Prensky lay still. The impact of the heavy clock had cracked his skull. The timepiece lay shattered on the hearth, where it had fallen, a mass of broken glass and split marble. Its chime had ended with the third stroke — the one that had marked the end of the villainous Prensky.
Yet the hands on the upturned dial still registered eight. That was a reminder to The Shadow. Gregori would soon be here, to take Prensky to the airport!
Faltering, The Shadow made his way along the hall until he reached an improvised bedroom; the place that had been his abode for more than a week. When he reappeared in the office, he still looked the part of Henry Arnaud; but instead of the dressing gown, he now wore a suit of plain black.
Recovered from the wearying conflict, he moved more certainly than before. The keen eyes saw the black cloak and hat upon the chair. Deliberately, The Shadow donned his familiar disguise. All traces of the man who called himself Henry Arnaud were lost within those spectral garments.
Two eyes alone shone from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. The crimson lining of the cloak flashed as The Shadow stepped to the spot where the form of Prensky lay. Stooping over the inert body, The Shadow withdrew a sheaf of papers from the dead man’s pocket.
Sharp eyes studied the documents beneath the light. A low, soft laugh echoed through this silent room. A white hand extinguished the light. There was a swishing sound amid the darkness. It continued through the hall and down the stairs.
A long, silhouetted shadow showed on the paving of the courtyard. It, alone, indicated that The Shadow, himself, had stepped from the house. That black blotch twisted in fanciful, grotesque shapes as the headlights of an automobile swept into the court. The car stopped beside the door.
“YOU are late, Gregori.”
These words, spoken in Russian, were heard by the chauffeur the moment that he had brought the big car to a standstill. They resembled the low tones of Prensky. Startled, Gregori heard the door close as some one entered the rear of the automobile. He stared into the darkness, in a puzzled manner; then, the repetition of the voice reassured him.
“Hurry, Gregori!” came the low words. “I must reach the airport before ten o’clock! Do not delay. It is Motkin’s bidding!”