As the drone of the motor died away in the distance, Johnny became conscious once more of the sentry-like tread from without.
“Who can that be?” His heart went into a tailspin. He was alone, unarmed. He thought of the gamblers, of Greasy Thumb and his gang, and of the money in his pocket, that roll of bills which belonged—well, to whom did it belong?
Regaining control of his nerves, he crept noiselessly to the front of the tent, then cautiously opened the flap a narrow crack.
The sight that met his eye caused him to start back. Barely did he escape making an audible exclamation of surprise and alarm. There, walking slowly back and forth before the tent, now in the shadows, now in a narrow spot of light, was as strange a figure as one might hope to see. Wrapped from head to ankle in a long gray coat—or was it a robe?—wearing gray shoes, gray gloves and with a gray slouch hat pulled down over his eyes, and with something that at least resembled a gray beard hiding the lower part of his face, this tall, slim man, if man it were, presented an awe-inspiring spectacle.
“The Gray Shadow!” Johnny whispered with a shudder. Twice before, each time in the heart of the city, he had caught a fleeting glimpse of this curious figure. Each time he had been in grave danger. With the passing of the Gray Shadow the danger, too, had passed.
“And now it is here,” he thought to himself. As he stared, the Gray Shadow disappeared into the depths of deeper, darker shadows and did not return. At the same moment Johnny thought he discerned figures retreating in the opposite direction.
“Queer doings!” he muttered to himself.
A moment later a low whistle sounded at the back of the tent. It was followed almost at once by sounds of stealthy movements. This time Johnny did not quail. He knew that whistle. Two minutes had not passed when two old friends, Drew Lane and Tom Howe, came creeping in on hands and knees. They had lifted the canvas at the back and entered unannounced.
“Did you see it?” Johnny whispered.
“See what?” Drew Lane demanded.