The muffled report of a pistol shot sounded through the room. The Shadow’s motion ceased. His whispered laugh joined with the echoes of the shot.
Headforemost, The Shadow slipped downward to the floor. He waited there, listening; ready to take action had the shot been heard.
Tonight, as on the night when Silas Harshaw had been killed, no ears were close enough to hear.
The Shadow’s flashlight glimmered. It followed his right hand, which was moving toward him, holding a stack of papers. Some of these were letters, in unsealed envelopes.
The Shadow removed them one by one, and read their shaky scrawl. He understood their import. The light went out.
Now, The Shadow was gone from the spot beside the window sill. He was approaching the side wall.
There he waited for a moment. He was creeping along the wall, measuring. There was something about his careful calculation that corresponded to the slow strides he had made when he had left the elevator shaft.
The Shadow stopped. His light glimmered on the floor. He was prying up the tight-fitting flooring.
At this time, The Shadow was working on his own. He had no clew from Homer for this task.
It was a thought in that hidden brain that was guiding the man of mystery in his search. He was seeking an elusive clew. He found it.