A low, whispered laugh passed through the darkness of that room. Its tones were neither mocking nor mirthful. They seemed to carry a meaning that could not be defined.
Cardona's plea was whisked away into darkness. Had The Shadow ignored it?
His next action gave no clue to his purpose. A stack of typewritten sheets appeared upon the table. One by one, the hands went through them. They were confidential reports of The Shadow's agents — a small but efficient band of loyal henchmen.
The Shadow's hands stopped momentarily upon one sheet. The soft laugh was repeated. The papers disappeared. Now the hands had taken a new task.
The left hand held a small metal disk of a dull silver color. The right was poised with a small engraving tool between its fingers.
Carefully, the hand inscribed. The disk was cupped in the left hand so the letters were hidden as each was made.
Invisible eyes were guiding the task. Soon the work was completed. The light went out.
The soft laugh sounded and when its echoes died, the room was empty. The Shadow had departed. Morning found Joe Cardona entering his office with a folded newspaper tucked beneath his arm. His statement had been printed.
Despite his insistence to the reporter that he be quoted exactly, Cardona had found that his wording had been changed — probably by some one at the copy desk. His attempt at a message to The Shadow bad been badly garbled, although traces of it still remained.
Cardona was dubious. He knew The Shadow's skill at solving cryptic messages. But this had been a crude, poorly made attempt. The keenest mind in all the world could hardly see any meaning in such a pitiful endeavor.