Alone, he could have beaten back this attack. Alone, he could have dropped to cover.
Had the girl retained her wits, she could have helped by escaping. But her nerves had weakened under this terrible strain.
It was a race with death, and The Shadow, weakened though he was, gained his objective.
With his right arm he fairly hurled the girl into the corner of the room, away from the open door.
With a plunging leap, he dove for the cover of the stairway.
Bullets whizzed by him, but they were late. The Shadow reached his goal — the gun — and pointed it through the posts of the banister. The shot clipped the gun hand of a man on the porch.
The Shadow was in a place of safety. Here he could hold out against his foemen. But he had only three bullets left. He was forced to harbor his supply, for his enemies were keeping under cover, firing quick, chance shots to keep The Shadow at bay.
The Shadow did not act. It seemed as though he was waiting for something that he had expected. His keen eyes were peering toward the street. He saw a sedan drawing up beside the curb. He fired two quick shots; then paused and fired a third. The bullets found no targets, for the vigilantes were laying low. They saw The Shadow rise, as though about to flee.
They knew that his ammunition was exhausted. They did not know that those last futile shots had been a signal!
Up they rose, four together, the man whose right hand had been clipped brandishing a revolver in his left. They started for the steps, bent on stopping the flight of their enemy. As their forms became clustered in front of the light of the open door, a staccato popping of revolver shots came from the car beside the curb.