"Pedro!" exclaimed the old man.
He looked up at the curtained doorway. The Mexican was gone. In his place stood a strange, silent figure — a man wearing a black cloak and hat, the same garments that Pedro had brought upstairs. The cloak seemed to envelop a shapeless form; the hat had a broad brim that obscured the face of the bent head. Isaac Coffran thought that he could glimpse two eyes between the hat and cloak.
The fiendish old man stood staring, at the form in the doorway. He still held his hands behind his back.
No sign of fear appeared upon his features. His smooth, parchmentlike face was calm and undisturbed.
"Well," said Isaac Coffran. "Who may you be?"
A sinister, whispering voice emerged from the shape in the doorway. It was a voice that would have chilled the blood of a brave, virile man. But old Isaac Coffran's withered veins did not quiver.
"I?" asked the voice. "I am The Shadow!"
Isaac Coffran's eyes dropped to the floor. The shadow that appeared there seemed to be an extension of the form in the doorway. It was a huge, black shadow. It merged with the figure as the old man turned his head slowly upward.
"The Shadow!" said Isaac Coffran, in a sneering tone. "I have heard of you. Perhaps you have heard of me?"
"I have," replied the cold, relentless voice.