"The Shadow!" Slade breathed.
Slade knew the identity of this avenging figure. Cowering, weakened in nerve and body, he tried to shrink away. But the eyes that burned from beneath the broad-brimmed hat held him transfixed.
"The Shadow!"
Again Slade uttered the dread name. The answer was a low, taunting laugh from unseen lips.
"Martin Slade," declared a solemn, whispered voice, "you must pay the penalty for your crimes. To-night, you sought to add another murder to your list."
Slade's fingers began to creep for his gun; but The Shadow's black-gloved hand brought an automatic into view. Slade made no further motion.
"To-night," said The Shadow, "your evil design was thwarted. Thomas Telford, the man you sought to kill, did not swallow that poisoned drink. I warned him, and he is safe. He stopped on the brink of death. He will be at the seance to-night. You will not be with him."
The stern voice paused, then resumed in an accusing tone:
"Thomas Telford has gone. I, The Shadow, am here in his stead. I have been watching. I have come to make you sign your confession — the document that will prove your evilness." A black-clad finger pointed to the paper on the table.
"Sign."