CHAPTER I. A MILLIONAIRE ENTERTAINS

As the huge limousine swung up the gravel drive and stopped beneath the porte-cochere of a large, graystone mansion, it would have seemed to the casual observer that there was no one in the rear seat of the car.

But the chauffeur opened the door as though he expected some one to get out.

“We are here, Mr. Cranston,” he announced. “This is Mr. Waddell’s home, sir.”

Shadows in the back seat resolved themselves into a figure which moved languidly, as though aroused from a reverie. The owner of the car arose in leisurely fashion, and stepped from the limousine.

“Very good, Stanley,” he said to the chauffeur. “You made excellent time coming here. Be back by half past eleven.”

A footman was approaching from the door of the house. The chauffeur spoke to the attendant.

“This is Mr. Lamont Cranston,” he said. “To see Mr. Waddell.”

“Will you come with me, sir?” the footman asked Cranston with a bow. “Mr. Waddell was expecting you, sir. I shall announce your arrival.”

As the limousine pulled away, Lamont Cranston and the footman ascended the steps. Inside the door of the sumptuous residence, the servant went ahead to announce the visitor.

Beneath the mellow glow of the hall lights, Lamont Cranston made an imposing figure. He had removed his coat, and now stood attired in immaculate evening clothes. The somber black of his garments accentuated the tallness of his stature. His figure was both imposing and ominous.

Lamont Cranston possessed a remarkable face. His features were cold-chiseled, firm, and masklike. His deepset eyes sparkled keenly; they, alone, added animation to that inscrutable countenance. Motionless as a statue, silent as a phantom, he seemed a veritable figure of mystery.

Yet stranger even than the form itself was the shadow that it cast. Stretched across the rug-covered floor lay a long patch of darkness that commenced from the feet of the man and terminated in an elongated silhouette— the profile of Lamont Cranston. The very atmosphere seemed charged with the eerie silence of a seance room. It betokened the presence of the unknown.

A MAN appeared at the other end of the hall. Short and stout, with a rolling gait, he made a ridiculous figure as he hurried across the floor. This was Tobias Waddell, the millionaire host, who was coming to welcome his guest, Lamont Cranston.

“Glad to see you, Cranston,” was Waddell’s greeting. “Sorry you were held up. Come right along with me — right along. Want you to meet my friends.”

The tall visitor joined the millionaire, and the two returned by the path over which Waddell had come.

They entered a large reception room, where a dozen men and women were gathered. Waddell introduced the new arrival.

It was obvious that Lamont Cranston had arrived too late for the function which had taken place that evening. The party had reached an informal stage. So, after the introduction, Waddell and Cranston stood aside and chatted.

Noting the way in which Cranston’s steady gaze turned and centered upon different persons present, Waddell spoke in an undertone, acquainting his friend with facts concerning those individuals in whom Cranston seemed to display a passing interest.

“Marcus Holtmann,” informed Waddell, as Cranston observed a short, sour-visaged man who was the center of a small group. “Gave us an interesting talk tonight on Russia. Just came back from there, you know.

“Engineering contracting — that is his line. Talked a lot about the Five Year Plan. Must have learned a good bit over there — more than he tells—”

The speaker broke off as he saw Cranston watching a portly man who was listening to Holtmann.

“Parker Noyes is my attorney,” remarked Waddell. “I believe you met him on your last visit here. Very capable man, Noyes. It was he who introduced me to Holtmann.”

As Cranston chanced to glance toward a corner of the room, Waddell nudged him and indicated a tall, handsome man.

“Popular young chap,” observed Waddell. “Met my daughter at Noyes’ house some time ago, and has come here frequently. Name is Frederick Froman. Very agreeable personality. Appears to have a lot of money. Different from that fellow Tholbin.”

With the mention of the second name, the stout millionaire directed Cranston’s attention to a sallow-faced young man who was standing beside the grand piano. Betty Waddell, the millionaire’s daughter, was seated on the piano bench. She and Tholbin were engaged in conversation.

“David Tholbin,” mused Waddell. “Wish I knew more about him. He’ll be proposing marriage to Betty, first thing you know. He follows us too much when we travel. Seems to have some money — how much, I don’t know. Sort of an adventurer, I figure.”

It was obvious that the millionaire judged men by their wealth. Lamont Cranston, himself a multimillionaire, was a highly honored guest, gauged by Waddell’s standard.

Without speaking or giving visible notice of his action, Cranston made a calm comparison of the two young men whom Waddell had last indicated in the conversation.

The two formed a marked contrast. Froman, with light hair and complexion, possessed a frank face.

Tholbin, sallow and black-haired, appeared as a shrewd schemer.

Yet of the pair, Froman was the more dynamic. He was one of those men whose age is difficult to determine. The firm set of his chin showed something of the mental force that lay behind.

