A tiny flashlight flickered, its rays submerged within the depths of the cellar. A soft laugh sounded. Hands in the dark bound and gagged the captured hoodlum. One of Biff Towley's trusted watchdogs had failed in his vigil!
There was a soft, swishing sound by the cellar stairs. The door at the top was locked; but its lock gave as an unseen hand applied a tiny metal instrument. The door opened. The Shadow advanced through the silent house.
There was a light in the front hall. Crouching low, The Shadow at last came into view, but he could not be seen from the outside. He was garbed in his cloak of black. Upon his head, he wore the slouch hat that obscured his features.
Looking right and left, The Shadow swung rapidly up the stairs. His cloak swished, and for an instant its crimson lining was revealed. Then the mysterious figure disappeared in the gloom of the second story, until he reached a room where a single light was burning. This was Glade Tremont's study. The room was empty.
Again, The Shadow moved in crouching fashion. He reached a corner of the room, by the door of a closet. A tall bookcase projected to the spot where the edge of the door would reach when opened. The Shadow's crouching form raised upward. It merged beside the end of the bookcase, until it became a motionless shape that no eye could have distinguished.
The Shadow had become a shadow!
Out of the night he had come. Silently he had passed through the outer group of watching gangsters. One man had fallen by his hand. Now, at the desired place, he was waiting, ready to frustrate the plans of Glade Tremont.
Tonight, he wore a remarkable disguise. His face was the face of the lawyer in whose home he now stood! But that duplicated countenance was hidden for the present.
The Shadow was dealing with supercrooks — men who left no traces of their evil deeds.
Beside them, Biff Towley and his mobsters were but children.