Transcriber's note: This story was first serialized in the Boys of New York story paper and was later reprinted as Vol. I, No. 70 in The New York Detective Library published November 16, 1883 by Frank Tousey. This e-text is derived from the reprinted edition.

SHADOW,
THE MYSTERIOUS DETECTIVE.

By POLICE CAPTAIN HOWARD,
Author of "Old Mystery," "Young Sleuth," "The Silver Dagger," "A Piece of Paper," "The Broken Button," etc., etc.

[CONTENTS]

[INTRODUCTORY.]
[CHAPTER I. A MURDER.]
[CHAPTER II. MAT MORRIS.]
[CHAPTER III. SHADOW—WHO WAS HE?]
[CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE LION'S JAWS.]
[CHAPTER V. HELEN DILT.]
[CHAPTER VI. THE REMEMBERED BILLS.]
[CHAPTER VII. A HAPPY MOMENT.]
[CHAPTER VIII. A NARROW ESCAPE.]
[CHAPTER IX. IN THE BLACK HOLE.]
[CHAPTER X. FAVORING FORTUNE.]
[CHAPTER XI. IN THE MAD-HOUSE.]
[CHAPTER XII. SHADOW.]
[CHAPTER XIII. IN A BAD BOX.]
[CHAPTER XIV. DICK STANTON.]
[CHAPTER XV. A FIEND IN HUMAN SHAPE.]
[CHAPTER XVI. DISAPPOINTED AGAIN.]
[CHAPTER XVII. HELEN'S TORTURE.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. PUZZLED.]
[CHAPTER XIX. IN DEADLY PERIL.]
[CHAPTER XX. STILL SEARCHING.]
[CHAPTER XXI. FUN!]
[CHAPTER XXII. OUT OF JEOPARDY.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. WEAVING THE NET.]
[CHAPTER XXIV. "HELP IS HERE!"]
[CHAPTER XXV. MAN OR WOMAN?]
[CHAPTER XXVI. CORNERED CRIMINALS.]
[CHAPTER XXVII. THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.]

[INTRODUCTORY.]

Again I have been called on to entertain my wide circle of young friends, by relating another story of detective life. Before plunging into my story, I have thought it best to address a few words to you personally, and about myself.

It is held as a rule that an author should never introduce himself into the story he is writing, and yet I find, on looking back, that in nearly all of my recent stories I have described myself as playing a more or less conspicuous part.

And yet I could not avoid doing so, as I can plainly see, without having detracted somewhat of interest from the stories.

As I sit here now, prepared to commence, the question arises: "Shall I keep myself in the background, out of sight, or shall I bring myself in, just as I actually took part in the strange story of

"'Shadow, the Mysterious Detective?'"

Well, I don't know, but I think it may be just as well to introduce myself when necessary, since when I write thus I feel that my pen is talking to you instead of at you. And, besides, I think that to you the story is more realistic.

Am I right?

Don't each of you feel now as if I had written you a personal letter? And are you not satisfied that there is only one Police Captain Howard, and he that one who now speaks to you?

I am sure of it.

And now for the story.

[CHAPTER I.]

A MURDER.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell heavily and steadily, and what wind there was roamed through the streets with a peculiar, moaning sound.

It was after the midnight hour.

Not a light was to be seen in any of the houses, nor was there any sound to be heard save that produced by the falling rain, and that soughing of the wind—not unlike the sighs and moans of some uneasy spirit unable to rest in the grave.

It was as disagreeable a night as I ever saw. And I could not help shuddering as I hurried homeward through the storm, with bent head, for I felt somewhat as if I were passing through a city of the dead.

This heavy silence—except for the noises mentioned—was very oppressive; and, while I gave a start, I was also conscious of a sense of relief, when I heard a human voice shouting:

"Help—help!"

I paused short.

My head having been bent, the cry coming so unexpectedly, I could not locate its direction.

Presently it came again.

"Help, for Heaven's sake, help!"

Off I dashed to the rescue.

Crack!

Then came a wild wail.

Crack!