FOUR men had been pointed out to Lamont Cranston. They were men of varied sorts. Marcus Holtmann — a man of business; Parker Noyes — a sedate lawyer; Frederick Froman — a gentleman of leisure; David Tholbin — a young adventurer. Their purposes in life were different. Chance, tonight, had made them guests at the same social function.

That same chance had brought a fifth visitor in the person of Lamont Cranston. He was the one who observed; and his keen, piercing eyes were ferreting hidden secrets.

With it all, Cranston possessed a remarkable aptitude for concealing his own actions. Not one of the four sensed the interest that he was taking in them.

Strolling leisurely across the room, Lamont Cranston joined the group that was listening to Holtmann. The sour-faced man was answering questions. His brief, terse phrases came to Cranston’s ears.

“Five Year Plan — gigantic idea — yes, I spent six months in Moscow — vast natural resources in Russia — wealth in back of it — many reports are based upon lack of authentic information—”

Another man had joined the group. The newcomer was Frederick Froman. He displayed a purely passive interest in the discussion. He lighted a cigarette, roamed leisurely away, and returned. His second approach took place as Marcus Holtmann was ending the discussion.

“Well, gentlemen,” declared the man who had been to Russia, “I feel that I have talked enough for this evening. I can only say that my experiences were interesting and enlightening. They proved to me that one cannot judge conditions in Russia by a short visit only. Now that I am back here, I am more interested in America. My stay in New York ends tonight.”

“You are leaving for the Middle West?”

The question came from the lawyer Parker Noyes.

“For Chicago,” replied Holtmann. “My train goes at midnight. I must leave here in ample time to stop at the hotel on the way. I am staying at the Belmar.”

“You will have to leave by eleven o’clock,” observed Noyes.

Holtmann nodded.

The group broke up as the conversation ended. Only Lamont Cranston remained.

He smiled as Tobias Waddell approached him. He walked to the side of the room with the millionaire, and the two sat down in chairs that were drawn side by side.

It was there that Parker Noyes joined them. The lawyer, grave and gray-haired, was a man of important bearing. Both he and Cranston listened to Waddell’s talk, but their eyes were not directed toward the speaker.

Cranston, his clear eyes covering the whole scene, watched Frederick Froman as a footman entered and delivered a message to the blond-haired man. Froman went from the room, evidently to answer a telephone call.

Cranston’s gaze shifted to Marcus Holtmann. Noyes, however, was observing another individual. He was intent upon David Tholbin, who was still engaged in ardent conversation with Betty Waddell.

Froman returned. Cranston glanced at his watch. It showed ten minutes of eleven. Cranston turned to Waddell.

“The telephone?” he questioned. “I have just recalled that I must call the Cobalt Club—”

The millionaire summoned the footman. Then, rising, Waddell conducted Cranston to the door of the room, and indicated the direction. He instructed the servant to show Mr. Cranston the way. A few minutes later, Cranston was alone in a small room, speaking into the mouthpiece of a desk telephone.

“Ready, Burbank?” he questioned.

Evidently the reply was an affirmative one, for Cranston continued with instructions.

“Belmar Hotel, eleven thirty,” he declared. “Midnight train, Grand Central Station, destination Chicago. Marsland to cover at hotel as ordered. Vincent to cover at station as ordered.”

Lamont Cranston hung up the receiver. He stood motionless in the center of the room, his tall figure producing a mammoth shadow. Then the splotch of blackness dwindled as he advanced to the door. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston was again seated beside Tobias Waddell.

JUST before eleven, Marcus Holtmann came over to say good-by to Tobias Waddell. He shook hands with Cranston and Noyes; then made his departure.

No one seemed to express a noticeable interest in Holtmann’s leaving. The man had stated that he must leave before eleven; hence his departure was brisk and businesslike. Lamont Cranston observed that fact. He turned his attention to the remaining guests.

Parker Noyes was still chatting with Tobias Waddell. Frederick Froman was seated in a corner, alone, contentedly puffing a panatella. David Tholbin, apparently oblivious to everything, was engaged in earnest conversation with the millionaire’s daughter.

A few minutes before half past eleven, Tholbin approached Waddell to announce that he was going in to New York. The millionaire received him rather gruffly, but Tholbin ignored the fact. Lamont Cranston, however, spoke cordially:

“My car will be here shortly,” he said. “I should be pleased to take you in to New York—”

“Thanks,” returned Tholbin. “I have my own car outside. Always drive in and out, you know.”

With that, he turned and headed for the hall. Cranston watched him, then turned his head to see Frederick Froman standing close by. The light-haired man had approached while Tholbin was saying good-by to Waddell.

“You are leaving soon, Mr. Cranston?” Froman’s question came in a quiet, even voice.

“Yes,” replied Cranston.

“I should appreciate the same invitation,” declared Froman. “I do not have my car here tonight.”

“I shall be glad to accommodate you,” responded Cranston.

Almost immediately after he had spoken, the footman entered the room to announce that Mr. Cranston’s car had arrived. Cranston shook hands with Waddell and turned questioningly to Parker Noyes.

“You are going into the city?” he asked.

“No,” replied the attorney. “Mr. Waddell has asked me to remain here overnight. Business, you know—”

“I understand.”

Cranston shook hands with both Waddell and Noyes. Accompanied by Froman, he went to the porte-cochere.

The chauffeur must have seen him, for the big limousine pulled up from the driveway. As its headlights spotted the men by the door, Cranston’s shadow formed a long, weirdly changing shape upon the drive.

Froman, chancing to glance downward, was fascinated by the strange, vague streak of blackness.

Then the limousine was beside them. All traces of the oddly shaped shadow had vanished. The two men entered the door of the car. Soon the lights of Waddell’s home were obscured by the huge hedges that surrounded the millionaire’s estate.

Little was said as the limousine rolled Manhattanward. Froman told Cranston his destination — an address in upper Manhattan — and Stanley was instructed to drive there.

There was something ominous in the silence that hung within the luxurious limousine. Only the luminous spots of cigar tips showed that the two men were awake, each concerned with his own thoughts.

Though both were introspective, and neither gained an inkling of the other’s notions, it was more than a coincidence that both should have been thinking of one man.

For Lamont Cranston and Frederick Froman, though differing in plans and purposes, were concentrating deeply upon the activities of a single individual who had been a guest at the home of Tobias Waddell.

They were thinking of Marcus Holtmann, the man who had just returned from Russia.

CHAPTER II. ONE MAN MISSING

THE car drew up in front of an old house on a side street. Frederick Froman glanced at his watch as he alighted.

“Half past twelve,” he remarked. “We made excellent time coming in from Waddell’s place. Thank you very much for the ride, Mr. Cranston.”

“You are quite welcome,” was the reply.

“I should like to have you visit me sometime,” added Froman. “This is my mansion” — he smiled as he indicated the somber house beside which the car was stopped — “and although it is modest in appearance, I can assure you that the hospitality is extended with the best of will.”

Lamont Cranston bowed, and extended his hand. Froman strode up the steps of the old brick-faced house, a three-story building of a former era.

Cranston noted that Froman rang the bell. The door was opened, yielding a flood of light, just as the limousine pulled away at Cranston’s order.

By the time the car had reached the nearest avenue, Cranston gave an order through the speaking tube that led to the chauffeur’s seat.

“You are going in the wrong direction, Stanley,” he said. “Turn back and go down the street again, then to Twenty-third Street.”

Passing the house into which Froman had gone, the silent observer in the rear seat of the limousine noted that there were lights in the windows of an upstairs room. Evidently, Froman had gone there immediately upon his arrival.

The car swung southward. It reached Twenty-third Street. Stanley, at the wheel, heard Cranston’s quiet voice telling him to stop. The chauffeur obeyed. Cranston alighted.

“Take the car to the Cobalt Club,” was Cranston’s order. “Wait for me there.”

Stanley nodded and drove away. Cranston remained standing on the curb, watching the departing limousine. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he raised the lapels of his coat and drew the garment closely about his body. With a short, soft laugh, Cranston turned and stepped away from the street.

His black-clad form was swallowed instantly by the gloomy shroud of a blank-walled building. In that spot, away from the glare of the nearest street lamp, Cranston’s action was both amazing and mysterious.

A wayfarer who had noted the tall figure standing by the curb stood gaping in astonishment at the disappearance.

Where Cranston had been, no living person remained. The blackness of night had opened like a curtain to admit a mysterious entrant. The only trace of Cranston’s presence was a gliding blotch that slid along the dim-white pavement.

Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!

In a twinkling, the calm-faced millionaire had transformed himself into Manhattan’s man of mystery!

THE SHADOW!

None in New York knew the identity of that strange personage. A master mind who battled crime, he worked from the blanketed seclusion of darkness to thwart the fiends who dominated the underworld.

Tonight, The Shadow was not concerned with affairs of gangdom. In his adopted guise of Lamont Cranston, he had passed an evening of quiet observation. Now, he was bound toward some unknown haunt — the contact point from which he received the reports of operatives who obeyed him faithfully, yet who had no inkling of his identity.

Nothing remained to show the course of The Shadow’s journey. Not for one instant did his tall, gliding form come into view. The next sign of his presence appeared in a small, pitch-black room — a silent chamber which gave no sound until a slight click occurred amid the darkness.

With the click, a green-shaded lamp was lighted. It cast a circular spot of illumination upon the surface of a polished table.

Into that sphere of illumination came two long white hands, moving creatures of life that seemed detached from the hidden body which controlled them.

The hands of The Shadow!

Slender hands they were, yet the muscles beneath the smooth skin gave indication of tremendous strength. The restless, tapering fingers moved with silky ease. Upon one finger — the third finger of the left hand — glowed a large, translucent gem.

This jewel was a priceless girasol, or fire opal. Amid its hue of milky blue appeared deep reflections of gleaming crimson.

