LORD BIXLEY nodded. He beckoned to Thomason and Delka gave the secretary the proper directions. Thomason went forward. The train was crossing the Grosvenor Bridge, over the Thames River; it was slowing down for the release of a tank engine which had served as pusher. The quick-stepping Brighton Belle had passed from sight.

“I held the Brighton Belle also,” remarked Delka, with a smile. “I knew that you would arrive soon after eleven. So I thought it best that the passengers should see the other train and thus believe that both had left on schedule.”

Lord Bixley’s eyes showed approval through the spectacles.

“And now, your lordship,” added Delka, “since we are on our journey, I should be pleased to learn the reason why the admiralty seeks the arrest of another passenger, Willoughby Blythe.”

Lord Bixley chuckled.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten that there had been no time for explanations when I made that hurried telephone call to Scotland Yard. Very well, inspector. I shall give you a summary of the circumstances.”

Lord Bixley produced some papers from his pocket. He laid them upon the table, then looked about carefully, to see that all other passengers were seated at a distance. He spoke in a tone that was little louder than a whisper.

“Willoughby Blythe had access to certain documents,” he stated. “Among them was a set of sealed specifications that included every detail of our new type of submarines. That sealed envelope was stolen ten days ago.”

“Yet you did not learn of the theft?”

“No. Because another envelope was substituted. One that bore counterfeit seals. Blythe was the thief; for he was the only man who could have effected the substitution.”

“I understand.”

The Golden Arrow was driving downward through Penge Tunnel, passing under the Crystal Palace. Electric lights had replaced the daylight. The car seemed gloomy because of the contrast. Lord Bixley and Delka looked up to see Thomason, back from his excursion to the second-class carriage.

“Was it Blythe?” queried Bixley.

“Yes, your lordship,” replied Thomason. “He closed the door of the compartment just after I glimpsed him.”

“Did he see you?”

“No, your lordship.”

Delka put a query.

“Are my men posted?”

“Yes,” replied Thomason. “One in each adjoining compartment. They are keeping watch upon the corridor.”

THE train rolled to a stop. Delka, with a railway guard beside him, was the first person to reach the platform. The C.I.D. man immediately posted himself at the most important spot.

Blythe could find two ways to leave the train; one, by the corridor, which Delka’s aids were guarding; the other, by the outer door of the compartment direct to the station platform itself. That was the exit which Delka covered.

The Golden Arrow was disgorging passengers. The train had arrived at twenty-five minutes of one, precisely on schedule. Already, a shunting engine had gripped the baggage vans at the rear of the train and was tugging them away, to work them around to the quay. There, the Steamship Canterbury was waiting, with smoke issuing from its single funnel.

Passengers and porters were thronging toward the steamship, to embark immediately for Calais. Twenty minutes was the time allotted for such transfer. Yet, as the platform cleared of people, there was still no sign of Willoughby Blythe.

Delka had been watching the compartment door in a hawklike fashion. He had seen Blythe on the train in London; and would have known the man immediately, for the fellow’s face was long-nosed and weak-chinned — a pasty countenance that could easily be remembered. Nevertheless, Delka watched in vain for such a visage to appear at the compartment door.

Two stragglers joined Delka on the platform: Lord Bixley and the secretary, Thomason. Delka ordered Thomason to go into the car and contact the C.I.D. men in the corridor.

Thomason went in, to return two minutes later. He brought the positive report that no one had come from Blythe’s compartment, by way of the corridor.

“The chap must know that we are watching him,” observed Lord Bixley, to Delka. “Why not enter and apprehend him? The other passengers have reached the steamship. If Blythe offers resistance, it will endanger no one.”

Delka considered. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten minutes of one. He looked toward the Canterbury, where cranes were swinging the boxes from the baggage wagons down into the steamship’s hold. All other passengers had reached the vessel.

Delka decided to act. He spoke to a railway guard who was standing by, and ordered the man to open the outer door of Blythe’s compartment.