Then I heard a thud, as of a human being falling heavily to the sidewalk. And as the person uttered no further cries, one of two things must be the case—he was either insensible or dead.

I increased my pace, and presently turning a corner, saw a burly fellow just dragging a body beneath a gas-lamp, the better to enable him to secure the plunder on his victim's body.

The assassin had already secured most of the stricken man's valuables, when my rapid approach alarmed him, and jumping up, he sprang along the street at a break-neck pace.

Crack!

Crack!

I had drawn a revolver, and I sent a couple of bullets after him, hoping to wing him, as well as to extend the alarm which his shots must already have raised.

A policeman put in an appearance some distance down the street, but the flying murderer took a running leap at him, tumbled him head over heels into the gutter, and then succeeded in making his escape.

When I compared notes with the policeman, I found that neither of us had distinctly enough seen the murderer to be able to give any description of him whatever, save that he was a chunky-built man, and seemed roughly dressed.

We were not surprised, on examining into the prostrate man's condition, to find him dead.

Right in the center of his forehead was a small hole, edged with drying, clotted blood, which mutely said:

"Here entered the fatal messenger from a death-dealing weapon."

The body was conveyed to the station-house, there to remain until it was claimed or conveyed to the morgue.

An examination of the pockets resulted in our learning that his name was Tom Smith. As to his residence, we could find no clew from anything he had on his person, or by consulting the directory.

About two o'clock the next afternoon, a wild-eyed woman entered the station-house, and, in trembling tones, asked to see the body.

I was present at the time, and my heart went out in pity to the pale-faced woman—or perhaps I should say girl, for she certainly had not seen her twentieth birthday.

She disappeared into the inner room where the body was lying, and a few seconds later I heard a low and anguished cry. Then I knew that she had recognized the poor fellow as some one who was near and dear to her.

Kindly hands drew her away from beside the body, and when I saw her again her face was convulsed with anguish, and tears were streaming from her eyes.

For fully half an hour she continued weeping, and not a man of us was there who did not feel uncomfortable. We did not venture to console her, for it seemed like sacrilege to intrude on her during the first period of her sorrow.

Then her sobbing became less loud, and gradually she subdued the more demonstrative expressions of grief.

She finally lifted her head, and in a hollow voice asked to hear the story of his death.

The captain briefly outlined what was known, and she calmly listened to the tale.

"Can I see the person who first reached him?" she asked, when the captain had finished.

"Yes," was the reply. "Detective Howard here is the man you want."

She wished to see me alone, and I conducted her into another room.

Arrived here, she begged me minutely to relate what had happened; and, exhibiting a singular self-control, asked for as close a description of the assassin as I could give.

"You knew him very well?" said I, when an opportunity occurred.

"Yes."

"Perhaps he was your brother?"

"No," she said, and a faint flush flitted into her pallid face for an instant. "No," and then her voice sank to a whisper, "he was to have been my husband."

"Ah! And now, miss, you don't suppose that the assassin could have been an enemy of his? Did he have any enemies, who might rob him, as a blind to cover up their real motive?"

"Tom have an enemy? No—no—he was too good and kind for that. It was done by some murderous wretch for the sake of plunder. Tom must have resisted being robbed, and the ruffian killed him."

"That is my own theory. And—I do not wish to pain you, miss—but what about the body? Has he any family or relations?"

"No, none in this world. He and I were all in all to each other," and the eyes of the girl became moist again; but she fought back the tears, and quite calmly said:

"I will take care of the body."

Then a troubled expression crossed her face; and, to make a long story short, I gained her confidence, learned that she had not enough to properly inter her lover, and loaned her the money.

With tears of gratitude in her eyes, she thanked me, and every word came straight from her heart.

Her name was Nellie Millbank, she said, and she was utterly alone in the world. Until several days before, she had been employed in a store, but had then been discharged.

Tom was a clerk, but had only a small salary, as soon as which was raised they were to have been married. He had been to see her on that fatal night, to tell her he had obtained a day off, and was going to take her on an excursion on the morrow.

