As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” November 1931

CHAPTER I

A DESPERATE FLIGHT

A TAXICAB stopped at a corner in upper Manhattan. As it pulled to the curb, the passenger thrust his hand through the open window beside the driver and pressed a ten-dollar bill into the taximan’s glove.

“Keep the change,” came a low, quick voice with a foreign accent. “Keep the change, and drive away. Tell no one that you brought me here.”

Before the astonished driver could reply, the passenger was gone. The taximan caught a glimpse of his back as the man hurried across the sidewalk and turned the corner.

It was one of those strange episodes which occur nightly in New York. The taxi driver shrugged his shoulders as he pocketed the ten-dollar bill.

As the cab drew away from the brightly lighted corner, a sedan pulled up alongside of it. The two vehicles ran along together, while unseen eyes from the sedan peered into the cab, as though seeking some one.

Then the large automobile stopped; and as the cab went on, the driver of the sedan turned his car down the street where the stranger had gone.

The block was a long one. The sedan had arrived in less than a minute after the passenger had left the cab. There was little chance that the pedestrian could reach the next corner before the pursuing car overtook him.

BUT the man had chosen a closer destination. At the very moment that the sedan had begun its chase, the man on foot stopped at a house midway in the block.

He heard the approach of the sedan as he waited for admittance to the house. Instinctively he drew his body into the protecting shadows of the doorway.

The effort to gain concealment was a failure. The eyes that peered from the sedan were too keen. An exclamation came from the car; it stopped suddenly as the driver applied the brakes.

But as the sedan’s momentum ceased, the door of the house was opened, and the man on the steps was admitted.

Within the house, the hunted man gasped breathlessly as he stood in the dimly lighted hallway. He had been admitted by a dull-faced, brutal-looking servant, and this individual now studied him in a rather antagonistic manner.

“What do you want?” demanded the servant, in guttural tones.

“I must see Mr. Albion. At once!” The visitor’s reply was urgent. “Tell him it is important.”

“What is your name?”

“Berchik.”

The servant turned and went up the stairs.

The visitor stared anxiously at the closed door. He was a heavy-set man, dark in complexion, and with a stern yet expressive face. His features showed the marks of worry.

The servant returned.

“Follow me,” he said.

He led the way upstairs. They came to a front room on the second floor. The visitor was admitted, and the servant retired, closing the door behind him.

THE man called Berchik found himself in a most luxurious apartment. The decorations of the room were almost barbaric in their splendor.

A Russian wolfhound was reclining upon a magnificent Oriental rug. The huge dog arose and stretched itself; then it stalked across the room and rubbed its head against the visitor’s hand. Berchik smiled as he stroked the dog’s back.

Two velvet curtains parted at the left side of the room. A man entered.

He was a tall man, of courtly appearance. His hair was gray; his face was clean-shaven. His features were those of a stern, unyielding fighter; his entire appearance showed that he regarded himself as superior to other persons.

The visitor bowed as he observed the man enter.

“Your name is Berchik?”

The tall man’s words came in sharp syllables, with a slight accent.

“Yes,” replied the visitor, in a respectful tone.

“You asked to see me,” replied the tall man. “I am Mr. Albion.”

Berchik looked at the tall man, and a smile of recognition dawned upon his face.

Despite the plainness of the man’s attire — he was dressed in somber black — the visitor knew that he stood in the presence of an important personage.

“I know you, sir,” explained Berchik, in a respectful tone. “You are Prince Zuvor.”

The tall man held up a warning hand.

“Hush!” he commanded. “Do not mention that name. It must be forgotten.”

HE walked across the room, and sat in a huge armchair. He waved his hand, and Berchik took his seat opposite him.

“My name is Richard Albion,” said the tall man, with a slight smile. “It is better that I should be known by that name than by my former title.”

He stared anxiously about him; then pointed to the windows at the front of the room.

There were black window shades there. One was not fully drawn, and Berchik could see the bottom of an outer yellow shade.

