Had Foy gone mad? Had he chosen to be alone when he dealt the death thrust that would end Cleve’s life?
The sinister slayer was picking up his knife; he was coming back to Cleve. The helpless man closed his eyes in agony. He could not bear to see that glittering blade rise again.
There was pressure at his feet. Cleve felt his body being rolled over. He moved his feet, and found that the thongs were gone from his ankles — although their cutting pressure still could be felt.
Now the knife slashed the thongs that bound his wrists. Another cut; the gag was loose. Firm arms were helping Cleve to his feet.
Bewildered, he tottered, scarcely able to stand, and he stared at the face of Foy. The man was no longer crouching. His figure had enlarged. Tall, slender, and erect, he was Foy no longer. Only his face appeared to be the face of Foy!
The Shadow!
LIKE a flash, the explanation came to Cleve. It all went back to that night at Darley’s.
He remembered the certain shot that had felled Foy — a shot fired by The Shadow. Why had Cleve doubted the marksmanship of that firm hand that had aimed so often and so perfectly at the Sun Kew!
The single shot at Darley’s had killed Foy. The evil Chinaman had not escaped. His dead body had been removed — by The Shadow!
Last night at Ling Soo’s! That shadow on the floor. A shadow, long and weird, with no one there but Ling Soo and Foy.