HARRY VINCENT looked about him in amazement. He had just awakened from a deep stupor. He felt very weak when he opened his eyes. He was scarcely able to move his body; but he managed to turn his head as he surveyed his surroundings.
He was propped against the wall of an oddly shaped room. The chamber was scarcely more than a passageway, less than six feet in width. It was twenty feet in length, and at one end Harry saw a tall, upright frame that extended from the ceiling to the floor. The frame was fronted with a grayish, wire-screened glass.
Electric lights glowed dimly through the glass. They furnished the illumination for the room. Harry could not distinguish the individual bulbs that glowed through the glass. They were blurred by the thick, grayish surface.
At the other end of the room, Harry observed a door. It was an unusual door, without hinges. The cracks which formed its outline were barely discernible.
Harry raised himself with his hands and managed to gain his feet. Leaning against the wall, he managed to grope his way to the door. There was no knob or other projection that might serve as a method of opening the door.
Midway between the sides of the door, about six feet from the floor, was a tightly-fitted square of metal.
Harry pressed it with his fingers, but it did not yield.
There was one special peculiarity of this single entrance to the room. The door did not extend to the floor. Its bottom edge was fully a foot above the level on which Harry stood. The top of the door was half way up the wall, which was about fifteen feet in height.
Harry moved back along the wall of the passagelike compartment and discovered several thin slits that ran from floor to ceiling. There were eight of these in all — four on each side of the passage. They were about one inch in width. Harry placed his fingers in one crevice but discovered nothing.
He went to the other end of the room and tapped against the thick glass behind which the lights were located. He sat down on the floor and rubbed his head. He felt a lump and recalled that his last experience had been a forceful blow that had ended consciousness.
He felt in his pockets and found them empty. Even his watch had been taken.
Harry was glad that he had carried no identifying papers. Both he and Clyde Burke had adopted that precaution. It was a good policy to use when one went forth on a venture that might result in capture such as this.
Yet Harry had not anticipated this ending to his following of Rodney Paget. The clubman had never impressed him as being dangerous.
A SOUND attracted Harry’s attention. The noise came from the door. The tiny square in the middle of the door was sliding upward. Harry fancied that he saw the gleam of two eyes peering in.
Then came another sound and the entire door moved up. It revealed a figure clad in a long gown with hooded cowl.
The strange visitor stepped down from the entrance. The bottom of the gown seemed to slide in front of him, so that no foot was visible. The whole effect was both weird and surprising.
The dread figure advanced slowly and Harry instinctively shifted his position. He did not like the appearance of this unexpected arrival.
The man in the robe stopped a few feet in front of Harry. The cloth front of his cowl had two narrow slits through which he was peering; but Harry could not detect the eyes behind it. He calmly met the gaze of the unseen eyes, and waited for the visitor to speak.
“Who are you?” came a low voice. The sinister tones were chilling. Harry did not reply.
“Who are you?” The question was repeated.
Harry remained silent.
“Are you The Shadow?”
The question was unexpected. Harry felt a sudden tenseness. He restrained himself and made no response.
“Why did you follow Rodney Paget?”
Harry leaned his head against the glass in back of him and looked boldly at his questioner.
“What do you know about Rodney Paget?”
Harry felt more at ease. His policy of silence was bringing new questions. He was resolved to outwit his inquisitor. By saying nothing, he revealed nothing. He wondered what would happen next.
THE man whose face was hidden by the cowl made no threatening motion. He continued to look at Harry, as though seeking to overpower him by the strength of his invisible eyes.
Harry felt that the game was turning in his favor, for the moment. He smiled and tried to regard his inquisitor with an attitude of ridicule.
“You have heard my questions,” said the man in the robe. “Do you choose to answer them?”
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well.” The voice was harsh in the gloom of the room. “You have answered nothing. You have denied nothing. Your identity is suspected. It will soon be learned, despite your efforts to conceal it.
“If you choose to speak, you have a chance for life. If you do not speak, the verdict will surely be—”
The speaker paused. Harry felt a slight shudder as he waited for the next word.
“Death!”
The verdict was uttered in a hideous tone. The word seemed to echo from the walls of the room.
“Death!”
Had Harry heard the word again, or was his imagination at work. As he looked at the form before him, he could think of nothing but that emphatic verdict. Silence filled the room.
Harry felt a strange desire to blurt out answers to the questions. He restrained himself with difficulty. The inquisitor seemed to divine his emotions.
“The choice is yours,” came the slow, modulated voice. “At present you have decided to say nothing. Later, you may change your desire. When you are ready, you may knock upon the door — and you will have your opportunity.
“But be sure” — the words carried an insidious warning — “that you are ready to answer all that may be asked! You will have but one opportunity. Should you resort to deception, your last chance will be lost!”
The words impressed Harry. At the same time, they gave him hope. They increased his determination to maintain silence for the present.
“One last warning,” came the voice. “When you decide to speak — and you will decide to do so — be sure that you do not delay too long. I may not be ready at the moment which you choose. You must allow sufficient time.”
The border of the dark gown swept the floor as the inquisitor turned. With stately stride he went to the doorway. His form seemed to heighten as he reached the step. There he turned again, and his solemn voice carried an awe-inspiring tone as it came to Harry’s ears.
“Remember,” were the words, “you have your choice. You may answer all questions if you choose. Otherwise — death!”
As the final verdict was uttered, the steel door descended. It obscured the figure of the man in the robe.
The inquisitor was gone. Harry Vincent was again alone!
OUTSIDE the room, the man in the dark gown confronted another figure as sinister as himself. His companion was a veritable giant — a man whose grim, white face seemed deathlike in the gloom of a dimly-lighted passage.