“I am Prince Zuvor,” admitted the man, in a low voice. “But you can see the precautions I take to conceal my identity and my actions. I always fear spies and intruders. As Richard Albion, I manage to avoid troubles.”

Berchik nodded. He was still stroking the wolfhound, which stood beside his chair.

Prince Zuvor gazed intently at Berchik.

“I believe I recognize you,” he said. “I remember you now. It is many years since you came to my palace in Petrograd, with your master — “

The tall man ended his sentence abruptly, as though loath to mention the name that was upon his lips. Berchik nodded to show that he understood.

“Your master is dead,” said Prince Zuvor quietly.

“Yes,” replied Berchik, in a voice choked with emotion.

“He was not so fortunate as I,” continued Zuvor. “All of my wealth has been saved. He lost much; but I have heard that he managed to retain a considerable portion of his valuables.”

Berchik nodded.

“That is why I have come here to-night,” he said eagerly. “I am in danger, your excellency. You are the only one to whom I can turn for help.”

Prince Zuvor smiled sympathetically.

“When Prince” — Berchik caught his words — “when my master died, he left me with a singular mission. I was to bring what remained of his vast wealth here to America, to divide it among men who had befriended my master when he was in trouble.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Yes. After difficulties. I dealt with one man alone — the man who had been appointed by my master to divide the wealth among the others.

“But since then, I have been hounded. Agents of the Reds have been upon my trail. I have not dared to attempt an escape.”

“What do they want of you? Do you still have any of your master’s wealth?”

“None of it. I have some money of my own enough to enable me to escape.”

“Why do they seek you then?”

“To learn the name of the man to whom I delivered the jewels,” explained Berchik. “They seek to capture me, to torture me; that I may betray my trust.

“For if they learn the name of that man — a name which I alone know — they will seek to take his portion from him.”

“He received more than the others?” questioned Prince Zuvor.

“Yes,” replied Berchik, “he gained twice as much as any other; and he knows the names of all to whom he delivered a share.”

PRINCE ZUVOR was silent. So was Berchik. Both men listened. They could hear sounds from the street outside the house the throbbing of a motor came to their ears.

Were Berchik’s pursuers waiting there?

“Where do you wish to go?” asked Prince Zuvor suddenly.

“To Australia,” replied Berchik. “If I can elude these Soviet agents, I can easily gain safety. Then I can communicate with the American to whom I gave the jewels.”

Prince Zuvor nodded.

“He should be warned,” he said. “But is it right that you should leave? He may be in danger, and may need your advice.”

“It is dangerous for me to stay here,” objected Berchik.

“That is true,” replied Prince Zuvor. He seemed to be formulating a plan.

“Perhaps I can help you — to escape. Perhaps I can also — keep a guarding eye upon this American whom you have mentioned.”

A smile of relief appeared upon Berchik’s face. The Russian servant seemed to be freed of his former anxiety. His appeal to Prince Zuvor had been successful.

“What is the American’s name?” questioned Prince Zuvor quietly.

“Bruce Duncan,” whispered Berchik. He drew a slip of paper from his pocket, and scrawled some words upon it. “This is his address. Can I count on you to protect him, your excellency?”

“Certainly,” replied Prince Zuvor, with a smile. “Now for your escape, Berchik!

“Unknown to any one, I have devised a plan whereby I can flee from here at a moment’s notice. That plan will be utilized to-night; but it will be you who will escape. You have money, you say?”

Berchik nodded.

Prince Zuvor went to a handsome mahogany writing table, and inscribed a series of directions. He passed the paper to Berchik. The servant read the words, and smiled. Prince Zuvor shook hands with Berchik, as the latter rose.

“Go!” he said. “Ivan will start you on the way to safety.”

He rang the bell, and the dull-faced man entered. Berchik followed him, and was conducted to the cellar.

There, Ivan, with amazing skill, placed make-up on Berchik’s face that gave an entirely different appearance to Berchik’s features. Then Ivan supplied him with a new overcoat, of different pattern than his own.

