It was not surprising that the servant failed to see this stranger, for the newcomer was dressed entirely in black, and was scarcely discernible in the darkness.
The door of the house was open. The man in black lost no time entering. He saw the stairs ahead and dashed upward. He reached the deserted second floor, and kept on upward.
On the third he paused; then, as he detected a light from the final stairway, he hurried to the fourth.
The servant had turned on the light in the small hallway outside Throckmorton’s study. This guided The Shadow.
Limping from his speedy exertion, he drew up before the door of the little room.
The lock was a special one. Most persons would have smashed the door in preference to losing time with the lock. But no lock could balk The Shadow.
The gloves were off his hands; the fire opal glistened as the supple fingers pried with a tiny, keylike pick.
The lock clicked. The door swung wide. The Shadow, tall and weird, stood above the prone form of James Throckmorton.
He looked like a figure of death, did The Shadow; but his purpose here was to thwart death. He swung upward upon the chair which Throckmorton had used.
His firm hands struggled with the fastening of the skylight. The rusty metal yielded to the power of flesh. The iron frame dropped. Fresh air swept down into the room.