Slade did not move.
"Sign!"
The automatic was threatening. Slade, with trembling fingers, picked up the pen that lay beside the paper. He inscribed his name. The pen fell from his clutch as he looked up, like a frightened rat.
"You have signed your death warrant," declared The Shadow. "That paper shall bring you death. Death — Martin Slade!"
The grim picture of the electric chair arose in Slade's mind. Bold on the surface, he was a coward at heart.
The Shadow was approaching closer. His sinister whisper carried a tone that held the knell of doom.
"Death will come to you, Martin Slade! Death that you cannot escape. You will linger in the death cell, waiting — waiting — for your day of doom!"
Slade gasped; then, in madness, he reached for his revolver. His hand came swinging from his pocket. Then, as the man's weapon was moving upward, The Shadow discharged his automatic. Its bullet smashed against the revolver in Slade's hand. The crook's gun hurtled toward the wall. Slade was holding his numbed hand helplessly.
"Death," said The Shadow slowly. "Death by the chair — if you prefer to wait. Death now — by my hand, if you choose to struggle. Death — of your own design, if you wish it. Death that you designed for others should be good enough for you, Martin Slade!"
The crook understood. The glass on the table! The glass with its half quota of liquid that carried sure death! Slade shunned the thought.