The Shadow's hands drew one of these volumes from its special place. Book and hands vanished, then came into view again beneath the table lamp. The hands opened the book. The girasol gleamed above parchment pages. Each contained its record — not printed, but inscribed in perfectly engrossed lettering. The preparation of these pages had been the work of a painstaking recorder.
The hands turned the leaves until they reached the spot that they required. There, a forefinger traced a paragraph. The action was slow and deliberate.
The hand was lifted. The book was closed. It was replaced by those same hands, among the secret archives. The automatic panel came upward, and closed the opening.
The Shadow's record books were not only accounts of what had happened in the past.
They served as a guide for the present, and an index to the future. Here, by exacting research, The Shadow had gained an inkling of some strange work that was afoot.
By a process of keen elimination, he had cut down the associates of Hawk Forster to one whom he could, in some manner, identify with Daniel Antrim.
Tonight's work had been a check-up of his labors. In his secret archives, which told of all that he observed and knew, The Shadow had found the key to the affairs of certain men.
The room seemed lifeless as The Shadow pondered. His mind was bridging a gap of time. From the past, he was determining the future.
Minutes rolled slowly by; then the white hands came from the folds of the cloak, and appeared upon the table. The fingers of the right hand penciled these words upon a sheet of paper.
They have but one possible purpose… The time and method of operation depends upon the place… The choice of place is restricted…