It was not long before a tapering finger rested upon the account of the meeting which had been held at Throckmorton’s home a few months previously.
The report of the Falcon Society was dry and dull. But included with it was a list of those who had been there, both members and friends.
The pointing finger rested upon a name that was included in the latter group.
SHORTLY afterward, Lamont Cranston’s limousine rolled northward from the Cobalt Club. The man in the back seat was invisible. Only the moving glow of a cigarette betrayed his presence.
He alighted from the car near the home of James Throckmorton and ordered the chauffeur back to the club.
The Shadow had hastened twenty-four hours ago into Throckmorton’s home. Tonight, he entered stealthily. He crept easily up the stairs and reached the room with the broken door.
There was something about that room which The Shadow had noticed — for no facts of consequence ever escaped his eagle eye.
He had observed the partly opened door of a closet, with piles of loose-leafed notebooks stowed within.
It was in that closet that The Shadow sought. One by one, volumes were removed — some large, some small. Most of them were records that pertained to James Throckmorton’s hobbies.
Among them, The Shadow discovered a few dusty volumes that appeared to be diaries. These were the books The Shadow placed upon the desk.