Even in the gathered darkness, the fire opal glowed mysteriously. Its dull-red rays were like the reflection of the sun that had set.
The lid of the box went down. The Shadow replaced his gloves.
His black-clad fingers wrapped the cigar box within its original paper, so perfectly that there was no change in its appearance. It rested on the table exactly as it had been before.
A single light shone in the living room when The Shadow glided through the door from the small private room.
The black-clad man stopped short and pressed his body against the wall.
By the side of a large fireplace, he became a thing without motion — another of the long, uncertain shades that lay upon the floor and walls and ceiling of that gloomy room.
ARTHUR WILHELM was at the telephone. He had just came from the city.
His back was turned toward the spot where The Shadow stood. He was speaking to Professor Roger Biscayne.
“All right, Roger,” Wilhelm said. “I’ll dig up those agreements that Harshaw signed. Funny we didn’t think of them while I was at the commissioner’s office.
“Sure, I know where they are… No trouble at all. They’re in my desk. You’ll want them tonight?