The knife came along, eluding The Shadow’s desperate clutch.
PRENSKY caught the handle of the weapon. The Shadow, seeing his effort fruitless, was drawing away.
He gained his feet and stood clinging to the mantelpiece as Prensky rose for a new attack. Triumphant hatred was gleaming in the Russian’s face.
Untired by the grueling conflict, Prensky thought he had the advantage over the wounded foreigner. The Russian poised his body and flung himself forward, intent upon downing his foe at once. In that tense moment the chimes of the clock upon the mantel began to strike the hour of eight.
With the first stroke, The Shadow acted as with inspiration. Swaying, almost tottering, he seized the clock with both hands. The clock was a heavy timepiece, an antiquated relic pillaged from some noble’s palace. The Shadow, staggering backward to escape Prensky’s attack, raised the massive object above his head.
The chime was striking two as the clock was raised between The Shadow’s hands. Prensky, charging like a maddened bull, hurled himself forward with knife hand high.
Down came The Shadow’s arms. The falling clock chimed three as it crashed upon Prensky’s skull.
The Russian’s leap ended in a long, forward plunge. The knife hand descended of its own accord. The point of the weapon struck the side of The Shadow’s shoulder, and ripped a long, downward slit in the sleeve of the dressing gown which he was wearing.
The Shadow staggered away, too late to escape the final, headlong dive of Prensky’s sprawling form.
Together, the men collapsed upon the floor. They lay there, motionless for a few moments. Then The Shadow dragged himself away and rose to his feet, clinging by the side of Motkin’s desk.