Prince Zuvor’s servant opened a door, and Berchik found himself in a concealed alleyway that led to the street in back of the house.

Berchik was off to safety!

HE followed the alleyway to the side of the house in back of Prince Zuvor’s residence. The house was apparently deserted. But Berchik, following the directions which he had read, opened the side door and entered.

He went to the front door of the house and peered through the glass panel. A taxicab drove up. It had been summoned to this address by Prince Zuvor. Berchik hurried out and entered the cab.

As they turned the corner to the avenue, a car rolled by in the opposite direction. It was the sedan that had followed Berchik to Prince Zuvor’s house. The eyes within must have spotted Berchik in spite of his disguise, for the sedan stopped suddenly.

“Hurry!” said Berchik to the driver. He had given the man an address named on the list of directions.

The cab sped rapidly onward. It turned into a side street, and Berchik left it.

He entered a small unpretentious house, which was entirely dark, and locked the door behind him. He saw the sedan draw up as the cab pulled away.

Berchik dashed through the empty house and ran out the back door into another tiny alley which did not go to the front of the house. This way led him to another street, where he found a second cab awaiting him.

He instructed the driver to take him to the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street railway station.

The sedan had lost the trail.

Berchik caught his train; one hour later, he reached a small town in Connecticut. There he went to a garage, and gave his name as Robert Jennings. The garage man brought out a small coupe. The car was an old one, but as Berchik drove away, he realized that it was in excellent running order.

A few miles outside the little town, Berchik stopped the car. Beneath the front seat, he found two New York license plates.

He removed the Connecticut plates, and threw them into the woods beside the road. He attached the New York plates and drove along.

He smiled contentedly in the darkness. His safety was now assured.

This automobile, kept in the Connecticut town under an assumed name, would enable him to reach a city named in the directions; there he would take a train for the West.

AS Berchik’s car whirled along the deserted road, the fleeing man felt the first relief that he had known since he had come to America to deliver his master’s wealth.

The Red agents had picked up his trail after he had given the jewels to Bruce Duncan. Since then they had played a waiting, catlike game.

Now he was safe — free from any avenging hand. He could write a warning letter to Bruce Duncan from the Middle West; and could keep on to California; then to Australia.

These thoughts were in Berchik’s mind as he rounded a long curve, on the side of a hill. Below him, at the right, yawned a deep ravine.

“Prince Zuvor is clever,” murmured Berchik. “This is the plan he chose for escape. They are watching him — as they watched me. But there is no danger for me now. I am safe. They cannot strike me.”

He turned the wheel to the left, as the curve increased. From the back of the car he heard a slight click. He wondered what it meant. Then came a second click.

A sudden fear came over Berchik. He thrust his foot forward to the brake pedal.

But his action was too late. Before Berchik could save himself from the unknown danger, a terrific explosion came from the rear of the car.

The back of the light coupe was lifted upward as though by a giant hand. The shattered automobile hurtled forward and crashed through the fence at the side of the road.

Rolling in its plunge, the car fell over and over into the ravine below, leaving a trail of wreckage as it went. It smashed into a large tree, and its course ended there.

In ten brief seconds, the speeding automobile had become a battered hulk, and in the mass of twisted metal and broken glass lay the dead body of Berchik.

CHAPTER II

ONE HOUR TO LIVE

THE young reporter glanced nervously at his wrist watch as he sat by the window in the waiting room. Nearly four o’clock. He had been waiting half an hour.

He looked out the window and studied the myriad buildings that lay below. Manhattan was an amazing spectacle when viewed from the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building; but his eyes scarcely saw the scene.

He was anxiously waiting his interview with Jonathan Graham, the millionaire importer.

The reporter started suddenly as a quiet, somber man approached and spoke to him.

“I am Mr. Berger,” explained the man. “I am Mr. Graham’s secretary. What can I do for you?”

The reporter arose and fumbled nervously with his hat.

“Stevens is my name,” he said. “Reporter on the Morning Sphere. I’d like a private interview with Mr. Graham.”

