It was high by inches only. The Shadow's drop had saved his life. The bullet whistled over his head. But it was not through fear of Butcher's bullets that The Shadow had lunged himself flat and forward. This was his last great effort to reach the revolver. It was successful.
The Shadow's outstretched right hand gripped the handle of the gun.
Butcher saw the hand as it fumbled with the weapon. He rushed forward, from fifty feet away, his flashlight gleaming like the mammoth headlight of a locomotive, his revolver swinging into position for a sure shot at close range.
The Shadow's hand came suddenly upward, its strength recovered to an amazing extent.
The black finger pressed the trigger.
A roar resounded. The shot was aimed directly at the blazing light. Butcher hurtled forward and landed in the corridor, his torch flying far ahead of him.
The Shadow's finger pressed the trigger again. The hammer clicked. Only one shot had remained from that fight with Major and Ferret. The last bullet was gone!
Moreover, The Shadow's strength was spent. His hand dropped to the floor. Butcher was roaring like a wounded bull. He fired thrice in the dark. There was no response. Butcher was on his hands and knees, leaning against the wall, forgetting the agony of a wound in his side, with his mad desire to slay this enemy who had clipped him.
Then the big man stopped. He had one cartridge left in his six-shooter. He would use it well. Staggering along against the wall, Butcher approached his helpless foe. He came to the flashlight. He stooped to pick it up, and stumbled. He sprawled on the floor, and rolled in agony.
Determined, he regained his knees; although he could not rise.