and drew himself upward out of boggy ground. Then, as his senses straightened, he began to take his bearings.

The very elements which had contrived against him now worked in his behalf. The chilling rain aroused his benumbed faculties. The roaring stream told him that the road must be in the opposite direction. The lightning glare revealed the scene and showed the edge of the road, upward and ahead. Climbing an embankment, Stuart clung to a tree and rested, conscious of a sudden weakness in his left leg.

Before he went farther, it would be wise to note the situation about him. He looked back toward the car. It was invisible. Stuart had turned off the lights after the smash.

Then came a lightning flash — distant, now, for the center of the storm had passed. In the midst of that prolonged glare, Stuart saw a sight that froze his heart with terror.

The car was some sixty feet away, its right side looming upward. The door was opened, and Stuart saw why.

Poised over the opening was the stocky form of a man clad in cap and sweater. The face of this man was turned upward, and it wore an expression of evil exultation. In a huge, thick fist, this creature of the storm held a thick rod.

One sight of the poised figure told Stuart that whatever the man's errand might be, it would not be one of mercy. Who was this ghoulish being who had so quickly arrived at the scene of the disaster?

Stuart's startled cry was unheard in the roar of the thunder that followed the revealing flash. Helpless, Stuart stood there and waited; then another flash came, and he saw that the door of the car was closed. The evil-visaged man was gone!

Forgetting his injured leg, Stuart fought his way to the car, pushing through underbrush and saplings. He clambered upon the running board and opened the door.

He waited there, tense, his eyes staring downward, unable to view the form of the injured man whom he had left there.

Then came a broad sheet of lightning. Instantly Stuart saw the face of Jefferson, no longer turned downward, as it had been when Stuart left, but staring straight upward with ghastly, unseeing eyes. The gashes and bruises suffered in the crash still adorned the side of the man's face. But above them was a horrible wound. Jefferson's head had been crushed by a blow from some heavy object!

Helpless and alone, there in the car, Stuart's companion had been slain by the hideous man who had come from the storm!

Chapter III — The House on the Island

A sense of overpowering danger gripped Stuart Bruxton as he rested on the running board of the tipped coupe. He had closed the door upon the hideous sight within.

He was groping for an explanation. A helpless man had been done to death while he looked on. What was the meaning of the crime?

It was fear for his own safety that made Stuart act. The monster, lurking in the abating fury of the storm, might return at any moment. The storm itself would be a safer place than this.

Responding to the mental suggestion, Stuart arose and moved wearily toward the road. He kept to the side of the thoroughfare and began a plodding course across the island. Beyond was another bridge. He could cross it and get away from this locality. Then he might find help -

somewhere and come back to investigate. What puzzled Stuart was the motive that might lay behind the appearance of the murderer. Perhaps the man was a maniac. No other explanation seemed likely.

Stuart's leg was troubling him again. He stumbled against a stone, and nearly fell; so he stopped and sat upon the stone.

It was then that he remembered something. When he had slid from the car, Jefferson's body had slipped into the driver's seat. His own escape could not have been witnessed, Stuart reasoned. The murderer, arriving after the accident, had mistaken Jefferson for the driver of the wrecked car. Unless the murderer had stayed in the immediate vicinity, he could not possibly know of Stuart's presence here.

Stuart realized that if he had been alone in that car, he, instead of the hitchhiker, would have been the victim. The thought was amazing!

Half an hour ago, Stuart had been driving for Massachusetts, intending to stop in Philadelphia for the night. He had no enemies; he anticipated no danger.

Now, his car wrecked beyond repair, he was wandering, alone and unarmed, upon a lonely island in a Maryland river, alive only because a chance stranger whom he had picked up had been mistaken for himself!

In the midst of vague theorizing, Stuart remembered what Jefferson had said about the bridges — that they were not unsafe. The peculiar circumstances of the accident impressed him.

Had that bridge been deliberately weakened? It seemed likely. Ordinarily, a car would have crossed it slowly. Only the speed of the coupe had saved it.

A definite thought now ruled Stuart's mind. The murderer had simply completed work which had been intended, but which had failed.

It must be — it could only be — that some other car had been expected to cross that bridge.