The guard obeyed. At the same time, Delka tugged a revolver from his pocket and mounted the step beside the compartment. He expected that Blythe would flee when accosted; but if the fugitive dashed through the corridor he would be immediately trapped by the two C.I.D. men. Delka wanted Blythe to attempt flight.

The door swung open and Delka thrust himself forward. As he did, a huddled figure came tumbling directly against him. Delka spun about, ready with his revolver as a man’s form sprawled in a crazy dive, across the step, then headlong to the platform. As Delka bounded down beside the rolling form, it turned over. Delka saw the face of Willoughby Blythe.

The fugitive was dead. Blood upon his shirt front told the story. He had been shot through the heart within the compartment, before the train had reached Dover!

WHEN the prefect and Delka arrived upon the street, they found a limousine awaiting them. A police officer was acting as chauffeur. Beside the car was a man of slender build, who stood with shoulders back, in the erect exaggeration of a martinet. This bantam was attired in street clothes, like the prefect; but he seemed accustomed to pose in military fashion.

Monsieur Clandine introduced him as Sergeant Rusanne, then when they had stepped aboard the car and Rusanne had taken a place in front, the prefect made mention of Rusanne’s duties.

“Sergeant Rusanne is my personal aid,” Clandine told Delka. “He serves also as chief secretary in my office. All orders are checked by Rusanne; then there can be no mistake. He is a useful fellow, Rusanne; for if any of my instructions are ignored, I can hold him to account.”

The prefect chuckled, as though he considered his statement a clever jest. Then he added:

“It is a system that never fails, for Rusanne has only to check all orders to subordinates. I have no time to follow up such matters; but Rusanne has. At present, as an instance, we are going to find extensive preparations at the Gare du Nord. I know exactly how everything should be. Sergeant Rusanne has made sure that all has been done as expected.”

Lights were glimmering along the boulevards when the limousine neared the Northern Railway Station. A clouded sky was bringing early dusk to Paris, but daylight still held some sway. Delka’s watch showed five-thirty when they alighted at the Gare du Nord.

“The express is scheduled to arrive at seventeen-forty,” remarked the prefect, using the continental form of time reference. “It will not, however, arrive until seventeen forty-five. The train was purposely slowed at Amiens, then again at Creil.

“This was arranged through our emergency signal system, after your word came from Calais. Messages were dropped and picked up on each occasion. Thus our final arrangements are known aboard the train as well as here in Paris.”

A pair of agents had become a bodyguard while Clandine and Delka were walking through the depot. They arrived at a platform. There, Delka saw other agents in readiness, with railway guards and plain-clothes men.

Sergeant Rusanne hurried briskly ahead; then stopped beside a row of cars that were standing empty on one side of the platform. When Delka and Clandine arrived, Rusanne opened the door of an empty compartment.

The prefect invited Delka to step aboard. They entered the gloomy interior of the antiquated third-class coach. Rusanne joined them and closed the door. Peering through the windows, none of the three could be observed by those upon the platform. Monsieur Clandine pointed toward the vacant track beyond.

“When the Fleche d’Or arrives,” explained the prefect, “the car containing Boris Danyar will stop at a spot directly opposite us. He is traveling in the fifth Pullman coach, in the ninth seat from the front, on this side of the car.

“The interior of the car will be illuminated. Hence, Monsieur Delka, we shall be able to observe your bearded friend from the moment that he reaches Paris. Since several minutes remain to us, I shall explain exactly how we intend to effect Danyar’s capture.

“His car is the last of the Golden Arrow Pullmans. The blue cars at the rear of the train are detached and taken from this station by a tank locomotive, for transfer to the Gare de Lyons, a usual procedure. Since the train is late in arriving, that removal will be performed immediately. Meanwhile, passengers will be delayed in leaving the Pullmans, on a pretext of customs formality. Those in the forward cars will be allowed first departure.

“Hence, Danyar will be one of the last to leave. He will be drawn to the rear of the Pullman, after the blue cars are gone. That move will protect the other passengers. All this will be done politely, by guards aboard the train. Danyar will suspect nothing until the final moment.”

