Tonight, The Shadow was not concerned with affairs of gangdom. In his adopted guise of Lamont Cranston, he had passed an evening of quiet observation. Now, he was bound toward some unknown haunt — the contact point from which he received the reports of operatives who obeyed him faithfully, yet who had no inkling of his identity.
Nothing remained to show the course of The Shadow’s journey. Not for one instant did his tall, gliding form come into view. The next sign of his presence appeared in a small, pitch-black room — a silent chamber which gave no sound until a slight click occurred amid the darkness.
With the click, a green-shaded lamp was lighted. It cast a circular spot of illumination upon the surface of a polished table.
Into that sphere of illumination came two long white hands, moving creatures of life that seemed detached from the hidden body which controlled them.
The hands of The Shadow!
Slender hands they were, yet the muscles beneath the smooth skin gave indication of tremendous strength. The restless, tapering fingers moved with silky ease. Upon one finger — the third finger of the left hand — glowed a large, translucent gem.
This jewel was a priceless girasol, or fire opal. Amid its hue of milky blue appeared deep reflections of gleaming crimson.
This stone was the symbol of The Shadow, the strange amulet that was always with him. Its sullen glow had carried thoughts of doom to dying eyes of evildoers; its vivid sparkle had brought hope to those who were sorrowed and oppressed.
A tiny light appeared from across the table. The hands reached forth and drew back a pair of earphones.
The hands disappeared as the instruments were attached to the hidden head. A low, solemn voice spoke through the darkness above the lamp.