"An alarm will be raised," explained Cliff Marsland quietly. "Police will be here shortly. I was a prisoner here, too. I was Orlinov's secretary. He trapped me when he learned that I was investigating matters here."
"Who was the man upstairs?" questioned Matt Hartley. "The man in black — the one who shot the Russian. The man who laughed—"
"He was the one who rescued us," said Cliff. "They had me in the torture chamber when he attacked. I met him in the corridor, when I was escaping."
"Who is he?" asked Clark Murdock,
"They call him The Shadow," answered Cliff.
"The Shadow!"
The name passed like magic from one to another. The fame of The Shadow was known.
The rescued men understood.
Cliff stepped from the porch, and stood upon the lawn, staring up toward the old gray castle. The other men were with him, surveying those walls that had held them prisoners. The huge masonry of Glamartin was silent now — silent, where guns had thundered. The last surging wave of mobsters had entered while Cliff was guarding the corridor. The Shadow had arrived in time to meet them.
Off in the shrubbery, scattered by the walls, in other spots of temporary safety lay wounded men and dying — those remnants who had staggered away before The Shadow's last attack. Glade Tremont, Gerald Savette, Ivan Orlinov, and Biff Towley. All four were dead. No man who had claimed leadership of any portion of the gangster crew remained alive now. Cliff could claim a share in the victorious struggle for right; but it was The Shadow's mastery that had dominated the battle. A distant shot rang across the lawn, and echoed from the cold gray walls of the castle-like building. The rescued men looked at one another. Only Cliff knew what it meant.