She had been dressed and waiting for him, but he had not come.

Alarmed, for he had always kept his word, she knew not what to do, nor what to think, until, having bought an afternoon paper, she saw an account of the shooting.

This was her simple history.

After the inquest, the body was delivered to her, and then she faded from my sight and knowledge for a long while. Exactly how long, the ensuing chapters will inform you.

[CHAPTER II.]

MAT MORRIS.

"I've been discharged, mother."

"What?"

"I've been discharged."

The face of Mrs. Morris became very grave, and presently her eyes were turned on the boyish yet manly face of her son Mat. Earnestly she gazed at him for several seconds, and then her lips parted with a smile which, wan as it was, expressed satisfaction.

"It was no fault of yours. You did nothing wrong, my son?"

"No, mother, it was not through any fault of mine that I was discharged. Business has fallen off so very much of late that they were compelled to reduce the number of hands. And as I was one of the newest, I was among those laid off."

"Of course I am sorry," said poor Mrs. Morris, "but we must do the best we can."

"I'll not act the part of a sluggard, mother, you can depend on that. I'll try and find something to do to keep the wolf from the door. And my boss gave me a splendid recommendation, and said if business got better he'd send for me at once."

Mat was a good son.

Few better were to be found.

His worst fault, perhaps, was in being a little reckless, or over-brave and independent.

None could insult him with impunity, nor could he nor would he stand by and silently witness anybody being imposed upon. He invariably took the part of the under dog in the fight.

Hardly had Mat finished speaking, when the door opened and a girl entered; a girl whom both mother and son greeted with glances of affection.

Her name was Helen Dilt.

Five years before, when the circumstances of the Morris family had been better, they had taken her from the street—found starving and freezing there on a cold winter's night—and had cared for her.

Mr. Morris had died only a year later, since which time Helen had clung to them, doing what little she could to keep the roof above their heads.

She was not yet sixteen—a slight and winsome little creature; not beautiful, but with a sweet face that when lighted by a smile was remarkably winning.

Of her history she knew nothing.

Her knowledge of herself could be summed up in a few words.

For years cared for by a drunken old hag, with only a faint remembrance of a sweet, sad face before that, she had lost even such a squalid home as she had when the hag died.

Then she had come with the Morris family.

And well did they love her.

Mrs. Morris loved her like a daughter, and Mat loved her much better than a sister. And Helen returned the latter's deep regard.

While no word had openly been spoken, it was tacitly understood by all three that some day, when Mat and Helen were old enough, and the circumstances permitted, they were to be married.

Mat was of slight build, of lithe and willowy frame, in which, however, resided an amount of strength which few would have dreamed possible.

He was just eighteen.

There is an old saying—"that it never rains but it pours."

It seems true sometimes.

Helen, employed in a situation bringing her three dollars a week, had also come home with the news of having been discharged.

It was a grave little trio that gathered about the supper table that night.

Latterly they had been getting along comfortably, but now destitution and want again stared them in the face, and must inevitably take up quarters in the household, unless some one obtained work of some kind to bring in some money.

Mat was up and away early the next morning, and for many mornings thereafter, but although he honestly searched all day long for employment, none was to be found.

And Helen, too, sought for work, but failed to find it, and day by day their slender stock of money diminished, until at last they had eaten the last meal, and had no money wherewith to buy another.

That evening Helen left the house and was gone for a short while, and when she came back she did not say where she had been.

But she had gone with her shawl to a pawn-shop, and hid away in her dress was the pittance which had been loaned on it.

In the morning she stole out unheard, not long after daylight, and invested her capital in newspapers.

Her cheeks were flushed with shame as she stood on the street, offering her papers for sale. But she fought back her pride. They had been very kind to her, and she should be only too glad, she told herself, to make the sacrifice for their dear sakes.

And how happy she was when she hastened to their home, and put her morning's earnings into the hand of Mrs. Morris.

In vain Mat protested against Helen's selling papers. Let him do it, he said.

"It will need all we can both make to live and pay the rent," Helen quietly returned.

