Off from the house where The Shadow had found security, other men stood like living statues. They, too, had heard that laugh. Their minds were thinking of flight. Only the weird echoes of that terrible mirth withheld them. They were afraid to move!
Minutes more, and the remaining invaders would have scattered, leaving The Shadow in full control. But at that tense moment, a cry came from a distant watcher. It was a signal that awoke these startled men.
Like rats, they scurried to cover as a squad of police and gendarmes appeared from the nearest corner.
The officers spotted the house of doom. Motkin, crouching under the bay window across the street, grinned in relief.
Now, the police would attack. They would find that figure in black, striving to rescue his bound comrade, Cliff Marsland.
Let him fight the police! They would be too many! Whistles from the distance told that reserves were on the way to meet the mad riot that had disturbed this part of the Montmartre.
Crawling to a more distant refuge, Motkin encountered a cluster of his men. They recognized their leader.
They listened, with him, to shots that came from the old house. Motkin uttered a cry of evil satisfaction.
His enemy was doomed to death! For well did Motkin know that the man in black would resist capture to the last.
Then came another thought. Half aloud, Motkin uttered vaguely coherent words: