“Lamont Cranston!”
The summons came in an almost inaudible tone from the foot of the bed. It was a whisper — a strange, incredible whisper.
This was no dream. It was reality.
The millionaire slipped his right hand under his pillow, and grasped his automatic. Quietly, he pointed it toward the foot of the bed. Then he pushed his body upward; and with his free hand, he pulled the cord of the reading lamp.
A figure was standing at the foot of the bed. A black figure, that seemed like a huge shadow.
Cranston’s eyes made out a form clad in black, its face hidden by a hat with a turned-down brim. The millionaire covered the figure with his revolver. Then he spoke, hoarsely.
“Who are you? Raise your hands — or I shall fire.”
A soft, low laugh came from the foot of the bed.
“Press the trigger,” came the whispered voice.
The millionaire obeyed. A click answered. The gun had been loaded when he had placed it beneath his pillow. Now it was empty.