"You have a variety of clients," said Savette, with a smile. "The best contrast was between Bellamy and Sharrock—"
"Let's not talk about Sharrock," said Tremont testily. "We slipped up with him. We had him where we wanted him, and we let him get away. If it hadn't been for that, we could have closed up long ago."
"Perhaps," responded Savette, in a reminiscent tone. "But why? Circumstances have put us in line for a much greater opportunity. You know how we stand now, Glade."
"Yes. All right, if we take our time. But I'm wondering about the capital."
"Leave that to me. I'll find a way to handle it. You brought in the first. I'll bring in the last." Glade Tremont arose. He walked toward the door, and Gerald Savette followed him.
Lawyer and physician, they appeared a pair of reputable men.
"How is Orlinov making out?" questioned Savette, as they stood within the door. "As well as he claimed he would?"
"Yes," Tremont answered him. "He speaks French very fluently. It has served well." With this remark, the lawyer opened the door. The physician accompanied his guest downstairs. The living room was deserted.
The shade of the side window trembled slightly. It pressed slowly inward until it formed a bulge. From beneath it came a mass of black, which developed into a crouching form. The huddled shape arose and became a tall, imposing figure — a man garbed in a black cloak, whose features were obscured by an upturned collar and the brim of a broad slouch hat. With gliding, silent stride, The Shadow swept across the room. He stood beside the chairs where the two men had discussed their affairs. His keen eyes spotted the telegram that lay upon the table. A black-gloved hand reached forward and picked up the paper.
The message was from Glendale, New York. It was addressed to Glade Tremont, Waverly Building, New York City. It was signed Ivan Orlinov. Its capitalized letters formed this statement: