“I am poisoned!” Holtmann’s cry was a hoarse scream. “Poisoned, because I spoke—”
His voice broke as his eyes stared, not toward the apparition who had come to save him, but toward the steel door beyond. The curtain had risen, and framed in the doorway stood the grim henchman who had come to the dungeon at Froman’s order.
The Shadow was stooping over Holtmann. He turned swiftly as he saw the poisoned man’s gaze.
Already, the Russian retainer was launched in a mighty spring from the steps. A huge dirk gleamed in his clenched fist.
The Shadow’s automatic was in readiness; but he never used it. He flung the gun aside, as though to avoid a shot that would spread the alarm if heard. Strange action, in this buried cell, where sounds would be deadened!
Rising, The Shadow met his foeman’s leap. The two forms went down from the force of the meeting.
The heavy Russian was swinging the knife; but before his blow could strike home, his wrist was caught in a grip more solid than the steel of his weapon.
Locked in a mighty struggle, the fighters strained to the utmost. The Russian was a huge brute, yet all his strength was not enough. As minutes went by, the silent conflict continued grimly, while Marcus Holtmann writhed grotesquely on the floor beside the strugglers.
The threatening knife never budged from its position. The hand that held it could not move an inch, despite the power that was being exerted. Arm to arm, and hand to wrist, The Shadow and his antagonist were lodged in a deathlike clasp.
But one was fighting a hopeless battle. That one was the Russian henchman. He did not realize, during those tense moments, that The Shadow was merely holding him at bay, waiting for his strength to fade.