Delmuth was playing host to an invisible audience of one man. Ever since that night at Benson's, he had been convinced that The Shadow could be anywhere. He had lived in apprehension; but he had fought to conceal his fears.
Tonight, he was doing the opposite. Delmuth was calm at heart, but playing the part of a man afraid. Crime was taking place tonight — far from New York. Delmuth's hands were free from it, but he was as important in the scheme as were the men who had set forth to murder.
Delmuth, pretending that he, too, meant to commit crime, was luring The Shadow away from the danger zone.
It was a waiting game — a stall until midnight, when all would be ended at Greenhurst.
Delmuth's apartment, with its many rooms, was a spot where The Shadow could lurk with ease.
Delmuth was sure that he was being watched, and he sought to make it more evident.
With seeming nervousness, the man lighted another cigarette. He walked across the room to the telephone.
With an uncertain laugh, Delmuth put down the phone and strode to the window. He stood looking through the pane as though in deep thought.
Actually, his shrewd eyes were watching the reflection of the room behind him. He was seeking to observe some sign of The Shadow.
Doors seemed to move. Curtains appeared to rustle. Was The Shadow here? Or were these mere imaginings of Delmuth's troubled brain?