“He is very busy,” replied the secretary smoothly. “I usually take care of these matters for him.”

“I must see him personally.”

The secretary shrugged his shoulders.

“I think that will be impossible,” he told the reporter. “It is late in the afternoon. Mr. Graham has urgent matters on his mind.”

“I made the appointment by phone this morning,” objected Stevens.

“I understand that well,” answered Berger. “But I attend to all matters such as newspaper interviews. You will have to talk with me.”

The door of the inner office opened, and a stout, gray-haired man entered the waiting room. He spoke to a stenographer seated at a desk; then he turned to go back into his office.

The reporter saw him and recognized him.

“Mr. Graham!” he exclaimed, darting away from the secretary. “I am from the Sphere, Mr. Graham. May I talk with you for a few minutes?”

The millionaire looked disapprovingly at Stevens. Then he pointed to his secretary.

“Mr. Berger will take care of you,” he said.

“But this is a personal interview, Mr. Graham,” pleaded the reporter. “I won’t be long, sir. Just a few minutes. I hate to bother you, sir. But it means a lot to me — “

The millionaire smiled indulgently.

“Come in,” he said, holding the door open. “I’ll see you in ten minutes, Berger. Bring Miss Smythe with you. I have some letters to dictate.”

Safely within the private office, the young reporter sat on the edge of a large leather-covered chair, and looked at the millionaire as the latter took his position behind a mahogany desk.

“My name is Stevens, sir,” explained the reporter. “They gave me this assignment because our regular man was laid up. They waited for him to come back; but he won’t be in until to-morrow. So I have to get this interview. Your name was on the list — “

“What is it all about?” demanded Jonathan Graham.

“It’s a series of articles we’re running,” said the reporter. “Prominent people are interviewed on the same subject. We get all kinds of different opinions.

“We ask them what they would do if they had only one hour more in which to live — “

Jonathan Graham held up his hand.

“That’s enough,” he said coldly. “I’ve seen that absurd column in the Sphere. One man says that he would call up all of his friends and give them a farewell party. Another says that he would take the opportunity to pay off debts of gratitude.

“That’s the column you mean, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The idea is preposterous. I can’t give you an interview on that subject.”

The reporter looked dismayed.

“It means a lot to me, sir,” he said. “It’s too late for me to see any one else. I have to get the interview, Mr. Graham. I’ll quote you accurately — “

A look of mild sympathy came over the millionaire’s face as he saw the worried expression of the reporter. He arose from his chair, placed his hands behind his back, and strolled to the large open window. There he pressed one knee against the low sill, and looked out at the city.

Finally he turned and faced the reporter.

“I’ll give you a short interview, my boy,” he said, in a kindly tone. “I don’t like the subject, and I would ignore it under ordinary circumstances.

“But I’ll help you out. I’ll tell you just what I would do if I had one hour to live.”

Instinctively, the reporter glanced at his watch and saw that it registered exactly four o’clock.

“At this particular moment,” said Jonathan Graham, “I have several letters to dictate. It is the wind-up of a day’s routine. I shall be finished at exactly five o’clock. That’s just about an hour from now, isn’t it?”

The reporter nodded.

“Very well,” continued the millionaire. “This coming hour is set and established in my mind. I expect to carry it to its normal conclusion.

“It matters not to me whether I have one hour, or one hundred years, of life ahead of me. That hour will be devoted to the work for which I have appointed it.”

While Stevens jotted his notes, the millionaire walked a few steps; then turned and took his position facing the window.

The reporter looked up and spoke.

“What else, sir?” he questioned.

“That is all,” replied the millionaire, resting his knee against the window sill.

“Nothing else, sir?” asked Stevens.

The millionaire retained his pose, which seemed to be a favorite position.

“Nothing else,” he said. “Your interview is over. That will have to satisfy you. I have work to do, and you must go now.”

SHORTLY before five o’clock, Stevens humbly submitted his story to the city editor. The result was a storm of sarcastic disapproval.