"But you must not go on the street to sell papers, Helen," protested Mat.

"I am young and can afford better to do this than that our good mother should work," said Helen, bravely, casting an affectionate glance toward Mrs. Morris.

And Mat said no more.

It was one day several weeks subsequent to the time when she first began selling papers, that a gentleman stopped to purchase a Herald of Helen.

He had paid for it in a mechanical way, and was turning away when he chanced to glance at the face of the newsgirl.

He started slightly, then cast a keen glance at her, paused, and then in a tone of assumed carelessness, asked:

"Haven't I seen you somewhere else, my girl? You have not always sold papers?"

"No, sir."

"Where can I have seen you?"

"I don't know, sir," was the only reply, for Helen did not care to talk to him.

But she saw that he was an elderly man, his hair was streaked with gray, and in clothing and manner he bore the impress of apparent respectability.

"What is your name?" he inquired.

"Helen."

"What!" with another start. "Your name is Helen, is it?" recovering himself. "Helen what, my girl?"

"Helen Morris," was the reply, for she had now for a long time used the name of her benefactors as her own.

Again the gentleman glanced keenly at her, and then moved away slowly, muttering to himself:

"Morris—Morris! I can't understand it. That likeness is wonderful, and cannot exist as a mere accident. I must investigate this, and I'd bet anything that that is not her name."

The gentleman entered a large building on Broadway, ascended in the elevator, and opened the door of an office, on which was lettered the legend:

"Joseph Brown,
Attorney at Law."

Having written a note, he dispatched his office boy with it to a liquor saloon, it being directed to James McGinnis, in care of the saloon's proprietor.

Late that afternoon a beetle-browed and forbidding-looking individual entered Brown's office.

"Well, I got your letter and I've come!" was the rather sullen salutation he gave Brown. "What's up now? Want to badger me again?"

"Don't talk to me in that manner!" said Brown, quietly, yet in a grim tone. "Remember that I saved your neck from a halter, which I can again put around it at any moment."

The man shuddered, and became meek as a lamb.

"What do you want?"

"That's better," and Brown smiled. "I don't want much of you just now," and then he sank his voice to a whisper.

"That's easy enough," McGinnis said, a few minutes later. "I can let you know to-morrow morning, I think."

"Very well."

When McGinnis put in an appearance the next morning, it was evident from his expression that he had been successful in the task required of him by Brown.

"I've found out that her name isn't Morris. That's the name of the people as she lives with. She's a kind of an adopted daughter, and they said as how her real name was Dilk, or something like that."

"Ha! I thought so," Brown exclaimed, inwardly. And then he bade McGinnis sit down, and for nearly half an hour they conversed in low tones.

Then Brown put a roll of bills into his confederate's hands, and the latter withdrew, saying:

"I'll do the job nately, and there'll be no trouble after it."

And that night Helen did not return home. Half-crazed with alarm, Mat and his mother awaited her coming until nine o'clock, or a little after, and then the young fellow could stand it no longer, but went in search of Helen.

He could not find her.

She did not return during the night, nor even the next day, nor when night again fell.

Mat had scoured the city for her, had visited the places where she usually sold papers, and had questioned all the boot-blacks and newsboys, but had only obtained the meager and unsatisfactory information from one little fellow that he had seen Helen in company with a man just after dusk.

She had disappeared completely, had vanished as utterly as a mist that is dissolved by the sun's warm rays.

"She is gone from us, mother," Mat at last said, in a choking voice. "You remember, mother, what Helen has told us—her impressions concerning her early childhood. And, mother, I believe there is money at the bottom of the thing, that Helen stood in somebody's way, and has been spirited off by this person's orders."

"It is possible."

"Possible! I feel it to be the truth. And I shall not rest night or day, mother, until I have found her. Good-bye, mother, for I am going. Heaven in mercy assist you and care for you until I can come back to do so. Good-bye!"

Mrs. Morris did not wish him to go, but she could not thwart him, for she knew how much he loved Helen. But her face was very pale and anguished as she saw him go.

[CHAPTER III.]