Purely through an oddity of circumstances had Stuart been thrust here. Jefferson's advice to follow the short road had led to the disaster, but the hitch-hiker had been the one to suffer.

Still, the thought that the slayer was crazed persisted in Stuart Bruxton's brain as he began his labored limping once more. The inhumanness of the deed made it seem incredible that anything else was possible.

Stuart felt sure that he would obtain immediate aid from the first place he encountered -

but that might be far away.

His left leg could scarcely support him now, and Stuart felt a greater weariness than before. The ground at the side of the road changed suddenly to soft dirt.

This must be a byroad, leading to some spot on the island. If someone lived near here, this would be the place to call for assistance. Peering in the direction from which the road seemed to come, Stuart fancied that he saw a light through the trees.

The storm was over — only a drizzle now remained — and there were no lightning flashes to indicate the way. But as Stuart moved his head back and forth, he occasionally caught sight of a distant sparkle. There must be a house somewhere amid the trees!

Stuart started along the side road. The twinkle of the light became more evident. After a while, Stuart reached a clearing and stood before the looming bulk of an old country house, some mansion of a forgotten period.

A single light showed through a glass panel in the heavy front door. Stuart approached it and peered within.

The room inside the door was a sparsely furnished hallway, lighted by a bright oil lamp.

An elderly man was seated beside the table which bore the lamp. The man was quietly reading, and his white hair and benign appearance were reassuring.

Stuart knocked at the door. He saw the old man look up; then rise to answer the knock.

The door opened. Stuart limped into the light. He was looking at the old man, and he saw a puzzled appearance flit over the quiet face. Then the old man smiled and extended a hand in greeting.

"Ah!" he said. "You are here. I have been waiting for you. Where is your car? I did not hear you drive up."

Stuart realized that the old man had mistaken him for someone else. But there was no time to waste in giving his identity.

"I have had an accident," he said quickly. "My car was wrecked, coming over the bridge.

The whole bridge collapsed."

"You should have been careful," responded the old man, shaking his head in a solemn manner. "I told you to come over that bridge very slowly. You said you would remember. Very slowly." The old man's words brought a sudden understanding. Stuart's belief that the bridge had been weakened came back, now, with startling force. With it came the thought that someone else had been expected to cross it.

The old man had been expecting someone. He had warned that person to cross the bridge slowly. Suppose that advice had been followed! The person heeding it would be in the river, now, buried in a submerged automobile!

There was only one answer. The old man was a party to the crime!

Stuart was in a quandary. The old man must suppose him to he intended victim — one who had an appointment at this place.

Stuart was on the point of blurting out that a mistake was evident; then he checked himself. He could reveal his right name at any time. It might be better wait. He sat down wearily upon an old chair. Then he realized another danger. Jefferson had been murdered, perhaps by the old man's design. Stuart knew that he must feign ignorance of the hitchhiker's death. The old man gave him the opportunity unwittingly.

"You have been hurt," he said, in a kindly tone. "You must rest. My man will be here shortly" — Stuart shuddered at these words, as he thought of the monster in the storm — "and he can look to your car. You have the papers?"

"There's another man in the car," responded Stuart, anxious to avoid answering the question. "I think he is hurt, badly. I am worrying about him. We ought to help him."

"You had someone with you?" The old man's voice was incredulous

"Only a hitch-hiker," replied Stuart quickly. "I picked him up out of the storm."

"Yes — but to bring him here?" The man's alarm was evident.

"I–I figured I was a bit early," said Stuart. Groping for an excuse. "I planned to go into Herkimer and return. He was going there, so I took him along. I couldn't leave him out in such a storm."

"I see," acquiesced the old man. "It was not wise, however. Well, we can do nothing until my man appears, which should be any moment now."

AS if in fulfillment of the old man's prediction, the door opened, and Stuart Bruxton looked up to see the monster whom he had observed beside the wrecked car.

The man was a powerful brute, with tremendous shoulders for one of middle stature. His face, although ugly, did not wear that fiendish expression that Stuart had seen by the lightning flash. Instead, it wore a look of puzzlement as its owner viewed the newcomer.

"Grady," said the old man. "this is the man we have been expecting — Mr. Powell. He tells me that he has had an accident.

