A gangster fired; a moment later he screamed as a bullet from the dark felled him. Cursing men dropped with oaths half formed upon their lips. The Shadow was weaving his way across the room. Bullets meant for him found spots where he had been, but was no more.
At last came silence. Realizing that their companions had fallen, the remaining gangsters, with one accord, adopted a waiting plan. Crouched in the dark, they made no move, hoping only to spot the flash of the enemy’s gun.
Had The Shadow suddenly relighted that gloomy room, he might have conquered his scattered foemen with a forceful attack. But The Shadow was playing a craftier game. He knew that minutes were precious to these huddled mobsmen.
Sooner or later, they must make a dash for safety, when police arrived. Then they would betray themselves to the avenger, who would show no mercy for such fiends as these.
The tension showed that the gangsters knew the situation. Yet they feared to move. Each second was bringing them closer to the fate which they deserved.
Only one man in that room of death failed to understand the silence. That was Gifford Morton.
AS long seconds crept by, enlivened only by the plaintive moans of wounded fighters, the multimillionaire decided that all his enemies must have been completely subdued. This, he fancied, was his opportunity for escape.
Rising stealthily from the corner where he had dropped to safety, the unscathed plutocrat crept toward the door of the inner room. The first sign of his action came when he entered the shaft of light.
A gun barked as Morton scrambled into view. The multimillionaire staggered forward, clutching his shoulder. Another shot resounded, and a mobster’s bullet whistled by the falling fugitive.
The maddened gangsters could not see this man escape. Their urge to slay was their betrayal.