Spotter trembled. He began to believe that his imagination was at work; that the whiffs of opium had made him the victim of strange hallucinations.
Spotter’s dry lips now formed a mirthless smile. The guard was turning. He would see The Shadow!
But, no — as the Chinaman swung away from the door, he moved in the wrong direction. The Shadow, divining his move, slipped to one side.
He was still behind the Celestial’s back. The guard did not detect his presence.
The Chinaman moved along the floor, peering right and left at the curtained bunks. Behind him followed The Shadow, a grotesque, batlike figure, whose sinister shape seemed like a solid chunk carved out of jet-black night.
Spotter’s eyes were peering through a tiny crack between the curtains of his bunk. He saw the Chinese guard go to the other end of the room, evidently on a tour of inspection. The Oriental stopped at the wall.
Now he must turn! Now he would see The Shadow!
But Spotter was doomed to disappointment. The black shape suddenly shifted to the left. It faded between the curtains of an unoccupied bunk, half a second before the Chinese guard turned to come back.
Spotter gave a low, hissing whistle. It quavered between his chattering teeth. The Chinaman stopped and bent low beside the bunk to hear what Spotter might have to say.
“The Shadow!” quavered Spotter. “The Shadow!”