“Is this all you got!” exclaimed the city editor. “I wanted a column. You bring me a couple of sticks!”

“That’s all he told me, sir,” said Stevens.

“Didn’t you ask him any questions?”

“No, sir. I told him what I wanted to know; and that’s what he gave me.”

The city editor glared at the copy.

“Stevens,” he said, angrily, “you’re the dumbest man I’ve ever had on the staff. Your work hasn’t been worth a plugged nickel.

“I thought I’d give you a chance to-day. You flopped. This story is so punk that it can’t even be rewritten.”

He started to toss the copy into the wastebasket; then, changing his mind, he thrust it in a desk drawer.

“I’m keeping it, Stevens,” he said gruffly, “so there will be no comeback if you kick because I fired you. Don’t bother about any assignments to-night. You’re through right now.

“I sent you out to find out what a man would do if he had one hour to live. You bring back a story that has nothing in it. Jonathan Graham simply ignored the whole idea, and you were too dumb to ask him questions that might get him started.

“The column won’t appear in to-morrow’s paper. Your copy is no good, and neither are you. That’s final. Goodbye.”

“It was very late when I saw Mr. Graham,” pleaded the reporter. “Four o’clock, you know. I mentioned that in the story. He had a lot of work to do — I couldn’t bother him too much — “

“Get out!” ordered the city editor.

Stevens was dejected when he left the newspaper building. He had counted a lot on his job as a reporter. Now it was all over.

He stopped at a lunch wagon near his uptown rooming house, and ate a tasteless meal. Then he went to his lodging.

He sat mournfully in his room until nearly eight o’clock. His mind seemed unable to grasp the fact that his job was gone.

Some one knocked at his door. It was the landlady.

“Telephone call for you, Mr. Stevens,” she said.

The young man walked slowly downstairs and answered the telephone. He recognized the voice of the city editor.

“Hello — Stevens?” came the question.

“Yes, sir,” replied the ex-reporter.

“Get back here to the office, right away. I want to talk to you.”

“But” — Stevens’ voice was doubtful — “I thought you fired me, sir.”

“I did. But I’m hiring you again. You’re due for an increase in salary. I want to discuss it with you.”

“But I don’t understand,” blurted Stevens. “You said — “

“Forget what I said. We’ve put your story on the front page in a two-column box. It’s a scoop!”

The receiver clicked at the other end.

Stevens started for the subway. He stopped at a stand and bought a copy of the final edition of his paper. The big headlines on the front page brought a gasp of astonishment to his lips.

Jonathan Graham was dead! The millionaire had committed suicide by leaping from the window of his office on the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building, at exactly five o’clock.

He had lived just one hour after his interview!

CHAPTER III

THE SHADOW KNOWS

A CHUBBY-FACED man was seated at a desk in his office in the Grandville Building. Before him lay a pile of newspapers. Through his spectacles, he was studying clippings that he had cut from the journals.

Some one tapped at the door. The man arose and opened it, peering into the outer office. It was the stenographer who had knocked.

“It’s nearly five o’clock, Mr. Fellows,” said the girl. “My work is finished. Is it all right for me to leave?”

“Certainly,” replied the round-faced man.

He closed the door and returned to his desk.

This man, despite his quiet and almost lethargic appearance, was in reality a very unusual person.

As Claude H. Fellows, the insurance broker, he had a wide circle of acquaintances, who looked upon him as a prosaic business man. But Fellows’ real work in life was more dramatic. He was the confidential agent of that mysterious personage called The Shadow.

The insurance broker was an important cog-wheel in the human mechanism that served The Shadow in his encounters with master criminals.

Fellows was a methodical man who had the ability to assemble facts and information. It was his duty to maintain contact with the unknown Shadow, and to pass instructions along to other workers.

To-day he had been busy all afternoon, clipping items that pertained to the suicide of Jonathan Graham, the millionaire importer. It was nearly twenty-four hours since Graham had died, and Fellows had gathered everything from all the newspapers.

