Here, in the Cobalt Club, in the guise of Cranston, The Shadow spent hours of leisure, his mighty mind at work, his very identity concealed.
Tonight, he was reading the details of a case that involved himself; and, as usual, his purpose in that affair had not been fathomed.
He was reading the latest reports on the tragic death of James Throckmorton, the fourth victim of an unseen hand.
Joe Cardona, in accordance with his determined policy, had let the facts of the case be known.
James Throckmorton had been asphyxiated by illuminating gas. The leak had been discovered. It might have been caused by accident.
There was no evidence to prove that the hose had been loosened by a murderer’s hand. But mystery had hovered in that top-story room last night.
Some one had been seen in Throckmorton’s secluded sanctum. The sinister figure had escaped by the skylight; it was probable that he had entered by the same route.
The police were investigating. That was the same old story. They had investigated other cases before this one, and they had been balked.
The link between this tragedy and three other well-timed deaths was admitted. There was every reason to expect another killing tomorrow night — perhaps more after that!
The only factor that saved Detective Cardona from a merciless grilling by the newspapers was his willingness to give information to the reporters.