But he had not escaped The Shadow — that man who could span an ocean when he set out in pursuit.
The Russian leaped to the door of the compartment. He unlocked the door, and stared up and down the corridor. There was no sign of the man who had emitted that uncanny laugh. Yet the sound of the taunting merriment still echoed through Prince Zuvor’s maddened brain.
He closed the door, and slumped into his seat.
“To Russia — the land where failure means death!”
The Shadow’s words were true. Even the Red Envoy must report to one higher up, exactly as the agents had reported to Prokop, and Prokop to the Red Envoy.
The situation was terrifying to Prince Zuvor. As a renegade royalist, he had worked long to obtain his position of immunity. In order to maintain his security against enemies, he had promised to bring the plans of Professor Whitburn’s invention, that his superiors might make use of it before it had reached the American government.
The train was slowing as it neared a station. Prince Zuvor did not notice the slackening speed. He sat motionless, dazed and staring. He knew that he had failed; he realized that no excuse would be accepted.
When the train de luxe reached Berlin, a startling discovery was made.
The body of a man — a Russian — was found in a compartment. The dead man was identified as Prince Zuvor, a member of the old regime.
His death was pronounced suicide. He had swallowed poison. The bottle which had contained the death-dealing fluid was lying on the seat beside the body.