It was nearly midnight. The clearing in front of Paul Hawthorne's cottage was black and still. There was nothing to indicate the presence of hidden enemies.
Yet they were here tonight. In the fringe of the woods directly in front of the house, two men were crouched, waiting.
An automobile swung in from the road. It pulled up before the house. A man alighted and walked into the glare of the headlights. His face showed plainly as he turned. The pallid features of Paul Hawthorne were revealed to the men who watched.
"He's back," whispered one.
It was Jeremiah Benson who spoke. Grady was his silent comrade.
The lights on the car went out. The man entered the house. A dim lamp showed through a screened window.
"Ready?" questioned Grady.
"No," replied Benson. "Harmon and Shamlin are coming. We shall wait for them."
Scarcely a minute elapsed after the old man's remark before there was a slight sound from the woods close by. A low whistle followed. Benson replied. Shamlin and Harmon came creeping through the darkness. The four men of crime were together.
"All set?" questioned Shamlin.
"Yes," returned Benson. "He's in the house now. He went out nearly an hour ago.
Someone called him up from the station. Grady was listening by the window. He came back, alone. We were waiting for you men. What kept you?"
Shamlin laughed.
"A wise guy, following us," he said. "We caught on to his game this afternoon. He was on our trail, in a coupe. So we fixed things for him.
"Instead of getting here early, we headed for a town ten miles away. At eleven o'clock, I spotted a curve in the road. That's where we gave it to him!"
"You bumped him off?"
"Tried to. We stopped past the turn and turned out the lights. When he came around, Harmon was ready for him, and opened up with a smoke wagon.
"The guy was headed right into the bullets, but he used his noodle. There was an open fence on the other side of the road, and he shot right through it, into a field."
"He wound up against a stone wall. Smashed his car. We didn't wait. We shoved off and came here, straight."
"You should have bumped him off!" Benson said.
"Why take a chance? If we'd gone after him, he might have been waiting for us with a gat. We picked a road way off in the country. It will take him a couple of hours to get out of that mess. Then how is he going to trail us?"
Benson grunted an agreement. He knew that the gangsters had come directly to Greenhurst, and had left their car in the woods. The pursuer — whoever he might be — would at least be delayed, even if he had escaped serious injury.
It was midnight. Hawthorne, in his cottage, was at the mercy of the invaders. It was time to act. Benson quickly stated his campaign.
"You go to the window, Grady," he ordered. "Pull away that loose screen, if you see Hawthorne sitting in the chair near the window. Nail him from in back. I'll be watching at the door.
"You, Shamlin, come along with me. You take the back door, Harmon. It's unlocked, and it leads to a hall that goes into the living room. If he tries to make a get-away, you'll be waiting for him.
"Have your gats, but no shooting unless he puts up a battle. Work quick, though, if there's any trouble.
"We've got to get this guy Hawthorne and get him for rights. Take him alive is best — dead if we have to go the limit!"
The men moved silently through the dark. They reached their appointed positions. It was gloomy in the room. A single light burned in the corner. There, half facing the door, sat Paul Hawthorne, a book spread before him. He was reading by the light of the lamp. Benson watched through the screen door. Veiled by darkness, the old man could see all that was taking place.
The screen moved in the window behind Hawthorne's shoulder. The reading man did not appear to notice the slight noise that it caused. Grady had done the job neatly.
Now, Grady was in view. With livid, leering face, the killer was coming silently through the window. Benson watched closely, while Shamlin, close beside him, was keeping an eye toward the clearing. In Grady's right hand was a short piece of iron pipe. Grady knew how to handle that implement with effectiveness. It was poised above Hawthorne's head as the killer leaned through the window. Benson was watching for the blow. He had ordered Grady to deliver a neat stroke that would stun the victim. That, to Grady, was a simple matter.
Hawthorne's head was inclined forward. The back of his skull made a perfect target for Grady's blow. It was only a matter of seconds now, Benson thought. But at that instant, there came an unexpected interruption.
The book toppled from Paul Hawthorne's lap. Simultaneously, the man shot out his left hand and pulled the cord of the lamp.
As the room was plunged in darkness, a pistol shot blazed from the chair. Hawthorne's right hand, beneath the book, had discharged an automatic.
With leveled revolver, Benson dashed into the dark room, Shamlin at his heels. The shot had been directed at Grady; Benson did not know whether or not it had found its mark. The old man's gun spat bullets toward the chair where Hawthorne had been. Shamlin joined in the fire.
Then came a flash from another corner of the room! Both attackers aimed in that direction.
Answering shots responded. There was a cry as Shamlin fell. With an oath, Jeremiah Benson emptied his revolver toward the corner, shooting straight at the last flash of flame. ALL became silent. Benson reached the lamp. He pulled the cord. He looked about the room. On the floor, in opposite corners of the room, lay the bodies of Shamlin and Harmon. It was Harmon who had fired from the corner. His shots had clipped his crony, Shamlin!
Benson, in return, had fatally injured Harmon. Only now did the old man realize his mistake. Where was Grady? There was no sign of him at the window.
Where was Hawthorne? He had disappeared.
As Benson stood, bewildered, a figure arose from behind a chair. The man bore the features of Paul Hawthorne; but he acted with a precision that Hawthorne had never shown.
Long arms shot forward and caught Jeremiah Benson by the throat. With a twist, the clutching hands hurled the old man to the floor. Benson's gun fell from his helpless fingers. The scoundrel lay stunned. From the lips of Paul Hawthorne came a low, mocking laugh. It was the laugh of The Shadow. He was the man whom the killers had sought to capture.
The Shadow, master of disguise, had played the part of Paul Hawthorne. Waiting the closing of the trap, he had trapped the trappers!
With a contemptuous look at the form of Jeremiah Benson, The Shadow strode from the cottage. He returned, garbed in cloak and hat that he had brought from Hawthorne's car. Jeremiah Benson, unarmed and bewildered, was sitting up when he saw the strange figure enter. There was a low, whispered command.
With hands raised; with the muzzle of an automatic pressing between his shoulders, Jeremiah Benson was forced out into the night.
Several minutes later, a car arrived in front of the cottage. Hawthorne clambered from it and uttered an exclamation of surprise when he recognized his own automobile parked in front.
"Here's my car!" he cried. "I wonder how it got here? Who could have taken it from the station?" He rushed into the cottage, followed by the man who had come with him. At the entrance, Hawthorne stopped. His voice became a stammer. His face blanched as he saw the bodies of Harmon and Shamlin lying on the floor.
Who were these men? Why had they come here? How had they been killed?
Noting the open window, Hawthorne managed to get that far. Peering out, he saw another body on the ground. It was the dead form of Grady. The Shadow's perfect shot had reached the killer's heart!
Hawthorne could not understand. There had been slaughter here, in his home, and three dead men remained. It all seemed unexplainable, yet Hawthorne realized that this spot had not been accidentally chosen for a gun fray.
He knew that he had been picked as a victim for tonight; that the dread he had felt of Mayo had been warranted!
Three murderous men had come to slay him, Hawthorne knew. Somehow, someone had intervened. The would-be killers had paid the price of their misdeeds!
Hawthorne's nerve began to fail. He stumbled from the house. He wanted to be away from this scene of carnage. Whatever had happened here was a total mystery.
Only two men could have told the story; but Hawthorne did not know of their existence.
Plodding along the road to Sherwood Mayo's lodge, Jeremiah Benson was still obeying the orders of his captor. The fiendish old man was cursing beneath his breath. For his ears were ringing with the sound of a soft, taunting laugh.
The laugh of The Shadow!