The insurance broker went to the typewriter and prepared a synopsis that dealt accurately with the accounts of Jonathan Graham’s death. It was his duty to prepare reports on such occurrences as this one.

Jonathan Graham gave an interview to a reporter at four o’clock, stating that if he had but one hour to live, he would go about his work in regular procedure.

He lived up to that statement. He called in his secretary, Berger, and a stenographer, Miss Smythe, and dictated a number of letters, which he signed.

At precisely five o’clock, Miss Smythe left the private office. Berger followed with the signed letters. Miss Smythe was halfway across the waiting room when Berger came out. She had forgotten a pad, and she returned to the inner office.

She was speaking to Berger as she opened the door. He had turned toward the door, and as the stenographer opened it, Berger could see directly across the private office.

He dropped the letters suddenly, and leaped forward, crying, “Mr. Graham! Stop! Don’t! Don’t!” Then he slumped against the wall, gasping in horror.

Miss Smythe rushed into the office and was surprised to find that Jonathan Graham was not there. There were two men in the waiting room: one ran to the private office; the other went to aid Berger.

The secretary pointed and gasped: “The window! He jumped — we were too late.”

The man looked out the window, and saw a crowd gathering on the side street below. The explanation was obvious. Jonathan Graham had leaped to his death.

The newspapers have hinted various motives for suicide. No one was in the room when Berger saw Graham leap. No person could have escaped from the room.

FELLOWS ran down the margin of his report and inscribed certain numbers with a blue pencil. These corresponded to numbers on the newspaper clippings. When he had finished the work, the insurance broker folded the paper and clippings, and inserted them in a large manila envelope. He took the envelope with him when he left the office.

Hailing a cab, he rode to Twenty-third Street, and entered a dingy office building.

On the third floor he stopped in front of a door near the end of the hall. On the frosted glass appeared the name — B. Jonas.

The shadows of cobwebs appeared through the pane. Evidently the door had not been opened for many months. Thick dust on the glass was additional evidence to that effect.

Very little light came from the room within; evidently there was a single window that provided very little illumination.

There was a letter chute in the doorway, bearing the sign, “Leave Mail Here.” Fellows dropped the envelope in the chute.

What lay behind that door was a mystery to Claude Fellows. Once he had wondered about it — long ago. He had questioned tenants in the building, and had learned that no one ever entered the room — not even the janitor, for the tenants paid for cleaning service and Jonas had never requested it.

So Fellows had come to accept the strange, closed office as a very ordinary matter. To-day he walked away without even giving it a second thought.

It was simply the place to which he brought or sent reports and messages intended for The Shadow.

Once Fellows thought he had identified The Shadow, but he had found that he was mistaken. So he continued his routine work, satisfied with his reward, which came in the form of a monthly payment from some unknown source.

Who and what The Shadow was no longer concerned Claude Fellows’ mind.

The insurance broker remembered the envelope as he rode uptown. He thought of it lying beneath the mail chute; then he dismissed the matter.

But at the very moment that the thought of the envelope lingered in Fellows’ mind, that same envelope was lying open on a table, and two long-fingered hands were drawing the clippings from it.

THOSE hands were working in a circle of light that came from a shaded lamp, directly above the table. They were amazing hands, white and supple.

On one finger of the left hand gleamed a mysterious gem — a glowing fire opal that shone with crimson hue, and seemed like a living coal.

Beyond the hands was darkness, amid which invisible eyes watched and directed the hands in their work. A pointed finger ran along the lines of Fellows’ brief report.

Then the hands spread out the clippings. One by one they came under inspection of the invisible eyes; then all attention was directed to the front-page story that had appeared in the Sphere — the report of the last interview with Jonathan Graham.

The finger moved from word to word, as though ferreting the thoughts that had been in the mind of the millionaire when he had given the interview.

Had young Stevens been an experienced reporter, or one gifted with imagination, he might have presented a skillfully changed story, emphasizing certain details and subordinating others.