"He also had a man riding with him — a hitch-hiker — who was hurt and is still in the car.

Will you go down to the bridge and see what you can do?"

"Yes, sir," growled Grady.

Stuart, watching closely, fancied that he saw a sign pass from the brute to the old man.

Stuart gave no sign that he had noticed it. Instead, he adopted new tactics the moment that Grady had gone. In order to avoid further questioning and to sustain temporarily his identity as that of the unknown Powell, he let his head fall upon his hand and feigned a sudden stupor.

"You must be hurt," said the old man, in an apprehensive voice. "Let me see what I can do for you while we are waiting for Grady to return."

He disappeared, and came back with a bottle, from which he poured a small glass of liquid. He tendered it to Stuart, who pretended great effort in drinking it. It tasted like a brandy.

Stuart showed a slight revival; then sank back into his faked weariness. The old man watched him for a time; then went out of the room into darkness beyond.

To Stuart, only one course seemed logical, even though it might mean increasing danger.

Although his mind was working clearly, he was handicapped physically, not only because of his injured leg, but because of other pains that were now racking him.

He might be able to cope with the old man and overpower him, but it would be virtually impossible to escape, for Grady would surely follow him.

Far better, Stuart thought, to rely on ingenuity. The old man had certainly designed death for Powell, whose part Stuart was playing. But now that Stuart was safely in the house, the old man seemed a bit dumfounded, and was evidently figuring a new plan.

Stuart felt sure that Grady's attack on Jefferson had been made without the old man's knowledge. The servant, seeing that the automobile had not fallen into the river, had taken it upon himself to supply the required death.

Whatever the old man's plan might be, it would not culminate until Grady's return.

Perhaps some break might come in Stuart's favor.

The old man was back, now, and his insistent voice was returning to his previous questioning.

"You have the papers with you?"

The words gave Stuart an inspiration. There was something that the old man wanted as well as Powell's life — namely, papers that Powell was bringing here!

How the old man had intended to get them with Powell's car in the river was beyond Stuart's knowledge. But he did realize, most emphatically, that Powell without the papers would be in a better situation than Powell with them.

The question came again; and Stuart replied, groggily, but truthfully:

"I didn't bring — any papers!"

"You don't have the papers?" The question showed the old man's consternation. "What good is the visit without them? How do you expect me to believe what you may have to say?"

"I thought — thought we could get them — later," was Stuart's evasive answer. "After we had talked together."

Stuart nodded.

"Where are they, then?" questioned the old man.

Stuart pretended a recurrence of his stupor.

"Did you leave them in Baltimore?" came the question. "At the Burnham House?" Again Stuart nodded.

"You still have your room there — going back tonight. Is that the idea?"

"Yes," answered Stuart.

"Very well," said the old man quietly. "We can get them tomorrow, after we have discussed this matter. You must stay here tonight. You are in no condition to leave."

That ended the conversation for the time, and Stuart, nodding drowsily in his chair, congratulated himself upon the way in which he had turned the conversation.

He felt that he was better off as Powell, under the present circumstances. As Stuart Bruxton, he would be an intruder here; and he had a strong suspicion that intruders as well as expected visitors could find sudden death upon this sinister isle.

The door opened to admit Grady. The man spoke to his master, but loud enough for Stuart to hear.

"I found the car," he said. "It's a bad wreck. But there's nobody in it. I guess that hitch-hiker of yours climbed out and started on to Herkimer. It isn't raining anymore, so he'll be all right."

"We can forget about him, then," declared the old man. "Of course, you looked around, didn't you, Grady?"

"All along the road, declared the man. "I saw some footprints going on past our driveway, here, so I reckoned they were his."

"Very well," said the old man

"Mr. Powell is staying here tonight, Grady. He is badly jarred from the accident. He will probably feel better in the morning. Come, we must help him to his room."

Stuart repressed a shudder as Grady lifted him upward. Supported by the murderous menial and the old man, Stuart was conducted up pitch-black stairs. He let his body sag limp, but he was ready to spring at any instant.

There proved to be no occasion for alarm, however. Grady turned on his flashlight to blaze the path, and the three entered a room furnished with two old chairs and a small bed. Here, Grady left, and the old man spoke from the darkness.

