A low voice was whispering into an unhearing ear. Homer’s eyes half opened.
His lips tried to form a response to the question he had heard.
The words were repeated. Homer vaguely caught the name of Harshaw. Some one was asking him about the old man.
Automatically, inspired more by instinctive reflex action than by fear, Homer’s voice came in a low, choking gasp. His words were barely coherent as he responded to The Shadow’s question.
Then came another quizzing remark. Homer’s lips trembled. He did not know why he was being questioned. He only knew that he could not move his body.
Dying, he tried to form a name. It quivered on his lips. Articulated, it ended with a gasp.
The body of Homer Briggs slipped to the sidewalk. The cowardly crook was dead.
The sweatered form arose. Even without cloak and hat, The Shadow was a man of darkness. His tall form flitted eerily across the street.
A policeman came rushing from the alley. He spied the body of Homer as he turned an electric lantern in that direction.
But the officer did not see the slender, swiftly moving form that had departed.