This man was dressed in black. His features were sullen and determined. His eyes were dull and expressionless. He was a brute type, possessed of tremendous strength, but who seemed governed by a willingness to obey one master.
He was a modern survival of the medieval executioners who dwelt in obscurity, abhorred by the neighbors, and who only faced the public when called upon to wield the ax of death.
“Bron,” said the man in the robe, “remain here until the end. Do not leave this post.”
The grim-visaged executioner bowed his head in acknowledgment of the instructions.
“Should he signal,” continued the man in the robe, “send word to me. If I do not respond, let the death go on.”
Again a nod was the answer.
“The death will begin soon,” said the man who had questioned Harry Vincent. “Wait ten minutes. Then proceed.”
The executioner nodded.
“As for the other,” said the man in the robe, “pay no attention to him. We have provided for his wants. I shall visit him when necessary.”
The man in the robe extended his hand. Upon one finger was the strangely carved beetle — a duplicate of Rodney Paget’s scarab ring. Bron bowed.
“The sign,” he said in a sepulchral voice.
The man in the robe formed the number seven — the fingers and thumb of the right hand extended; two fingers showing from the left. Bron replied with one open hand and one clenched fist — the sign of the Fifty.
The inquisitor turned and walked a few paces. He stopped at a blank wall. He pressed his hands against the sides of the passage. A sheet of metal arose, revealing the faint outline of a spiral stairway.
The man in the robe went through the opening; the barrier closed behind him. He ascended the stairway and came to another barrier. Another sheet of metal rose when he pressed the hidden catch. He stepped into a small room that was lighted by a bright lamp.
There was a table in the center of the room. Upon it rested a peculiar instrument with a large lettered keyboard.
THE man in the robe sat at the table and carefully noted the time on a watch that lay there. He threw back his cowl and revealed a firm, well-featured face.
He was a man past middle age, and his countenance bore an air of judicial sternness. It was intelligent, yet unyielding.
He pressed an unlettered key at the side of the board and waited. Five minutes passed. Then a low voice filled the room. It sounded like a voice over the radio. Its tones were clear and distinct.
“Faithful,” came the voice.
Skilled hands pressed the keyboard, spelling the word “fifty.”
“B — three,” said the voice.
The hands spelled the word “one.”
“The man in the hospital is not yet identified,” came the voice. “He will be followed when discharged.”
“What — about — Blake—” the words were spelled letter by letter as the hands ran over the keyboard.
“We are watching from a distance. The presence of the night watchman makes it difficult. We have looked for an intruder, but have seen none. We have avoided suspicion as ordered.”
“Instructions—” spelled the hands.
“Ready,” responded the voice.
“Note — to — Paget — telling — him — to — keep — hidden—”
“Noted,” was the verbal reply.
“Post — men — of — the — Fifty — in — his — apartment—”
“Noted.”
“Guard — both ends — of — arcade — constantly—”
“Noted.”
“Insert — advertisement—”
“Noted.”
The man at the keyboard pressed the same key that had begun the interview. Then he looked at his watch. The hands showed ten o’clock. It was in the morning, yet one would not have known it in that room where no daylight penetrated.
The man listened intently. Then came a faint sound that could have been heard only by the keenest ears.
It seemed to come from below— the working of muffled machinery. The man smiled and his stern lips formed the words “Bron.”
In the passageway below, Bron was standing silent and alone. His hand was on a switch behind an open panel in the wall.
The giant’s face gleamed with sordid pleasure. His dull eyes had become filled with a gleam of delight. He was staring at the door that led to the room where Harry Vincent was held prisoner.
The executioner then turned from the switch. He sat on a stool at the side of the passage and leaned his head against the wall.
While the thrum-thrum of muffled mechanism continued, he glanced frequently at the barrier that kept Harry a captive. Occasionally, Bron’s eyes turned in another direction — to a similar door at the side of the passage. But the one spot that seemed to intrigue him was the door to Harry’s prison.
IN his long cell, Harry Vincent became suddenly conscious of the throbbing noise. He looked up and down the room, but could not locate the sound. Finally he chanced to glance toward the ceiling and a look of alarm swept over his haggard face.
The ceiling was moving downward! Its motion would not have been appreciable but for a slight, jerky action that came with each throb of the machinery.
Harry placed his hand against the smooth glass that covered the lights. He detected a motion there. The panel was moving, also!
Harry stared at the floor in fascination. He could see the frame gradually sinking through the floor. It was moving at a snail’s pace.
Minutes went by. At the end of an hour — as Harry estimated it— the frame had descended only a few inches.
He knew now what his fate would be, and he mopped the perspiration from his forehead. He had his choice. He could speak or be crushed to oblivion beneath the pressure of that descending ceiling.
He knew now why the door was raised above the floor. When the ceiling was down, its top formed a new floor of the passageway.
Harry arose and tottered along the passage toward the door. He was tempted to knock; to yield to his inquisitor. Then he remembered the man’s warning. There could be no trickery! Unless he told everything he knew, he would go back to this corridor of death.
Harry, for the moment, felt that he would tell willingly. Then he realized that he knew but little. How many questions could he answer? His inquisitor believed him to be The Shadow. Would he believe him when he truthfully denied that identity?
Another glance at the ceiling convinced Harry that it was wise to wait. Hours would elapse before the final doom arrived. It would be best to wait; to stand the strain of hours of horror before he chose the last resort of crying for mercy.
He sat on the floor and tried to occupy his mind with other thoughts. But over all came that feverish threat of annihilation. Harry laughed hopelessly and the mirthless sound seemed hollow.
“Death!”
Through his mind still echoed the terrifying verdict. He had hours to wait — for he doubted that the ceiling would be down within a day and a half — yet only one thought could dominate his mind through all that time.
It was the warning of his strange inquisitor that morning — death! — death to The Shadow!