“Crowell thought you took the record. It was taken — not by you, but by myself — before you arrived. It is here.”
From beneath his cloak, The Shadow drew forth a photographic impression.
“The finger prints of Bob Maddox,” he declared. “That young man did time, some years ago. You will find that these prints compare exactly with police records.”
The telephone bell rang.
“Who is it?” questioned The Shadow.
“Crowell,” replied Zull.
“Answer it. Say what I tell you.”
Zull obeyed.
“Oh, hello, Crowell,” he said.
The black form of The Shadow was bending over his captive, whispering instructions into his ear.