Of ten men who had entered that pit of death, only two staggered forth. The trap that had been laid for The Shadow had proven a trap for those who entered.
Some had been laid low by shots from excited gangsters at the outer doorway, but The Shadow himself had accounted for a full half dozen.
The odds that were against The Shadow had proven in his favor. Not one bullet had been aimed toward his place of safety.
The number of men that he had encountered was better than a mere two or three. He had thrown consternation into the midst of his enemies; and with that consternation had come disaster.
Not a light glowed into the death trap, for no one dared approach. Friends could be mistaken for enemies, there.
Only now, since the last echo of the final shot had died away, two grim-faced gunmen were cautiously approaching to peer within.
The Shadow worked more rapidly than they. From his place behind the door, he sprang forward and stopped beside the dead body of a gangster that lay at the foot of the stone steps.
His cloak was tumbling from his shoulders. His hat came also. His automatics were empty; they dropped to the floor.
His gloved fingers clutched the loaded revolver that had fallen from the limp hands of the slain man.
Before the slow-approaching gangsters had shown their lights, a call came from within the stonewalled entry.