Then, with deliberate precision, Hassan raised his body to the rail. His figure seemed strange and weird against the distant sky. Without further hesitation the faithful Arab leaped from the parapet.
His death had not been demanded, yet he had chosen to follow his master into oblivion.
A slight sigh came from The Shadow’s lips. It did not express regret for the Arab’s death. Hassan had murdered; like Palermo, he deserved his end.
It was the action of the Arab, his loyalty to his master in spite of the latter’s faults, that had brought that sigh from The Shadow.
It was the tribute of one brave man to another.
The Shadow went to the taboret. He emptied the ebony boxes. He quickly sorted the documents he found therein.
Palermo’s statement bad been correct. There was sufficient evidence in these papers to implicate the renegade physician in many crimes, once the documents had been turned over to the proper persons.
His inspection ended, The Shadow attempted to place the papers in his pocket. His left arm seemed to fail him. He used his right instead.
He rose to his feet and almost tottered. He caught himself as he stumbled over the dead form of Chong.
He looked for a place to rest, and staggered to Palermo’s Chinese throne. There The Shadow reclined, indifferent to what might transpire.