As if by magic, written words appeared upon the envelope!
Some one had written in pencil upon the glass top of the table. The words were totally invisible against the dark surface beneath until the presence of the white paper revealed them.
The words looked as though they were on the envelope; actually they were the fraction of an inch above it.
“Saturday. Three o’clock. Brantwell’s. Forty-second Street.”
This was the message Lamont Cranston read. He removed the envelope from beneath the glass and thrust it in his pocket. He was thoughtful for a minute; he did not appear to notice the waiter when the man brought a plate of spaghetti.
Lamont Cranston laughed softly, and his repressed mirth had an eerie sound. He took a bill from his pocket and laid it beside the check that the waiter had placed on the table. He arose and walked from the restaurant.
He strode down the street, toward the avenue. As he went along, he laughed again.
His laugh was low and inaudible a few feet away; yet it still possessed that chilling tone.
It was strangely like the laugh of The Shadow!