The stern, furrowed face of Stanley Warwick commanded the situation.
The Shadow was completely surrounded. He knew that all retreat was cut off — that, could he escape the men who surrounded him, he would encounter others downstairs and outside the house.
He stood motionless, awaiting capture. The collar of his cloak obscured his face. The broad-brimmed hat hid his forehead. Even his eyes were invisible. Their strange glow was lost in the brightness of the room.
The Shadow’s hands, hidden in the dark folds of his clothing, were pressed against his chest as though to hold his cloak about his face. Handcuffs jangled in Stanley Warwick’s fist.
The detectives waited for their chief to slip them on. Instead, Warwick waited. He stood firm and unyielding, viewing The Shadow as one might study a strange creature captured from the depths of the sea.
Stanley Warwick was perfect in his acting — so perfect that even The Shadow did not fathom his game.
The detective showed slight traces of surprise. He apparently had expected to find some other person there, in place of this black-clad figure. His pretense was so perfect that The Shadow wondered.
“The Shadow,” said Warwick quietly. “Still trying to conceal his identity! You thought, the other night, that you had deceived me. But I suspected you, even then.”
His meaning was plain to the man in black. Warwick was identifying The Shadow as Doctor Palermo, even though he did not mention the name.
It was cleverness on the part of the detective. He, like Thelda Blanchet, had received instructions from Palermo to deceive The Shadow, should he be captured. Not for one instant would Warwick reveal that he was working for other forces than those of the law.