The man with the knife saw Cleve. With a cry, he leaped toward the crippled American. The men with the revolvers turned as they heard his shout.
Like an avenging demon, The Shadow was upon them! With mighty force, he clutched the Chinaman who held the upraised knife. He swung the man’s body as though it had been a form of straw!
Upward, backward, that body went. It was hurled, dirk and all, upon the gun-armed Chinese who were behind their comrade!
One man evaded the hurtling form and grappled with The Shadow. The other wriggled free, and fired wildly at the man in black. But as he pressed the trigger, The Shadow, twisting with amazing skill, precipitated himself and his opponent upon the man with the gun.
Of the two grapplers, it was the Chinaman — not The Shadow — who received the shots. The wrestler’s grip dropped loose. He fell dead, a victim of his comrade’s fire.
The Shadow, never faltering, seized the Chinaman who held the revolver. He plucked the gun from the Mongol’s grasp as one would wrest a toy from a tiny child.
Sweeping toward the door, The Shadow gripped Cleve and swung him to the passage. The black-gloved hand delivered two quick shots back into the room.
These reports from the captured revolver sounded as a warning to all who might choose to follow. They were accompanied by a taunting, gibing laugh. The challenge was not answered. Few could have followed, had they wished!
Police whistles sounded in the distance, as Cleve Branch faltered along the narrow street, supported by the man who had rescued him. The fresh air was reviving. Cleve’s wound ached dully now.
They were threading through dim, obscure streets. The man in black had become an obscure being. The only sign of his presence was the clutch of that guiding hand. Then, suddenly, the hand was gone. Cleve was alone.