SHADOW—WHO WAS HE?

Mat Morris was grimly in earnest in his determination to find the missing Helen.

He had no clew to follow, no starting-point from which to begin his search, but he would not permit himself to think about it in this light, for fear he would become discouraged.

Helen was alive—was somewhere—could be found—and must be found!

First of all, he paid a visit to police head-quarters, and described the man who had been seen with Helen, as the boy had described him.

From one detective to another he went, giving the description, and inquiring if any could say who tallied in appearance with it.

Among the others he came to me, but, like the others, I could not even guess who the person might be, so meager was the description.

I asked him if he intended turning detective himself.

"I do," he firmly said; "and I shall never give up until I have found her, and unearthed the rascal who has done this."

"Who is this 'her' you speak of?"

"A girl whom I love dearer than my life itself!" was the earnest reply—not given in a mawkish and sentimental tone, but in a manly way that won for the speaker my good opinion.

"Perhaps I can help you," I said. "Tell me your story."

He did so, but so little did it contain that I could see no advice to give him, and told him so frankly.

"I like you for your frankness," said Mat; "but say no more or you may discourage me."

I asked him his name, and when he had told me what it was, I found that I had known his father.

"I hope you may be successful—I sincerely hope so," I told him, as we shook hands at parting.

Mat Morris went his road and I went mine, and in the busy details of my life soon forgot him.

One afternoon, a lot of us detectives were grouped together, discussing an offer of a reward of one thousand dollars for the discovery of some stolen bonds and the person who had made free with them.

The known facts of the case were in our possession, and when I sat in my room that evening, recalling them one by one, it struck me that a certain criminal might have had a hand in the affair, for the method of making the robbery was in his style.

Singular as it may seem, nearly every professional thief has a method of working up his "jobs," and a detective very frequently can positively say: "Such and such a person had a hand in that affair," merely because they know the style and method of the work.

I put on my coat and hat and went out, my footsteps turned in the direction of this person's haunts.

As I drew near to a saloon which he was accustomed to frequent, I caught sight of the very individual, and followed him.

He passed the saloon, and going on, turned the next corner.

I hastened forward, was about to turn the corner, when a slight thing brought me suddenly to a halt.

It was nothing more nor less than a simple shadow, cast on the walk by a gaslight. It was the shadow of a slender figure, in male attire, a cap on the head, one hand raised, while the index finger was being shaken after somebody in the distance.

Simple as the circumstance was it impressed me, and I stood still and waited.

My eyes wandered from the shadow for an instant, and when my eyes sought the spot where it had been, it was gone.

I sprang to the corner.

The criminal whom I had been following was out of sight, and the person who had cast that shadow was nowhere visible.

And yet I had heard no footsteps, and the time anyhow was too brief for the person to have gone more than a dozen feet.

I was deeply puzzled.

Soon after I turned my steps toward home, for I was balked for the present, whatever else might be the case. I remember just before leaving the spot that I muttered, rather loud, perhaps:

"Where did that shadow disappear to so suddenly?"

The next day these words were recalled to my mind when a note was handed to me, and I had opened it.

"The bonds are hidden under the dock at the foot of —— street. The person who stole them will recover them to-night. Capture him. Claim the reward; keep half, and be ready to give the other half at an instant's demand to

Shadow."

"Let the word answer as a countersign."

This note puzzled me not a little, and I hardly knew what to do in regard to it; for I did not wish to be made a fool of, as well as the laughing-stock of the other detectives.

I finally determined to tack my faith to this unknown person who signed "Shadow," and that night took a couple of men to the spot designated, and captured the bond thief after he had taken the bonds from their hiding-place.

I got the reward, and kept five hundred myself, reserving the other five hundred until it should be demanded of me, when, where, or how, I had not the slightest idea.

Several weeks later, after the midnight hour, I was suddenly brought to a halt as I drew near my house, for across the walk was cast that shadow.

I knew it must be the same one, and belonging to the same person, for the hand was raised, and the index finger shaking.

