Cliff nodded. He understood the wisdom of The Shadow’s plan. Cliff’s present plight would prove his alibi. His passports were in his pocket. His head bore a huge, bruised bump, where he had received a blow from a revolver. The police would believe his story.
But what could The Shadow do?
Cliff watched as the black-clad figure turned out the light. He saw the vague form moving through the dim passage. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairway. A revolver flashed. The Shadow was firing warning shots to hold back the officers.
Now, The Shadow was sweeping in from the hall. His tall form was lost in the darkness of the room where Cliff lay. Cliff heard a slight, rattling noise at the window through which Motkin had plunged.
Silence for a minute; then wild shots from below the window. Cliff understood. The Shadow had gone up the wall, not down! He must have reached the roof of the lowlying building!
Now, new footsteps were beating on the stairs. A surge of men came into the room. The gaslight came on. Cliff quickly closed his eyes and let his head lean helplessly against the wall. He was the perfect picture of an unconscious man.
Police and gendarmes were talking in excitement. Cliff felt his body being raised. He kept his eyes closed. He knew that his plight had been recognized; that he was in the hands of men who would prove his friends.
They were carrying him down the stairs — out into the street. There, helping arms were about him. Still Cliff played his part. His shut eyes saw nothing.
But his ears could hear. To them came the sound of wild shots from high above. Then, in response, Cliff heard the long peal of a mocking laugh that seemed to echo from the housetops.
The laugh of The Shadow!