This stone was the symbol of The Shadow, the strange amulet that was always with him. Its sullen glow had carried thoughts of doom to dying eyes of evildoers; its vivid sparkle had brought hope to those who were sorrowed and oppressed.

A tiny light appeared from across the table. The hands reached forth and drew back a pair of earphones.

The hands disappeared as the instruments were attached to the hidden head. A low, solemn voice spoke through the darkness above the lamp.

“Report, Burbank.”

“Marsland at the Belmar Hotel,” came a quiet tone across the wire. “Reports no sign of Marcus Holtmann. He has not been there. He has not checked out. Baggage still in room.”

“Continue.”

“Vincent at Grand Central Station. Holtmann did not appear to take the Midnight Special for Chicago. Both operatives standing by.”

“End operation.” The Shadow’s voice was stern. “Marsland to cover David Tholbin; Vincent to cover Frederick Froman. Both listed in telephone book. Watch and report any activity that might pertain to Holtmann.”

A pause; then these added instructions:

“Special call to Waddell’s home. Ask for Parker Noyes. Cut off system prior to conversation.”

The hands placed the earphones on the other side of the table. Then they appeared beneath the light, carrying a small packet of papers.

The deft fingers worked smoothly as they distributed the papers. The hands produced a flat map of the United States, upon which were white-headed pins. Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and other cities of the Middle West were indicated.

AMONG the papers was a written report inscribed in the odd characters of the Russian language.

Besides this appeared notations in French and German. They were alike to the hidden eyes above the lamp. The Shadow read them all with ease.

Each page bore one name penned at the top. That was the name of Marcus Holtmann. Evidently The Shadow had a keen interest in the affairs of the man who had come from Russia.

Holtmann had said that he was going to Chicago. That city was indicated by a pin on the map; but there were other marked cities besides.

Upon a blank sheet of paper, the hand of The Shadow began a series of penciled notations. First appeared the name Marcus Holtmann. Then two words: “Purpose — destination.”

The probable purpose of Marcus Holtmann was covered by the papers on the table. The destination was ostensibly one of the cities indicated on the map.

As The Shadow’s hand remained motionless, it was obvious that some unforeseen happening had intervened to obstruct well-formulated plans in the trailing of Marcus Holtmann.

Tonight, The Shadow had watched to see if Holtmann had contacted with other persons prior to his departure from New York. Noyes, Froman, and Tholbin, guests at Waddell’s, had come under the careful surveillance of Lamont Cranston.

Holtmann, no matter what his plans might have been, would in all probability have gone to the Belmar Hotel to check out. If his proposed trip to Chicago should be a blind, he might not even have taken the Midnight to Chicago; but, had he departed on that train, Vincent would have followed him.

Neither Marsland at the hotel, nor Vincent at the terminal, had observed Marcus Holtmann! Somewhere between Waddell’s Long Island home and Manhattan, Holtmann had vanished. The Shadow’s careful plans had been crossed by this unexpected occurrence.

Upon the paper, The Shadow wrote three names:

David Tholbin Parker Noyes Frederick Froman

With one of these three might rest a key to the mystery of Holtmann’s disappearance. These men could be involved, even though their actions at Waddell’s had been unsuspicious.

From the data which pertained to Holtmann, The Shadow selected a sheet which included a report of the man’s activities since his arrival in New York.

According to the observations of The Shadow’s agents, Marcus Holtmann had held no significant communication with any one since his return from Russia.

Tonight’s function had been his last opportunity. David Tholbin had left shortly after Holtmann. Parker Noyes had remained at Waddell’s. Frederick Froman had been taken to his home by Lamont Cranston.

Of the three, only Tholbin seemed free.

The light flickered from across the table. The earphones were ready. Burbank’s report came in its methodical tone.

“Marsland reports David Tholbin at Club Drury, with party of friends. Check on time indicates he came there directly from Waddell’s.

“Vincent reports short watch at Frederick Froman’s house. Light in front room upstairs. Extinguished now. House dark. No one has entered or left.”

A pause; then Burbank added:

“Parker Noyes still at Waddell’s.”

There was no reply for a full minute. Then, the low voice of The Shadow sounded as he gave new orders to his trusted agent, Burbank.

“Marsland to watch Tholbin,” said The Shadow. “Vincent to watch Froman’s home. Until morning.”

The conversation ended. The hands of The Shadow rested motionless upon the table. At length, they moved, while the fingers slowly piled the sheets of paper.

The check-up had ended in a blank. The riddle was unsolved!

The Shadow was confronted with a perplexing problem. One man was missing. Marcus Holtmann, after leaving Waddell’s home in a taxicab, had effected a strange disappearance.

The light clicked off. The room was in total darkness. A low, tense laugh echoed through the gloom.

Then, The Shadow was gone.

Half an hour later, the desk clerk at the Belmar Hotel answered the telephone. In response to the quiet voice across the wire he gave this answer:

“Mr. Holtmann has not come in, sir… No, he has not checked out.”

