So far, Cliff had gained no results in that work. He had been seeking information in the underworld, chiefly through Dave Talbot and Patsy Birch. No news had been obtained.
The Shadow was at work, Cliff was sure. He believed that the man of the night was following subtle clews, and that agents whom Cliff had never met were operating. For Cliff had been instructed to make telephone calls only at stated times.
The clock outside of Cliff’s window showed half past eight when he reached his room. The electric sign flashed with its border pursuing an intermittent course.
Nine thirty would be the time for his next futile report. If no answer should be received, the orders were to call half hourly thereafter.
Cliff felt a surging antagonism toward Killer Durgan. He wanted to find the man — quickly.
The telephone rang. Cliff answered it eagerly. He gasped as he heard Madge’s voice!
He wanted to cry out in elation. He had hoped for this. He had wondered if Madge knew that he was still alive. He had even wondered if the girl was still living.
“Cliff!” Madge was speaking quickly. “I’ll tell you where I am. Near as I can get it. Old house somewhere near Ninety-sixth Street. West of Broadway. One block between me and the river is a big apartment. Electric ball on top of it. Goes around and around. Saw it tonight.
“I’m locked in” — the girl seemed breathless — “locked in on the fourth floor. Fire escape comes up the back. You can make it from there — to a hall that has a torn window shade. No windows here.
“Durgan has let me look out when he’s around. He’s out now. I’m in a little room like a cell. Found a telephone. Durgan has it hidden.