The face beneath the pulled-down visor of the ragged cap was that of Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s trusted agents.
Tonight’s work was no new experience for Harry. He was one of the eyes with which The Shadow pried into secrets of the underworld.
When he had first done duty for The Shadow, Harry had encountered trouble more than once. But now, a veteran of these adventures, he had learned the art of acting the part of a small-fry crook.
There were many places — dangerous locations — to which Harry had never gone. To those, The Shadow alone could penetrate. But in a gathering place like the Black Ship, Harry had often appeared with impunity, and aided his master.
The Black Ship was a dangerous spot for a stool pigeon. None dared to come there, for various police informants had been waylaid in that dive.
There were numerous stools in the bad lands who had avoided suspicion, but they were superstitious about the Black Ship, and all refused to go there.
Harry had no fear. The fact that stools did not frequent the place made it safer, in a way. Moreover, he was known only to The Shadow, and not to various detectives.
Harry was the operative of a man whose very identity was an unfathomable mystery. The veil of blackness that shrouded The Shadow was a mighty protection to his agent, Harry Vincent.
Last night, Harry had been at the Black Ship. He had caught the subdued buzz that had traveled among snarling mobsters.
Sitting with half-closed eyes, staring blearily at the wall before him, Harry had paid no attention to what was said around him.