Motkin strode up the steps of the house and entered. He encountered his aid, Prensky, just within the door. He spoke short, terse words of explanation. Prensky understood and went to join Gregori.
Motkin reached an upstairs room, and slumped into an easy-chair. His face was an enigma. It showed traces of both worry and satisfaction.
Despite his vigilance, Ivan Motkin had failed in his protection of the secret vault. The strong-room had been rifled. That might mean death for Ivan Motkin. But death might also be withheld until he had been given a chance to redeem himself.
Motkin’s position was unique. He was one of very few who knew what had happened tonight. Working for the recovery of the stolen Bolshevist possessions, he would be more useful alive than he would be dead.
That, Motkin felt sure, would be the task assigned to him, especially as there would be no proof of negligence on his part. The one danger lay in other persons learning facts concerning the pillage of the vault. If Motkin, alone, could gain such information, he might find safety and success.
Squads of soldiers were still scouring the house where one had escaped. They would search until dawn — they might search longer. All efforts would be futile.
For Motkin, himself, held that very one. He, alone, could learn what might be known. The life of The Shadow had become very precious to Ivan Motkin!
CHAPTER XI. MOTKIN MEETS THE SHADOW
ANOTHER night had come to Moscow. The turmoil of the eventful evening when Senov had made his master stroke had long since been suppressed. Three days had passed since the raiders had pillaged the closely guarded vault.
Ivan Motkin was thinking of the subsequent events as he walked briskly along the street toward his residence. The perpetual scowl was on his face. Matters had gone both good and bad for Ivan Motkin.