Standing by the window, Cranston slipped a pair of thin black gloves over his hands. A gem that gleamed on the left third finger was blotted from view.
Lamont Cranston was no longer the occupant of this room. The Shadow had taken his place. Where a human being had stood, a specter of the night now reigned!
The silent, black-clad form moved slowly away. The automatics were no longer on the table. The Shadow, like a phantom of another world, had merged with the darkened corners of the room. His presence had become invisible!
IN contrast to this scene, a slowly moving drama was unfolding four stories below. Herbert Carpenter, calmly smoking a cigarette, was still seated in Gifford Morton’s living room, apparently unconcerned about his fate.
The multimillionaire was gloating as he watched his prisoner. Gorman, the secretary, was speaking over the telephone. Morton questioned him as he hung up the receiver.
“The police will be here soon,” announced Gorman. “I have just talked with Mr. Hurley, the proprietor. He says that he will have the officers come up with the house detectives.”
“That’s all right,” declared Morton. “You explained the situation properly, Gorman. You told him that my own detectives are here. They are competent to take care of the matter until the police arrive.”
“The house men will probably beat them here, anyway,” growled one of Morton’s private detectives. “That’s the way with them noseys. Always trying to get in first, and take the credit. That’s hokum the manager was giving. You wait and see.”
“It doesn’t matter greatly,” said Gifford Morton.
Herbert Carpenter was leaning back in his chair. His eyes were half closed as he tried to picture matters downstairs. He was entirely ignorant of the strange sequence of events that had so recently occurred — events that put a different color on the situation.