Determined that this shadow should not disappear so suddenly and mysteriously again, I kept my eyes on it as I hastily sprang forward.

The shadow moved, and its owner suddenly stood before me—a lithe figure, in male attire, with a large-peaked cap.

I glanced keenly at the face.

It was a boyish-looking face, with eyes very deep-set, it seemed to me, and a face, besides, that lacked expression.

"Shadow!" was uttered by a low voice, evidently disguised, and then a hand was extended—for the money, as I well knew.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Shadow!" was the single word of reply.

"What do you want?"

"You know perfectly well. If you are villainous enough to keep it all, why, do so!" and he would have glided away.

"Hold on! Here is your share. And now, who are you?" and I bent closer to the mysterious being, and then discovered that I did not see a real face, but a closely-fitting mask, which defied all but the closest scrutiny.

"I am Shadow."

"A detective?"

"Yes. Now go—leave me alone—cease your questioning. And, as you value my friendship (which may be worth much to you) never speak to me again, but act simply as I shall write. You have compelled me to break an oath—be satisfied and go; and never cause me to break a new oath, which I now again make, or I swear solemnly that you shall regret it."

Thus spoke Shadow, and then he went swiftly away, with the most noiseless steps of any human being I ever saw.

I took a few steps in the same direction, but I paused when he turned and shook that index finger at me in that peculiar way.

He was a deep mystery to me.

"Who was he?"

Disguised as a sailor just arrived in port, I shadowed a man into a low dive some nights later.

Two professional burglars, well known to me, passed near me as I crossed the room.

"Could that little chap have overheard anything we said?" one rather anxiously asked of the other.

"No," was the careless reply. "I've seen him before, and know that he's deaf and dumb. If it hadn't been for that, I'd a told you of his being near us."

Thus much I heard, and then distance swallowed up the sound of their voices.

I glanced around in quest of the little chap alluded to, and my eyes lighted on—Shadow!

Was he playing deaf and dumb?

I got near him after a while, and managed to whisper into his ear:

"I know you now. I detected you from the way you carry your head—you are Mat Morris."

Shadow's hand was resting on the table. Without even glancing up to see if I was looking, his index finger began forming letters on the table—letters, of course, that were invisible.

My eyes followed the finger carefully, and I read the words:

"Fool! Your folly may cost us both our lives. I am Shadow—nothing else. Do not seek to penetrate my disguise. Go."

I turned away rebuked.

If he wished to conceal his identity, it certainly was none of my business.

As I was turning about, a genuine tar—a regular son of Neptune—staggered against me. He was half seas over, and I tried to avoid him.

But he grasped me by the shoulder, gave me a shake, and—

"Come along and have some grog, you son of a sea-cook!"

I tried to get away from him, and to keep up my assumed character was foolish enough to attempt using a sailor-like phrase.

No sooner had the tar heard my words than he bellowed out:

"Hurroo—hurroo! Shiver my timbers if ye ever smelt salt water! You're no tar—smash my headlights if ye are! Can't play that game on me," following his speech with a hearty guffaw.

He raised his hand to slap me on the shoulder, and his fingers caught in and dragged off the bushy whiskers I had put on for a disguise.

All eyes had been drawn to us by the drunken sailor's words, and when my face was seen there was a start of alarm on all sides.

Some one recognized me.

"A detective—a detective!"

And then a hoarse and angry murmur was heard on every side, and I was slowly hemmed in by a crowd of scowling-faced villains.

[CHAPTER IV.]

OUT OF THE LION'S JAWS.

Things looked remarkably squally where I was concerned, when, on my exposure by the genuine tar, the inmates of the den gathered threateningly about me.

I attempted to draw my shooting-irons, but desisted as a measure of prudence when I saw that I should be killed before being allowed to do so.

It might have gone very hard with me, had it not been for the quick-wittedness of the mysterious being known as Shadow.

Several empty beer-glasses were on the table in front of him.

These he caught up, and swiftly and accurately hurled them at the lights—lamps being used in the place instead of gas.

Crash!

Crash!

Crash!

Ban-n-n-g!