"You are tired," he said soothingly, "and I advise you to rest. Sleep well, and we can talk together in the morning."

With these words, the host departed, and Stuart, lying as though oblivious, heard the door close behind him.

Instantly, the young man was alert. He rose from the bed and moved stealthily toward the window. He raised the sash and thrust his hand out toward what appeared to be black night.

Instead of space, his fist encountered a solid barrier.

The window was barricaded with an iron shutter!

Stuart waited. At last, sure that no one could be listening in the hall, he went to the door and tried it, There was no yielding. The door had been solidly locked from the outside. Stuart sat upon the bed and thought, amidst impenetrable darkness. He was a prisoner, here in this strange house. The two men who watched him were murderers. Their next crime might be his death, tomorrow!

Tomorrow?

Stuart wondered if he would ever see the dawn of another morning. His life was hanging in the balance. He was alone and helpless, without friends. There was nothing to do but wait.

Would his pretense of false identity prove his salvation? Perhaps, for the time. But the respite could be no more than temporary.

The one vital thought that governed Stuart Bruxton's mind was the recollection of that upturned face — the face of the murdered man in the car.

Stuart was to have been the victim of that crime! His life had been spared, but only for the moment. Death was the lot intended for him now.

With hope struggling against these fearful thoughts, the prisoner stretched himself on the bed and fell into a restless slumber.

Chapter IV — At the Burnham House

The Burnham House was one of Baltimore's older hostelries. It still preserved the atmosphere of earlier times when it had reigned among the elite.

Now, although its clientele was largely commercial, it continued to be the Baltimore home of travelers who remembered times of yore.

The famous old decorations still adorned the walls. The commodious lounging rooms were quiet spots frequented by guests who enjoyed the hospitality of the time-honored hotel.

Most of the persons in the gilded lobby were commercial travelers. In fact, they so predominated, that it was not difficult for a shrewd observer to pick out all who did not belong to that class.

Such an observer was watching now, from the vantage point of a tall-backed chair that rested against a marble-faced pillar. He was a young man of clean-cut appearance, who expressed a very general interest in what was going on before him.

A tall, stoop-shouldered individual weaved his way up to the lobby and spoke to the clerk. After a short conversation, this man strolled to a corner and stood in speculation.

The tall man was directly under the observation of the watcher by the pillar, who, glancing from the corners of his eyes, had an excellent opportunity to study the lanky person. It was evident that the stoop-shouldered one was worrying about something. He seemed impatient and ill at ease.

His long, prying nose showed him to be a talkative type, and one who had a penchant for mingling in the business of others. His furtive eyes gave him a suspicious appearance.

He made a good subject for a character analyst.

Too much concerned with matters pertaining to himself to notice that he was under observation, this man suddenly strode across the lobby to the cigar counter. He purchased a handful of perfectos, and made off in the direction of the smoking room.

There, ensconced in a corner, he lighted a cigar and stared steadily at the mural decorations. So preoccupied was he that he did not notice the arrival of another person — the man who had been watching him in the lobby.

"Have you a match?"

The simple question made the gawkish man start. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a pack of paper matches. He gave them to the one who had asked for them.

"Thank you, Mr. Powell."

The man raised his stooped shoulders. A hunted expression came over his face. His eyes gleamed with suspicion. He stared at the speaker, who returned his gaze with a frank and friendly air.

"My name isn't Powell," the man declared in a low, tense voice.

"Not on the hotel register," was the young man's reply. "There you have written your name as Wallace Weldon. The first name is correct; the last is not. You should have listed yourself as Wallace Powell, unless — "

"Unless what?" the tall man interrupted.

"— unless you prefer not to be known in Baltimore," the other finished. Powell sank back in his chair and stared toward the ceiling; but his mind was still on what the stranger had said.

"Suppose," said Powell, "that I do not care to be known in Baltimore. How does it concern you?"

"It does not concern me at all."

"Then why mention it?" Powell persisted.

"Because it concerns you — and your immediate welfare. More so, perhaps, than you suppose." The young man's voice was firm.

Again the hunted eyes flashed. Powell looked about to see if they were alone. Then he spoke in a low, but demanding, tone.

"Why are you watching me?"

"I told you why," came the answer. "For your own good!"

