Two long, white hands appeared within the glow of light. They were hands that moved as of their own accord — hands that belonged to no visible wrists. For the arms beyond the hands were masked within black sleeves.
The hands, though slender and perfectly shaped, were hands of strength. Buried muscles vibrated beneath their skin. They were the hands which, encased within black gloves, had loosed destruction upon the hordes of the Tiger Tong.
There was a difference in the hands, as they now appeared. One was unadorned but on the other — the left — a gleaming gem shone from the base of the third finger.
A strange, weird stone, it glowed with many changing colors. From deep crimson, its flashes turned to darkish purple. It was a rare jewel — a girasol, or fire opal — this stone that The Shadow wore. Its very appearance betokened mystery — the symbol of The Shadow’s mysterious existence.
The hands were busy. A paper and pencil were brought into the light. A clipping lay upon the table. The right hand took the pencil and marked a circle around words in the clipping. Then those words were transcribed to the sheet of paper.
The dying statements of Stephen Laird had been copied by The Shadow. There they stood, in tabulated form.
In the box. See. Tag A. T — A - G — A - Green Eyes.
Cryptic, unexplainable statements. Perhaps the ravings of a fevered mind. The Shadow’s pencil paused above them. The hand crossed out the top line. At the right it inscribed, in capitals:
IN BOX C.
Moving to the second tabulation, the hand crossed out the statement “Tag A”; but the letters still remained. Now, a whispered voice spoke softly in the gloom of the room.