The surging crew toppled forward, one upon another. Screaming, wounded men pitched headlong as their comrades clambered over them.
UP over a writhing pyramid of human beings rose the last of Motkin’s band, a powerful man whose gleaming revolver was swinging downward for the aim. The gun barked once — a high shot.
It was lowering as the man was poised almost at the top of the doorway. Motkin saw the finger on the trigger. He heard a shot, but not from the revolver.
This last report came from the hall. The Shadow’s automatic had spoken. The man who towered on the mass of bodies threw his arms wildly to the sides of the door, in a desperate effort. Screaming, he fell backward and fell flat upon the floor, his arms spread out, his evil face distorted.
As his henchman fell, Motkin acted. He leaped from behind the table, and sprang toward the side window of the room. He lacked the courage to face that indomitable foe. Mad flight was his only desire.
Scrambling from danger, Motkin reached his objective. The Shadow, no longer on the defensive, was pressing forward, thrusting his way through the crawling, gasping heap of men who had fallen before his fire-spitting weapons.
It was that delay that gave Motkin his opportunity. Smashing through the drawn shade, the Red agent crashed the window beyond, and flung himself through the broken pane. He caught himself upon the sill, and, with a mad purpose of vengeance, thrust his revolver back through the broken glass.
He fired one shot at Cliff Marsland. In his hurry, Motkin missed. Then, with a wild gasp, he dropped the weapon and leaped to the ground below.
Motkin had seen the figure of The Shadow — a looming form of mighty vengeance — pressing itself clear from the struggling pile of fallen men.
Two waiting men grasped Motkin as he staggered from the ground. They recognized him in the dim light that came from the second floor. They were other Red agents who had been stationed outside. They were part of a cordon through which The Shadow had passed unseen.