Shortly after that call, Stanley, the chauffeur, drove up to the front of the Cobalt Club in response to the doorman’s call. Lamont Cranston stepped from beneath the marquee, and entered the limousine.
“Home, Stanley.”
As the big car rolled southward toward the Holland Tunnel, the lone figure in the back seat was deep in thought. Buried in the darkness, Lamont Cranston was a silent, invisible being.
The brain of The Shadow was at work, seeking a clew to the strange disappearance of Marcus Holtmann.
The missing man must be found.
That was to be The Shadow’s task!
CHAPTER III. THE DUNGEON OF DOOM
FREDERICK FROMAN’S house stood silent and forbidding in the night. To Harry Vincent, watching from the opposite side of the street, it was a place of silence and inactivity. The last light had been extinguished long ago. It seemed obvious that the occupants had retired.
But within that house, there was activity that could not be noticed from without. Frederick Froman was not asleep. Instead, he was seated, wide awake, in a dimly lighted room. The stone walls of the little room showed that it was located in the cellar of the old house. There was not a window in the room.
Froman was reclining comfortably in the one easy-chair. He was still attired in evening dress, as he puffed languidly at a panatella. His well-formed face was expressionless. He was waiting for something; yet he showed no signs of impatience.