Cliff had spent a great deal of time in that chair, yet he was not bored with waiting. A man who had just completed a term in Sing Sing was not the one to object to such comfortable surroundings. Patience had become an acquired virtue with Cliff Marsland.
As he lighted a cigarette, Cliff shifted his position slightly. A twinge in his shoulder made him wince. It was a reminder of that night when he had fought his way from the Hotel Spartan — that night when he had met The Shadow.
A week had passed since then, and Cliff’s wound was nearly healed. Occasionally it bothered him, as it had just done, and the pain was a cause for reflection.
Cliff could not recall exactly what had happened after he had made his dash for safety.
He remembered that some one in black — The Shadow, of course — had caught him as he was about to fall. He recalled the moving sedan and the distant shots of the pursuers. After that, all had been blackness until the next day.
He had been very weak when he had awakened, to find himself in what seemed to be a hospital room, with a nurse in attendance. A doctor had come in later, to examine his wounds. The physician had smiled encouragingly.
Cliff had remained there one night and another day. Then, on the second evening, he had received instructions. They had come in a letter which the nurse had delivered to him.
The letter was written in ink. After Cliff had perused its contents, the writing had disappeared. The note had instructed him to leave the house where he was staying.
He had done so, the nurse leading him down a dark flight of stairs, to a driveway. There, an automobile was waiting, manned by a chauffeur.
A long trip had followed. The car had swung along on country roads; it had skirted several towns; finally it had reached a broad highway.