"Sure thing," growled the gunman, drawing his revolver and brandishing it significantly.
Orlinov departed. Cliff lay motionless. He did not allow his eyelids to even tremble. He could hear Orlinov's footsteps dying away. He would know when the Russian returned. Cliff's fingers, hidden, clutched the handle of the automatic. At any moment, now, he could begin a surprise attack. He intended to act quickly.
A sudden leap, a drawn gun — that was his chance to catch his adversaries off guard. He would have to beat two men to the shot. He was confident that he could do it.
Listening, Cliff could hear signs that indicated where each of his enemies stood. Even should Orlinov return, Cliff could act, for he felt sure that the bearded Russian would have no gun in readiness. The time for action might be imminent. Cliff's one fear was that this would prolong until midnight. How would he know that hour? Suppose The Shadow was waiting for him to act?
This was a dilemma. The minutes on the rack had been torturous ones that had seemed much longer then they really were.
It might be ten o'clock — eleven — even past midnight — for all Cliff knew. His natural craving for action urged him to draw his gun now, while he had the opportunity. But that might mean action before the arrival of The Shadow.
Without the man in black to help him, Cliff's efforts to escape could be no more than futile. There were too many mobsmen on these premises. Hasty action would spoil all. Patient waiting might bring success. So Cliff Marsland waited. Possum-like, he feigned unconsciousness, waiting for the signal that would mean The Shadow was at hand!
Chapter XXII — The Shadow Speaks
The echoes of a sinister, whispered laugh died away. The Shadow, master in the lair of villains, made a downward motion with his automatics.
Understanding, Glade Tremont lowered his hand and reluctantly dropped the weapon which he held. Gerald Savette lowered his hand also, but did not release the hypodermic syringe.