“They are in the lining of my traveling bag,” he said. “Open it, and take them. You deserve some reward for your efforts.”
The Shadow ignored the sarcastic tone. He leaned forward, and carefully opened the bag. His back was partly turned. Prince Zuvor whipped his right hand from beneath his coat, and swung an automatic toward the leaning man.
But The Shadow was alert. He caught the Russian’s wrist with a grip of steel. A twist, and the revolver dropped to the floor.
The Shadow removed the papers from the lining of the bag. He examined them, at the same time watching Prince Zuvor. The Russian’s face flamed with intense anger and suppressed rage.
“These are Professor Whitburn’s plans,” said The Shadow. “I appreciate your willingness in delivering them to me.
“I shall leave you now. You are going back to Russia” — his voice became a total whisper — “to Russia — the land where failure means death!”
The door of the compartment swung inward, as The Shadow released it. The black form seemed to melt into the darkness of the dim corridor.
The door was drawn shut; The Shadow was gone. But as he disappeared, a laugh came from his invisible lips — a taunting laugh.
Prince Zuvor snatched the revolver from the floor. He stood in the center of the compartment, watching the door. Then he resumed his seat.
He smiled, as he held the gun in readiness, while he thrust his other hand deep in the lining of his coat, and drew forth a long envelope.