“I can never forget you. George I love you!”
“You must forget me.” The man’s voice was prophetic. “You shall forget me. You are leaving here tonight. You are going away from New York. My instructions are written on that sheet of paper; they are the last message you will ever receive from me.”
He turned away. His action denoted decision. From that instant, Thelda Blanchet knew that her love for George Clarendon had become hopeless.
Clarendon was The Shadow again, his cloak about his shoulders, his broad-brimmed hat upon his head.
He had assumed the shape of a gigantic creature. He dialed a number on the telephone; his voice became a whisper as he spoke.
“Vincent,” he said, “are you ready?”
There was a pause; then The Shadow began to give instructions. He seemed totally oblivious of the presence of the girl. He did not even look at her.
He acted as though she could hear nothing that he said. In this he was correct. Thelda had fainted.
When the girl recovered consciousness, she was alone in the room. She could not recall a word that she had said.
All had been a strange dream, a fantastic vision in which terror had turned to love and love had become disappointment. The face of George Clarendon dominated her recollections.