His body lay in a patch of darkness. Only his head, face downward, was near the glimmer of light.
Some denizen of the underworld, this fellow; a wounded mobster, fleeing from the minions of the law.
Noiselessly, The Shadow emerged and glided along the wall. A moment later, he was crouched above the helpless man.
Prying hands discovered a revolver. This The Shadow needed. He drew it from the man’s pocket. Then, a sweatered arm crept into the fringe of light.
A black-clad hand turned up the head of the prostrate man. The flickering illumination showed the bloodstained features of Homer Briggs!
The yellow, cringing crook had crawled from his hideout when he had heard the cry that The Shadow had been captured.
He was one of those who had still been in the trap when the police had made their attack. He had been among the first to flee.
He had been winged by bullets as he reached the nearest alley. Staggering, gasping, he had been rising and falling, seeking to clamber away to a place of safety.
The last of his spasmodic flights had brought him to this spot.
The Shadow’s hands slid Homer’s face into the patch of darkness. The man’s head was lifted by those hands.