"What are you? A detective?"

"No. I have no concern whatever with the law."

Powell saw that the man's eyes were frank. He believed him. Then he laughed, in a disgruntled manner.

"It wouldn't matter if you were a detective," he said. "I've done nothing wrong. Whatever I do is always legitimate. I've got nothing to worry about."

"No?"

The peculiar accent of the question puzzled Powell. It increased his nervousness. He wanted to know who this man was.

"What is your name?" he demanded bluntly.

"Harry Vincent," was the reply. "The same name in Baltimore as in New York."

"I never heard of you," Powell countered.

"You might have — if I had been in Paris a few weeks ago!"

Powell did not reply. He became restless, and chewed his lips. He wanted to question the stranger further, but seemed unwilling to begin. Harry Vincent saved him the trouble.

"When you were in Paris," said Harry quietly, "you met an old friend — a man much older than yourself, and one who was much wealthier. I refer to Herbert Brockley."

Powell did not reply.

"Brockley died while he was there," continued Harry, in a reminiscent tone. "His death was a sudden one. He was murdered. It was a shock to you."

"It was a shock," admitted Powell.

"Before he died, Brockley gave you something. What, I do not know. I presume, however, that it involved information of a certain sort. It may have explained, to some degree, why Brockley died.

"Of course, the cause of his death has been traced to Parisian criminals — Apaches. But you know something which underlies it all."

"Where did you get that idea?" asked Powell, with a hollow laugh.

"My source of information is my secret," replied Harry, "just as your fund of information is your secret. Perhaps a fair exchange would be to our mutual liking."

"Not to mine," declared Powell. "What I know, I keep to myself. What I have learned" -

he caught himself — "what I may have learned was given to me in confidence. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Harry calmly. "But sometimes, people learn too much. Herbert Brockley did.

He passed the information on to you."

The amazement that swept over Wallace Powell showed that the remark had struck home.

The man began to clench his fists nervously. He started to rise; then sat down.

He looked at Harry Vincent; but his eyes were more than hunted. They were beseeching.

Harry detected their expression. He followed it to advantage.

"Powell," he said, "I never met you before. But you may consider me a friend. You can also assume me to be a friend of Herbert Brockley's.

"There are reasons why I wish to learn who caused his death. I believe that you can tell me. You owe that to Brockley, don't you?"

"Perhaps," said Powell slowly. "But that makes you a detective, doesn't it?"

"Not a bit of it," declared Harry emphatically. "Look here, Powell. I know what you're after. Money!

You can't be blamed for that.

"I don't happen to need cash" — he pulled a massive roll of bills from his pocket, and Powell stared goggle-eyed at the yellow-backed currency — "and, furthermore, I'm willing to spend some. How does that sound?"

"How much do you want to pay for what I know?" demanded Powell, completely off his guard because of the money.

"How much are you getting for it?" quizzed Harry, thrusting the roll of bills back into his pocket. The cash out of view, Powell's attitude changed. He became close-mouthed, giving way to a short laugh.

"Think this over, Powell," declared Harry. "I am out to obtain certain information — which I think you have. I intend to get it — although it may take a long while, and cause serious consequences in the meantime. To save myself that trouble, I am willing to pay you a substantial sum.

"I take it that you have already made plans to sell your knowledge. That does not concern me. You are quite welcome to go through with your deal. Whatever I pay you, will be extra." A sudden light came into Powell's glance. Harry's words had struck a responsive chord. Avaricious, Powell immediately began to figure excess profits. He was a man who lived by his wits, and this was too good an opportunity to miss.

"Furthermore," continued Harry, "our transaction can take place in the security of this hotel, which is a great advantage to you. I doubt that your other — client, shall I call him? — is offering you that consideration."

"Let me think this over," said Powell. "I'm too much worried about — well, just worried — "

"About the other deal," interposed Harry quietly. "I'll tell you something, Powell. If a man came to you and offered to work this with you, you'd be willing to split fifty-fifty with him.

Just because you are worried.

"Well, suppose I make that offer. Only, instead of collecting fifty per cent, I'll pay you that amount! How does that sound?"

Powell's eyes gleamed, but he still hesitated. Harry quickly continued with his offer.