A shadow moved along the dim hall. The attendant in the office did not see it, although he was gazing in that direction.
The blot of darkness seemed to merge with the gloomy wall. It reached the steps that led to the room below; there it disappeared.
There were no bodies lying on the trucks to-night; the corpses of both murdered men had been removed. Yet that lighted room seemed to await some messenger of death.
Into it came a tall black figure; a form cloaked in sable, with a broad-brimmed hat that hid the features beneath. The being might have been death itself; for he walked with an ominous stride that made no noise, even on that concrete floor.
As though summoned by the spirits of the murdered men, The Shadow moved unhesitatingly to the trucks where the bodies had lain, and stood there, contemplating the empty spaces, as if visualizing the scene that had once been on exhibition.
The head of the figure turned downward. This master of the darkness was looking at a splotch of blood upon the floor.
The Shadow moved away, and with uncanny precision took the very spot that Griffith had held; then moved to the place from which the murderer had delivered the knife thrust.
Stooping, The Shadow raised the truck upon which the detective’s body had been placed — a truck that still bore marks of blood. Then the flashlight glowed from beneath, upon a black smudge which had been made by the tip of the murderer’s shoe when he had so calmly drawn the truck toward him.
The tape measure came into play. Doubled between two slender, tapering fingers, it was used to indicate the details of the smudge. The marks on the measure included the tiniest fractions of an inch; and they were noted with unerring accuracy.
The truck was replaced. The being in black moved silently across the room to a crude table in the corner. Here he sat, and made notations on a paper.