Homer was not alone in the center of this trap, he knew.
The door was not locked. It yielded by the fraction of an inch as The Shadow pressed. That was a sure indication that Homer was not alone.
To meet his quarry, The Shadow must first dispose of a more formidable opponent.
The black-clad hands were busy. They worked at the back of the cloak. They slipped from the sleeves of the garment, but the cloak remained, attached to the hat.
The hands held a rod of steel, no larger than a pencil. They drew it out to the length of four feet.
The slender shaft was pushed up into the hat, which tilted forward to the collar of the cloak. A body slipped low, beneath the cloak.
One hand held the rod; the other an automatic, while the man crouched low. The muzzle of the gun pressed against the door. It swung inward.
The answer was a revolver shot; then another. In quick succession, Hank Farley had fired from the opposite side of the room, shooting the instant that the door had swung.
His shots were aimed at the body of the form he saw. They whistled through the folds of the black cloak. Then came an answering shot.
Farley’s right arm dropped. A second bullet struck his left shoulder. The man lost his grip upon his automatics. He crumpled to the floor.