One of the heavy beer-glasses had smashed the bottom of one of the lamps, the oil had ignited, and there came an explosion, followed by the burning oil being scattered in every direction.

Instantly ensued a scene of confusion and consternation.

The oil had set fire to the clothing of several persons, and they cursed and screamed and shouted, as they wildly strove to smother the flames.

Now was my opportunity.

Toward the door I made my way through the surging and excited crowd, some of whom were madly grasping at each other, thinking they were laying hold on me.

By the fluttering blaze of the burning, oil-soaked clothing of the persons on fire, I saw which way to go; and I had nearly reached the door, when some one cried:

"Be careful, boys! Look out for the door; don't let him escape!"

I made a bolt for the door, and reached it just after another person had done so.

I up with my clenched fist and toppled him over, and then dashed into the street and took to my heels, and did not halt until I was a block from the place.

This was not caused by fear, for I could easily have summoned half a dozen policemen to my assistance.

No matter how wicked a man may be, he has rights under the law as well as anybody else, and unless I knew or suspected him (for good reasons) to be guilty of some particular crime, I had no business to interfere with him.

So I did not wish to make any further move by making any arrests of the inmates of the dive.

Nor, on the contrary, did I wish to give them an opportunity of putting a surreptitious bullet in me.

And again, I had begun to consider Shadow as an ally of mine, and did not wish to run the risk of upsetting or balking any scheme he might be working up through his presence in that place.

Nevertheless, I naturally felt resentful toward the men who, for a moment, had my life in their power, and who seemed inclined to use their power. But I knew them all, and I would have my revenge when, some day—as they surely would—they fell into the strong grasp of the law.

I hung around the vicinity for an hour or more, but as I saw nothing of Shadow, I concluded to turn my steps homeward, and did so.

And Shadow?

He, too, had started toward the door, but had been too slow in his movements to reach it before it was barricaded.

Made aware that he could not pass through it, he quietly made his way back to where he had been sitting, and there sat down again, just before a lamp was hastily lighted.

By this time the ignited clothing had all been extinguished, with no more results than a few painful burns, and consequently the first thought of everybody was concerning the detective.

But he was gone.

That somebody had escaped they knew, but had clung to the hope that it was one of the tars, who had been frightened and bolted out.

But, no, the half-drunken sailors were all huddled together, gazing stupidly about them, not knowing what was to come next.

Some of them had drawn the tar's never-absent companion, their dirk-knives, and were prepared to make resistance in case all this row was but a blind to cover up an attack on them for the purpose of robbing them.

But robbing the tars was the thing furthest from the minds of that rascally crew just at that moment.

They had threatened the life of a detective, he had escaped, and they thought the consequences would be a descent on the place, as soon as enough blue-coats could be gathered for the purpose.

"Now—who fired those beer-glasses?"

The bullet-headed proprietor of the "ranch" asked this question in a gruff tone.

Instantly they began eying each other, and slowly but surely pair after pair of eyes were fastened on Shadow.

"Run out these Jacks."

Immediately the tars were told to "vamose"—"vacate"—"skip"—and the door being held open for them, they lost no time in giving the place a wide berth.

The proprietor sharply eyed those who remained.

All were friends.

Making a sign to a couple, they separated from the rest, who were then told to "skip and lay low."

Shadow made no attempt to leave with this departing crowd.

He knew that it would be useless, in addition to which it would have implied that he had heard and understood, which would not have been in keeping with his assumed character of a deaf and dumb person.

"Now, then," said the bullet-headed proprietor, when none but a trusted few were left in the place, "into that 'cubby' of ours with him!" indicating Shadow.

The latter eyed them with blank astonishment when they laid hands on him, and signed to know what it meant. And when they commenced running him across the floor, he struggled to prevent them.

But he became quiet when one of them placed the muzzle of a revolver to his temple.

He made no further resistance, but allowed them to gag him, and shove him into a little black cubby-hole or closet, whose door was a segment of the wainscoting, undiscoverable to a person unaware of its existence, save by the closest scrutiny.