But as it was, his account was an accurate description of exactly what had transpired in Jonathan Graham’s office at four o’clock the preceding afternoon.

The hands suddenly folded the clipping and thrust it, with the report, back in the envelope. The other clippings were also put away. Then the hands produced a sheet of paper and a pencil.

Slowly and carefully the right hand wrote, and the words were so carefully marked that they seemed like spoken thoughts as they came on the paper.

Jonathan Graham’s death is classed as suicide. There are hints of motives. Every life has possible motives for suicide. Jonathan Graham did not contemplate suicide when he gave the interview. Nothing that occurred in the following hour could have made him decide to end his life. Therefore Jonathan Graham was murdered. Only one man’s testimony disputes that fact — the testimony of the secretary, Stanley Berger. Berger claims that he saw Graham leap from the window. Graham did not leap from the window. Therefore Berger did not see him leap. Why did he make his statement? To aid the murderer. Why did he wish to aid the murderer? Because he was the murderer.

The hand stopped writing. Then it began again, and the words that it inscribed came as a revelation that told exactly what had transpired in the office of Jonathan Graham.

It was a perfect reconstruction of the crime — formed by a master mind that had the uncanny ability to picture the thoughts and actions of another person.

Jonathan Graham had a habit of standing by the window, which had a low sill. This fact appeared in the account of his last interview. Berger and Miss Smythe were in the office with Graham at five o’clock. Graham turned to look out of the open window, as Miss Smythe left. Berger was gathering a few letters. He was standing close to Graham as the door closed behind Miss Smythe. It was an opportunity. Like a flash, Berger pushed Graham through the window, catching him off balance, sending him to his doom. Berger left the room immediately. It was done so rapidly that he seemed to come out right behind Miss Smythe. That was to be his alibi. Yet he must have had qualms. When Miss Smythe turned to go back to the private office, Berger gained a sudden opportunity. Staring directly into the office, he screamed a warning as the stenographer opened the door. Then he yielded to his shaking nerves.

The hand stopped writing. It began to tap the pencil against the paper, counting the seconds that were marked by a watch that lay on the table.

The brain in the darkness was going through the murder of Jonathan Graham, counting from the very instant when Berger pushed the millionaire through the window until the moment when the secretary screamed his warning.

Thirty taps. Then the hand wrote:

Half a minute at the most. No one knows the exact minute at which Jonathan Graham’s body crashed to the street. The time element is perfectly in Berger’s favor. Berger’s alibi is now perfect — to the unthinking minds of those who were in the office — and to the minds of the police. But to the deductive brain, Berger’s action betrays his crime.

The right hand picked up the paper, and crumpled it into a ball. The hand disappeared and returned without the paper. Then on another sheet, it wrote:

Stanley Berger murdered Jonathan Graham.

The pencil remained still for two short seconds; then it moved again, and the hand inscribed these words:

The Shadow knows!

CHAPTER IV

THE RED ENVOY

LATE that evening, a man entered an apartment house in upper Manhattan. He was short and heavy set, with a grim face that bore signs of ugliness. He walked abruptly through the hallway and took the automatic elevator to the third floor.

There he opened the door of an apartment and entered a darkened room. He pressed a switch on the wall. Then he turned toward the far corner of the room. A quick gasp came from his lips.

Behind a small desk sat a man in a dark-blue overcoat, who wore a crimson mask that covered the upper half of his face.

“The Red Envoy!” exclaimed the man who had entered the room.

The figure behind the desk did not reply. The man in the crimson mask was motionless. His hands lay upon the desk; they were hidden within thin red gloves.

The man who had come into the apartment recovered his composure. He glanced about the room, noticing that the shades were drawn. He deposited his hat on a chair, and approached the desk.

“I did not expect you to-night,” he said respectfully.

“Why not?” asked the man who wore the crimson mask. His voice was low, and even-toned. “You have much to report, Comrade Prokop.”

“That is correct.” Prokop was speaking in English, his words slightly thickened by a trace of foreign accent. He drew up a chair and sat opposite the Red Envoy.

