Riding along, Motkin asked a question.
“Is there a man here in New York,” he asked, “who garbs himself in black, and fights with the strength of a thousand?”
“The Shadow!”
The exclamation came in a hushed voice, uttered by the man on Motkin’s right.
“The Shadow?” questioned Motkin.
“Yes,” replied the bodyguard. “He comes from the dark to kill. Those who see him, die—”
As the man burst forth with dread tales of The Shadow’s prowess, Motkin smiled inwardly. He had met The Shadow. He was still alive. He was ready, now, to meet The Shadow again!
Yet as the account continued, Motkin began to feel ill at ease. The blackness of the streets through which they were riding seemed weird and filled with lurking danger. The Shadow — pictured — might not terrify.
The Shadow — in reality — was an unconquerable foe.
The cab was driving uptown. It stopped at a corner, and Motkin and his men alighted. The trio stole forward until they reached a house which one of the men pointed out. This was the home of Frederick Froman. The place appeared deserted.