Shortly after that call, Stanley, the chauffeur, drove up to the front of the Cobalt Club in response to the doorman’s call. Lamont Cranston stepped from beneath the marquee, and entered the limousine.

“Home, Stanley.”

As the big car rolled southward toward the Holland Tunnel, the lone figure in the back seat was deep in thought. Buried in the darkness, Lamont Cranston was a silent, invisible being.

The brain of The Shadow was at work, seeking a clew to the strange disappearance of Marcus Holtmann.

The missing man must be found.

That was to be The Shadow’s task!

CHAPTER III. THE DUNGEON OF DOOM

FREDERICK FROMAN’S house stood silent and forbidding in the night. To Harry Vincent, watching from the opposite side of the street, it was a place of silence and inactivity. The last light had been extinguished long ago. It seemed obvious that the occupants had retired.

But within that house, there was activity that could not be noticed from without. Frederick Froman was not asleep. Instead, he was seated, wide awake, in a dimly lighted room. The stone walls of the little room showed that it was located in the cellar of the old house. There was not a window in the room.

Froman was reclining comfortably in the one easy-chair. He was still attired in evening dress, as he puffed languidly at a panatella. His well-formed face was expressionless. He was waiting for something; yet he showed no signs of impatience.

The center of the floor began to rise. A solid square of cement came slowly upward, actuated by a force from below. Four metal rods, like the corners of a skeleton cabinet, appeared beneath the ascending slab.

Froman eyed this indifferently. He made no comment until the complete structure of an open-sided elevator had appeared and a short, stocky man had stepped from it.

“Well?”

Froman’s question was quietly addressed to the man who had emerged from the solid floor.

“He is ready to speak, sir.”

The stocky man’s reply was in a thickly accented voice. Froman smiled and spoke a few words in another language. The man answered in the same tongue.

Leisurely, Froman arose and stepped into the elevator. It descended into gloomy depths.

There, beneath the floor of the cellar, was a short passage illuminated by a single light. Striding to the end of this corridor, Froman stopped before a solid barrier that closed the way. He turned a knob that was located in the center of the blocking slab. The barrier slid upward, disappearing into the ceiling.

Three steps below lay a gloomy dungeon, a stone-walled room hewn in the depths beneath the cellar.

Two tough-faced men were there, standing with folded arms. They were looking at a huddled form straitjacketed against the wall.

Both watchers bowed as Froman entered. The light-haired man did not return the salutation. He advanced and looked coldly toward the prisoner. The huddled man turned a sweat-streaked visage toward the new inquisitor, hoping for relief.

Frederick Froman, captor, was face to face with Marcus Holtmann, captive!

THE anguish on Holtmann’s countenance showed that he had been undergoing some maddening torture.

There was no pity in Froman’s eye. His cold stare held a steely glint. He had the glance of a cruel eagle looking down upon its prey.

Neither man spoke. Holtmann, tight in the gripping pressure of the straitjacket, emitted a hopeless gasp.

That was the only sign that passed between the two.

Froman, however, turned to one of his formidable henchmen. He made a motion with his hands. The man leaned over Holtmann’s body, and adjusted the binding straps at the back of the jacket. Relieved, Holtmann sank back with a sigh.

Another sign from Froman. The three henchmen — for Froman’s conductor had entered with him — filed from the gloomy dungeon. The barrier dropped behind them. Froman was alone with his victim.

It was obvious from Holtmann’s wheedling stare that the prisoner had some inkling of why he had been brought here. Yet his pain-touched face showed a glimmer of defiance as he waited for Froman to speak.

The captor’s first expression was a contemptuous laugh. Froman seemed to enjoy Holtmann’s plight. At last, after a final survey of his prisoner, he spoke.

“You have been to Russia,” said Froman coldly. “You have learned much there. Surprising, is it not, to learn more of Russia outside of Russia?”

Holtmann’s lips moved. It was several moments before he could phrase a sentence. When he did speak, his tone was a mingling of bewilderment and indignation.

“Why am I here?” he gasped. “What have I done to you? Why do you want me? Who are you?”

Froman received each question with a smile of satisfaction. His eyes were gloating; his lips sneering. He folded his arms in a Napoleonic pose, and stopped the quizzing words with a hard, firm stare.

“I am of the old regime,” he said. “An American, by birth; a Russian by ancestry. My name is an adoption. These men whom you see here came to me after the Reds overswept Russia. They were the retainers of one of my relations — a man who perished in Russia. I have made Americans of them.

“That is enough concerning myself. I shall speak of you. You are a man with a mission that you believed was a secret. You went to Russia to study conditions there. You returned with new ideas. You have made it your appointed task to tour the United States creating interest in Russia — as it is now ruled.”

“Why not?” Holtmann’s question was challenging. “I have confidence in Russia of to-day. It is no crime for me to do as I have planned. I am not an agent of the Bolshevist government—”

“I have made no accusation” — Froman’s interruption was smooth-toned — “nor have I criticized your method. I have merely stated facts. You and your plans — they are nothing to me. But there is something else — a coincidence that has made you valuable to me.”

Holtmann’s gaze was blank. Froman smiled at his prisoner’s puzzled look. With arms still folded, the inquisitor spoke slowly and emphatically.

“WHEN you went to Russia,” he declared, “you were seeking opportunity. You found it. You received a proposal from a high official in Moscow.

“You were to come to America, to gain the confidence of men of industry; to persuade them to apply their methods and their wealth secretly in Russia, with hopes of great profits.

“Your gain would be commissions for your services. As an independent go between, an American convinced that the development of Russia’s resources would be profitable to foreign capitalists, your position was ideal. You have your own appointed purpose. Unfortunately, I have found it necessary to interfere.”

As Froman paused, Holtmann’s red-rimmed eyes stared warily. The prisoner was trying to divine the captor’s purpose. Thinking that he had discovered it, Holtmann blurted a protest.

“Why should you injure me?” he demanded. “My work is not illegal! There is no proof of the things you have said. You are the offender. In seizing me, you have committed a crime. You must let me go!”

Froman smiled coldly.

“Let me go!” Holtmann’s repetition was a maddened scream. “Let me go — I can pay you—”

Froman held up his hand for silence. Wild words died on Marcus Holtmann’s lips.

“You can pay me?” Froman’s tones were contemptuous. “Yes, you can pay me — but not with the paltry leavings you have intended to gain. You are trying to play a safe game. That is where we differ. You play safe — for trivial stakes. I seek danger — when I see tremendous gain.”

Froman’s eyes were sparkling as they stared at Holtmann. Those eyes were scarcely seeing. They were filled with the glow of the scheming brain behind them.

“Tonight I captured you” — Froman laughed — “with ridiculous ease. The taxicab you summoned from the station near Waddell’s — another man took it. The cab that came in its stead was the trap that you entered.

“My agents are few, Holtmann, but they work well. You have disappeared. Where? The police will never know.

“Let them investigate. The most that they can learn will be facts concerning your shady deals. They will gain that information if I consider it necessary. You will be branded as an ex-officio representative of the Moscow government. It will be believed that you betrayed those who offered you opportunity.”

The gleam in Froman’s eyes was unmistakably plain. Holtmann, staring with ghastly expression, saw doom reflected in those shining optics. He was too frightened to speak.

“So far as you are concerned,” resumed Froman, “I promise nothing. My purpose is to demand. You will have only one choice — to obey. You are stupid, Holtmann — so stupid that you do not yet realize why I have arranged your capture!

“Let me go back to when you were in Moscow. You became very friendly with a man who held important power. You and he agreed upon the terms under which you would work. You made one important proviso; namely, that you should receive prompt payment for services which you might render. That was promised.”

HOLTMANN’S shifting eyes were aghast. His captor was telling him facts which he thought were known only to himself and the man with whom he had negotiated in Moscow.

“You were playing a shrewd game,” continued Froman. “You had established yourself well. So you became wary. You wanted surety — proof that you would be able to collect whatever might be owed you. You expressed doubts concerning the financial security of the Moscow government.

“The man with whom you were dealing became confidential. He promised to give you all the proof you needed. You played the part of a skeptic. He was ready to convince you that whatever monetary claims you might have could be paid instantly — not in gold” — Froman’s voice became slow and emphatic — “not in gold, but in—”

Holtmann’s face was distorted with terror. Froman, leaning over the pitiful captive, was delivering his words in a tone that carried a grim threat. These revelations had brought astonishment; Holtmann’s expression showed that Froman was striking home.

“Your friend in Moscow was indiscreet,” declared Froman. “He told you too much. He even showed you the proof which you desired. Then he swore you to secrecy.

“But, unfortunately, his indiscretion ceased after a certain point. His promises to you were overheard. But when it came to the actual information, and the display of the proof, he relied upon secrecy.

“Perhaps he regretted the confidence that he had shown in you. Nevertheless, he was forced to rely upon your silence. You had other friends in Moscow. They would have protected you had that one man tried to cover his indiscretion by silencing your tongue forever.”

Beads of perspiration were forming on Holtmann’s forehead. His parched lips twitched and moved apart as he made a last defiant effort to parry with his captor.

“It is all a lie!” he gasped. “I never learned— I never even saw— I— do not know—”

Froman was standing erect, his eyes harsh, his smile cruel. His well-formed features displayed the hardness of chiseled granite. He was a man of stone.

“You will speak!” he declared. “You will tell all you know! Those words will be drawn from your lips. We have been seeking long to learn what we now believe you know.

“In Moscow, we are handicapped. The few men who know the secret are beyond our reach. Here, in New York, we can work. You will taste our methods, Holtmann.”

“I know nothing” — Holtmann’s protest was wild — “I know nothing—”

“It will be unfortunate for you if you know nothing,” said Froman coldly. “You are the base ore from which we intend to crush precious wealth. Should that ore contain no vast wealth” — he shrugged his shoulders — “it will be crushed just the same. We will not cease until we are sure that we have extracted all that we need.”

A flicker of departing hope came over Holtmann’s face. Froman smiled cruelly.

“You are thinking of deception?” His tone was derisive. “That cannot help you. You will not gain freedom when you speak. We intend to hold you until we have completed our work.”

“And then—”

Holtmann blurted the words in a last effort toward salvation.

“I promise nothing,” replied Froman.

Holtmann’s lips tightened. His attitude changed. His pleading expression ended. He seemed determined to fight to the finish. Froman saw that he contemplated resistance. He offered one more opportunity.

“Speak now—”

The order came in a cold, even voice. Holtmann closed his lips and adopted a grim attitude.

Froman turned on his heel and went to the door. He turned the knob and opened the barrier. His three henchmen trooped into the chamber of doom. Froman uttered terse words in Russian. The men approached the straitjacketed form of Marcus Holtmann.

NO time was lost in preparations. Before Froman’s arrival, Holtmann had felt the binding pressure of the torture jacket. Now, while one man held him propped, another drew the thongs tighter until the huddled body winced in agony.

Holtmann was game. He fought against the torture, writhing futilely as his teeth chewed at his lips.

Trussed tightly, he became obdurate, seeking to outlast the pain until unconsciousness would come to his rescue.

Froman spoke to the third man. The fellow produced an oddly-shaped torch and lighted it. He thrust the burning brand into Holtmann’s face. The flame scorched the victim’s cheeks. It approached his eyes, and the helpless man closed his lids tightly to escape the searing touch.

Froman, stolid and unyielding, stood waiting. He gave no word to direct the progress of the torture.

These men were artists in the primitive work of inflicting suffering.

At times the brand drifted away from Holtmann’s scorched face. Instinctively, the man would open his eyes. All that he could see was the stern, unmoving face of Frederick Froman.

Then the light would dance before his vision, throwing its livid heat upon his eyeballs, forcing him to shut his eyes again and seek some freedom from the torturing heat.

Not one of the three inhuman brutes desisted. At times the jacket would be loosened; again, the flaming torch would move away; these were but short respites that presaged a new round of torture.

The deadening pain of the straitjacket was counteracted by the terror of the live torch. There was no escape for Marcus Holtmann. His blistered face showed dry before the light. He was reaching the limit of human endurance.

A pause; then Frederick Froman acted. His signal called for his men to desist.

The pressure of the binding straps relaxed suddenly. The firebrand was drawn away. His throat too parched to emit a sigh, Marcus Holtmann opened his eyes and found himself staring into the sneering face of Frederick Froman.

“Speak!”

The single word reached Holtmann’s ears in a low tone that seemed to come from a great distance.

Mechanically, Holtmann moved his lips. He spoke in gasping tones that only Froman, leaning close, could hear.

Short, vague phrases became connected sentences. Holtmann’s terrified eyes were staring at the searing torch that wavered threateningly above Froman’s shoulder. The menace was too great for human resistance.

Marcus Holtmann spoke; and Frederick Froman, listening intently, smiled as he heard the words.

He was learning the facts that he sought to know!

CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW HEARS

IT was late the following afternoon. Parker Noyes was seated comfortably on a sun porch of Tobias Waddell’s home. He looked up as the millionaire stepped from the door that led to the house.

“I was just talking to Lamont Cranston,” announced Waddell. “I invited him out here to have dinner with us.”

“Remarkable chap, Cranston,” returned Noyes.

“A man of consequence,” declared Waddell, in a tone of approval. “It is enjoyable to have him here, as a contrast to some of these ne’er-do-wells who—”

“Such as young Tholbin,” observed Noyes, with a dry smile.

“Exactly,” declared Waddell, with emphasis. “I cannot understand why my daughter tolerates that young upstart. He hounds us wherever we travel. It annoys me, Parker, especially as we are about to have another display of his interloping.”

“You mean he is going to Europe?”

“Yes. We sail on the Galathia before the end of the week. Now I learn from Betty that Tholbin has engaged passage on the same boat. His itinerary will be the same as ours — in all probability—”

“He wants to marry your daughter.”

“Yes; and it annoys me.”

“He has some money of his own,” said Noyes speculatively. “At least so I understand. I imagine he is spending it freely, however.”

“He is squandering,” declared Waddell, in a positive, angry tone. “He is splurging away in hopes that he may marry my daughter. I shall oppose him constantly, unless he can prove to my satisfaction that he has resources commensurate with his ambitions.”

“Which means that he must have about—”

“At least a quarter of a million in his own right.”

“Which is exceedingly unlikely,” laughed Noyes.

Tobias Waddell nodded. Then he changed the subject gruffly.

“Sorry you can’t stay for the evening, Parker,” he said. “I enjoy having you here. My only objection is that you receive too many telephone calls from your office.”

