Birch’s face was livid with rage.
“So that’s your game!” he exclaimed. “Sending a fake burglar in to plant some plates! You birds are worse than a gang of crooks. Well I’ll chance it, just for that. It’s curtains for both of you!”
* * *
His finger was on the trigger of the revolver as it covered the secret-service man. But before he could fire the threatened shot, the roughly dressed hoodlum sprang forward.
Seeing the sudden menace, Birch changed his aim. But the sweatered attacker had anticipated the move. He made a dive to the floor, just as the shots rang out. In another instant he caught the astonished pawnbroker by the ankle and jerked him to the floor.
Birch lost his hold on the gun. It clattered against the furnace.
The secret-service man took advantage of the opportunity. He owed his life to the timely intervention of the pretended rowdy; but he thought the fellow had acted merely to save himself.
Seizing his own automatic from the floor, where it had lain since he dropped it at Birch’s command, the Federal agent swung it back and forth, covering both Doc Birch and The Shadow, who was now kneeling beside the box near the furnace.
“Hands up!” cried the Federal agent. “Hands up, or I’ll fire!”
Doc Birch obeyed as he rose to a sitting position. But The Shadow did not follow the order.