It moved upward and went out as it began to shine on the edge of the window sill.
Silence reigned, but there was motion by the window sill. The man there was occupied in some mysterious work. He was totally oblivious of the presence of The Shadow. He did not know that a menacing form stood close by, with a loaded automatic in readiness.
The crouching man breathed quickly and eagerly. His lips were forming soft, incoherent words. A low exclamation — hardly more than a whisper — was uttered by him.
Then came the sound of a pistol shot.
It was a muffled report that seemed to be absorbed by the room itself. A wailing, gasping cry came from the window sill. A long groan followed.
This succession of startling sounds could hardly have been heard on the floors below, but they could not escape the listening ears of any one within the apartment.
A chair overturned in the outer room. Mayhew’s police whistle shrilled.
The latch of the door clicked. The door opened. Mayhew pressed the light switch, and leaped into the illuminated room, revolver in hand. The detective sergeant stared in profound amazement.
Stretched upon the floor by the window lay the body of a man.
Face upward, arms sprawled, it might have been the form of Silas Harshaw, for it lay exactly as the body of the old man had lain.