“They have been disconcerting,” replied the lawyer, with his characteristic smile. “It seems as though every time we begin a chat, the footman arrives to say that I am wanted on the telephone. Well, business comes first always — when one is an active attorney, and not a retired millionaire.”

Scarcely had Noyes paused before a liveried servant appeared at the door of the sun porch.

“A telephone call for you, sir,” said the footman, addressing Parker Noyes.

The lawyer laughed and arose from his chair. He went into the house, and entered the little room where the telephone was located. There, he carefully closed the door before approaching the telephone.

FREDERICK FROMAN was at the other end of the wire. Noyes recognized his voice instantly.

“You have made arrangements?” Froman’s voice was anxious.

“Yes,” returned Noyes, in a low, quiet tone. “Helmsworth is coming to see me this evening. Everything will be final after I talk with him.”

“Where will he see you?”

“At my own apartment. Ten o’clock. I shall call you before eleven.”

“Good. I am anxious to hear what he has to say. It all depends upon him now.”

“Exactly. In the meantime” — Noyes spoke with a slight trace of caution — “do not call me either here or at my apartment. Your call this morning was sufficient. You have succeeded in your work. The less said the better.”

“I understand,” agreed Froman.

“I had the office call Helmsworth,” added Noyes. “They arranged the appointment. I am leaving here shortly after eight o’clock.”

The conversation ended, Parker Noyes quietly left the room and returned to the sun porch. His benign countenance and sparse gray hair belied the fact that he was an abettor of the cruel methods used by Frederick Froman.

“More business?” inquired Waddell jokingly, as Noyes made his appearance.

The lawyer laughed at the comment and nodded.

Dusk was gathering when the lights of a big car loomed up the drive. The two men on the side porch saw a tall figure alight beneath the porte-cochere. It was Lamont Cranston. Both Waddell and Noyes left the porch to welcome the guest.

The three men returned to the porch to await dinner. While they were seated there, the footman again appeared. Noyes arose, only to learn that the inevitable telephone call was not for him. Lamont Cranston was wanted.

The tall, quiet-faced guest entered the telephone room in the same manner that Parker Noyes had displayed. Like the lawyer, he closed the door behind him and spoke in a low, guarded tone.

“Burbank,” came the voice from the other end.

“Report,” said Cranston.

“Marsland reports no suspicious action on the part of David Tholbin,” announced Burbank. “Vincent reports continued watch at the home of Frederick Froman. No one has entered or left.”

Cranston hung up the receiver and sat in quiet speculation. Marsland and Vincent were capable men.

They were watching two individuals who were under suspicion only because Marcus Holtmann had made a strange and unsuspected disappearance.

The vigil had begun shortly after midnight. Its continuance had brought no results. Only one other man remained, who might possibly have had some interest in the affairs of Marcus Holtmann, inasmuch as he had talked with Holtmann last night.

That man was Parker Noyes, least suspicious of all; for he was quietly biding his time as the guest of Tobias Waddell. Nevertheless, The Shadow, following his keen sense of intuition, was leaving nothing to chance. Himself a guest in Waddell’s home, he was able to observe Parker Noyes at close range.

WHEN Cranston appeared on the porch, Waddell indulged in a brief laugh.

“You have a competitor, Parker,” he remarked. “Cranston is using my home for a telephone booth, too.”

“My office has been bothering me all day,” explained Noyes, turning to Cranston. “Mr.Waddell seems to have been amused by it. However, I do not think I shall be annoyed further. The office is closed now, and there is no reason why I should receive calls. Unfortunately, I must go in to the city early in the evening, as I expect a visitor at my apartment around nine o’clock.”

“That saves me from an embarrassing situation,” returned Cranston, “I was just wondering how I could manage to get away shortly after eight, as I must be at the club, not long after nine. I am sorry that I have to leave early, also. However, it will give me the privilege of taking you in to the city with me.”

“I shall be delighted to accompany you,” said Noyes. “You may regard the invitation as accepted.”

The three men went to dinner shortly afterward; They dined alone, as Betty Waddell was absent. It developed she was in New York with a group of friends, and that she was going to the theater, escorted by David Tholbin. This explanation, by Tobias Waddell, was the beginning of a new tirade of deprecating remarks directed against Tholbin.

Shortly after eight o’clock, Parker Noyes remarked that it was about time for him to leave. Cranston’s car was summoned, and the two men started for New York. They arrived at the lawyer’s apartment house well before nine, and Cranston accepted an invitation to come up to the apartment.

They entered a room which Noyes called his office. It lived up to that name. The room was equipped with desks and typewriter, while large bookcases were filled with long rows of buckram-bound legal volumes.

Lamont Cranston, leisurely in manner, did not seem greatly impressed by this home workshop. Parker Noyes smiled indulgently, classing Lamont Cranston as a man of idleness and wealth.

Noyes had a secret contempt for members of the idle rich, and he included Cranston among them.