A burst of flame from the revolver. A cry from high above. The form of a man tumbled from the darkness, clawing helplessly, until it reached the deck, forty feet below!
That master stroke ended all resistance. Yellow faces ducked behind the sails. Knives, already in hand, were thrust back in the belts from which they had been drawn. Not a single gun spoke.
The Shadow, backing toward the rail, had stifled all opposition. Wherever that revolver might point, there would it find a mark — and every cringing enemy knew it!
With another peal of taunting mirth, The Shadow passed the huddled forms of Ling Soo and his two bodyguards. Over the rail and down the ladder; yet from the side of the junk, these gibing peals of laughter still told their terrible threat.
A muffled motor chugged. The little boat brought by Ling Soo had left the side of the big ship. In it was a lone, crouching figure, stooping at the wheel — so low that he was almost invisible.
Whistles were sounding. Boats were putting out from everywhere to reach the junk, which was now a mass of smoke, tinged with spurts of rising flame. Forms were leaping from the rigging, seeking the safety of the bay.
A police boat, swinging by the burning Pung-Shoon, was capturing these miserable survivors.
All remaining on the junk were doomed. Some had missed when they had leaped for safety. Others had fallen wounded and helpless from The Shadow’s bullets.
Among these, The Shadow knew, was Ling Soo. The insidious leader of the Wu-Fan had gone to a deserved fate. But there was another yet to be accounted for.
The little motor boat was speeding swiftly through the bay, lost against the blackened waves, far from the glare of the blazing junk.