By the light of that same gas lamp, The Shadow began his search. His gloved thumb left no imprint as it ran through page after page with surprising rapidity.
The eyes that watched did not stop to read. They were looking for a written name.
James Throckmorton had been copious in his notations. If that name entered into his life, it should be here.
The moving thumb stopped. There, on a page dated nearly two years ago, was this written statement:
Discussed inventions with Silas Harshaw at his home. Told him my decision was final. Unwise to invest money in so doubtful an undertaking. Harshaw seemed piqued and erratic. Said I was like others. We would all see, some day. He talked about people stealing his inventions. Seemed to consider me as a suspect. He is a very queer old man.
The black-gloved thumb dog-leaved the pages. The various volumes were put back in the closet. But the diaries were now on top, instead of beneath the other books.
This one volume lay closest at hand. In fact, it was leaning from the top of the stack when The Shadow closed the door.
Then the room of death was once more deserted. The Shadow had gone — not by the skylight, however. He had taken to the stairs, moving silently downward through the darkness.
DETECTIVE SERGEANT MAYHEW was still on duty at the Redan Hotel. Tonight, the vigil seemed hopeless. The plainclothes men had been withdrawn.
It was a ruse; for they would be back tomorrow — the night when a fourth note was due to be mailed. The forty-eight-hour interval was now recognized.