Frederick Froman, descendant of the Romanoff line, and Ivan Motkin, hater of the Czarist cause, were blown to atoms.
The terrific rumble shook the entire building. The floors above trembled, from cellar to top story. The whole upper structure collapsed.
When police arrived in that solemn street where the terrific detonation had occurred, they found the residence of Frederick Froman a mass of hopeless wreckage. Clearing away the debris at the front, they discovered the form of a dying man. It was Parker Noyes.
The old lawyer had been trapped just within the front door. His body was crushed. His feeble lips tried to speak as his dimmed eyes saw the rescuers. The effort was too great. Parker Noyes expired.
He was the last of the three who had heard The Shadow’s judgment.
IN a strange, weird laboratory, a figure in black was standing before a burnished vat. Within the huge, cup-shaped contrivance glittered a mass of shining objects — the false jewels for which men had striven and died.
A black-clad hand released the end of a glass tube. A reeking liquid poured into the vat. The flow was stopped by the same hand.
A powerful acid had entered the vat. It covered the shining baubles that lay within. The luster of the false jewels vanished. The bits of glass melted away. Only a muddy sediment remained.
The black gloves were drawn from the hands. Above the fuming, acid-filled vat appeared a glowing object. It was The Shadow’s girasol — the one true gem that had figured in the long succession of terrible tragedy.
The lights of the room dimmed mysteriously. All was darkness except for the Promethean glow of the fire-opal.