DESPITE his formidable appearance, the man called Prokop seemed nervous in the presence of the masked man who wore the red gloves.

Coming back to his apartment to find the Red Envoy awaiting him had been a startling experience. Prokop did not know how the mysterious man had entered the apartment; nor did he ask.

“What took place to-night?” questioned the Red Envoy.

“Reports,” replied Prokop tersely. “Two enemies have been eliminated. Graham and Berchik are dead.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Berchik visited Prince Zuvor. He told him about the jewels. Agent K overheard everything.”

“Who is Agent K? Zuvor’s servant?”

“Yes. Fritz Bloch. A German. Zuvor has two servants. Fritz Bloch and a Russian named Ivan Shiskin. Ivan is loyal to Zuvor. We count on Fritz for information.”

“Did Fritz learn the name of the man who received the wealth we seek?”

“Yes. His name is Bruce Duncan.”

“What have you done about it?”

“I have notified Agent R to be ready. I already have a report concerning him. He is a wealthy young man, who lives alone with one servant. He must be handled tactfully. Agent R is the one to do that.”

Prokop drew an envelope from his pocket. He handed it to the Red Envoy, who opened it with ease despite the red silk gloves, and read the report within.

“That will do,” said the masked man tersely. “Let Agent R proceed. Your plan is quite suitable for the present.”

“We need worry no longer about Berchik,” said Prokop, with a leering smile. “He died quickly.”

“How?”

“By the method we had arranged for Prince Zuvor. Agent K — Fritz — learned that Zuvor had a car in readiness in a garage up in Connecticut. I saw to it that a bomb was arranged in the automobile set to explode after the car had gone twenty miles.

“Zuvor instructed Berchik to use that car in his escape. The bomb exploded and the car toppled into a ravine.”

“Did any one suspect the cause of the accident?”

“We think not.”

The Red Envoy sat as silent as a statue. Prokop shifted uneasily. He felt that he was inferior to this strange person who came to visit him as the direct representative of a powerful organization…

Usually, Prokop received instructions to meet the Red Envoy in some unexpected place. This was the first time that his superior had ever come to the apartment.

“No one suspects who you are?” The Red Envoy’s question came suddenly to Prokop’s ears.

“No,” replied Prokop. “I call myself Henry Propert.”

“You take every precaution regarding our agents?” asked the Red Envoy.

“Every precaution. Even the agents do not know each other. Each one reports to me, individually, at the meeting place.

“I am always masked. I identify each agent before he goes into the meeting room. All are masked when they assemble.”

“Good!” The Red Envoy’s statement carried a tone of satisfaction. “You must keep your identity a secret from your subordinate just as I keep my identity a secret from you.”

Prokop nodded.

“You have done well,” commended the Red Envoy. “I shall mention you in my report to Moscow.

“But you have not yet told me about the case of Jonathan Graham. I came here to learn about it.”

PROKOP rubbed his chin nervously. He had expected this inquiry from the Red Envoy. After the commendation that he had received, he hesitated to supply the new information.

“Our agent did well,” he said. “As you know, he had obtained a situation as Jonathan Graham’s secretary — “

“He was in Graham’s employ before he joined our cause, was he not?” interrupted the Red Envoy.

“Yes,” answered Prokop. “We made him Agent J. He was just the man we required. Communistic in belief — yet he seldom expressed his opinions.

“One of our agents discovered him, and he became an excellent worker. He used his right name — Stanley Berger.”

Prokop paused and glanced at the Red Envoy. The man in the mask betrayed no impatience, but he spoke tersely.

“I know all that, Prokop,” he said. “Come to the point.”

“Well,” said Prokop quickly, “Berger did his best to discover Jonathan Graham’s private correspondence. But he had no opportunity to read it. I ordered him to get results quickly. So he stole it all, and mailed it to me.”

“When?”

“Yesterday morning. Then he must have feared that Graham would discover its loss. At five o’clock yesterday afternoon, Jonathan Graham fell from the window of his office — “