“But that you may understand my knowledge, I shall enumerate the counts against you.”
Palermo listened in silence.
“One,” said The Shadow, in a tone of judgment. “You murdered Horace Chatham. I may add that you dissected his body in your laboratory.”
The man in the Chinese robe shifted uneasily. This statement was uncannily true.
“Two,” came the whispered voice. “Disguised as Chatham, you killed Seth Wilkinson.”
Palermo offered no denial.
“Three and four,” continued The Shadow. “Each of these men was robbed by you. From Chatham you took—” There was a momentary pause. The eyes beneath the black hat seemed to be reading the physician’s mind. “From Chatham, you took a purple sapphire.
“From Wilkinson, you took”—again that ominous pause—”a paper signed by yourself, leaving in its place a forged note.”
Doctor Palermo’s face became solemn. He seemed to be considering The Shadow’s accusations. A pallor came over his features.
Acting mechanically, he sat down in the thronelike chair, and rested his hands upon its arms. The Shadow loomed before him, like a sentinel of doom.