The loud, blatant music of the orchestra came as a distant uproar. No wonder that the shots had not been heard, thought Cliff. Muffled by the thick doors of the private dining rooms, their sounds had been completely drowned.
“This way, Cliff,” whispered Nipper. He opened a panel in the end of the corridor. “Out through the special entrance the boss uses!”
“Wait, Nipper.” Cliff’s voice was serious. “That fellow in there — we can’t leave him.”
Nipper was halfway through the opening.
“Come on,” he urged. “We don’t know who the guy is. Maybe he’s some bird that wants to put one of them guys on the spot. Let him take care of himself. Come on! Scram!”
Cliff held back. Nipper was through the panel, completely out of sight of the corridor, anxious to be on his way. Cliff’s eyes were still on the doors — the one to the room that held Shires and his gang — the other through which he and Nipper had just emerged.
Shots came again from the rooms. Then, through the door which Cliff and Nipper had used, stepped a tall man clad in black. He seemed like a specter of the darkness, his cloak folded about his shoulders, his hat bent down over his face.
“The Shadow!” exclaimed Cliff.
A low, mocking laugh echoed through the corridor. A black hand appeared from beneath the cloak, and flame flashed as an automatic was fired.
“What’s that!” exclaimed Nipper.