Down went one attacker — a second, and a third. The fourth staggered on. He raised his hand to fire, but The Shadow had swept in to meet him. The Shadow's arm smashed its revolver against the last man's wrist. Then, as the fellow faltered, The Shadow smote the back of his head a vicious, stunning blow. Down fell the last of the four.
The room was silent. The revolver shots from the parked automobile had ended. Distant shouts were coming through the air. The Shadow turned to Martha, and his face became the quiet countenance of Henry Arnaud. The girl stared in amazement.
"It is seven minutes after nine" — the voice of Henry Arnaud was speaking, as the man glanced calmly at his watch — "and my men are here — later than I anticipated. They are waiting for you in the car. Harry Vincent and Clifford Marsland. They have come here from New York. Go with them. You must not stay here."
Martha nodded. She understood The Shadow's purpose. People would think there had been other vigilantes — that she had been abducted, and her companion slain. The gleaming eyes were bidding her to go.
Hurriedly, the girl ran to the door — down the walk, to that waiting car. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Henry Arnaud's form silhouetted in the doorway, his right hand giving a signal. The door of the car was open. Martha was drawn in. The car shot into gear and whirled along the street. Shouts were approaching. Men were coming along the street. The Shadow quietly closed the door and locked it. He calmly picked up a revolver that one of the wounded men was trying to grasp with his left hand. He chose another weapon. He pocketed both guns, and strode rapidly toward the closet beneath the stairway.
The leader of the vigilantes stirred. He sat up and rubbed his jaw. He heard loud hammering at the door. He rose and dashed toward the rear of the house, anxious to escape before police arrived. The door was yielding. Someone was crashing the glass in a front window.
From behind the stairway stepped a black figure — The Shadow, garbed in his cloak and hat.
He stood there, calmly, a strange, imposing figure. Then, from his hidden lips, came a long, sardonic laugh. It was the mirth of justice, crying its triumph over friends of crime.
Swinging swiftly, The Shadow swept away, through a door that led toward another room. The entering men found only a crowd of masked ruffians sprawled on the floor — some dead, the others very badly wounded. They saw no sign of the black avenger.
For The Shadow, bent on further action, had vanished — gone into the gloom of the night!