THE Gare du Nord was in a high state of commotion. Police and agents were everywhere. The passengers from the Golden Arrow had been segregated into special rooms, where they stood in huddled groups, under the cover of loaded guns.

So great had been the hubbub that the news had escaped. Earlier, it had been known that the law had concentrated upon the Gare du Nord; but at last an explanation had been gained. It was an astounding one.

“Gaspard Zemba! It is he whom they seek!”

“He has slain a man aboard the Fleche d’Or!”

“Zemba is among the passengers. They have trapped him; the law has gained him at last!”

“Ah, non! This Zemba is one grand fox—”

“You forget his missing finger—”

“Zemba has long lacked that finger, yet the fact has not availed the law!”

Such were the comments passed among excited Parisians who chanced to be in the Gare du Nord at six o’clock that dusk-ridden afternoon. The excitement had spread to the ticket windows and information booths. No one could talk of anything else but Zemba.

A tall, keen-eyed stranger had arrived in the depot during the confusion. Hawk-faced of countenance, he had the manner of an American, although no observer could have positively picked his nationality. For one thing, this arrival understood French perfectly; for he caught every comment that concerned Gaspard Zemba and the report of the death aboard the Golden Arrow.

Stepping quietly to an information booth, this tall arrival gave full proof of his mastery of the French language when he attracted the attention of a clerk and forced the fellow to heed a query.

“At what hour does Le Train Bleu leave for Cannes?”

“Ah, monsieur,” bowed the clerk, politely. “Le Train Bleu is the Mediterranean Express. One must board it at the Gare de Lyon.”

“I know that it departs from that station. But there are cars that connect with it from here.”

“For through passengers only, monsieur. They come from Calais, attached to the Fleche d’Or. One cannot board them here at the Gare du Nord. Besides, they have departed, seven minutes ago; to circle about Paris by the Ceinture Railway.”

The tall inquirer was looking at the clock. It was six o’clock, “eighteen o’clock” according to the twenty-four-hour standard of the French railways. The information clerk made another statement.

“The blue cars left here at seventeen fifty-three,” he said. “They will reach the Gare de Lyon at eighteen thirty-five. But there is no need for haste, monsieur. Le Train Bleu itself will not depart from the Gare de Lyon until nineteen-fifty.”

THE SHADOW hissed an order. Startled by the sound, the driver gripped the wheel. He stared straight ahead and turned the corner. Hoarsely, he whispered:

“La Mort!”

Such was the name that he had suddenly given his weird passenger. Until this moment, the taxi driver had thought that he was conveying a chance American tourist, who had shown freakish ideas of trailing cabs in Paris. But the driver had suddenly realized a transformation. Looking into the back seat, he had seen no passenger; but he had heard a whispered voice.

Death!

That being had become his passenger, according to the taxi driver’s present notion. Who else but Death could have rendered himself invisible? Who but Death could have hissed that order to proceed? Who but Death, himself, would wish to continue along this street where murder lurked?

Had a grinning skull peered suddenly beside the driver’s face, the man would have been terrified, but not surprised. His one hope was that no such phenomenon would occur. To prevent such a happening, he obeyed the command of his mysterious passenger.

Zemba’s cab was taking another turn when The Shadow’s vehicle came into view. The slowness of the first cab showed that it was going to stop, just around the next corner. The Shadow hissed another command. His driver brought the cab to a halt, just before it reached the corner.

The Shadow spoke. His tone was like a knell; a weird, whispered warning that made the driver tremble. The man was to reverse his cab and back to the street where he had faltered. There he was to await his passenger’s return. Mumblingly, the taximan promised to obey.

The door of the cab gave a slight slam. That marked the exit of the passenger. Though he strained his eyes in the dark, the taxi driver could catch no glimpse of a departing figure. Quaking, he reversed his cab and obeyed The Shadow’s order.

Perhaps the taximan’s eyes lacked sharpness; possibly, he did not stare long enough, for The Shadow did give visible token of his progress. Near the corner was a street lamp. Beneath its glow, a dark shape glided. Cloaked, phantomlike in form, The Shadow appeared momentarily as he took up Zemba’s trail; and although the driver’s eyes did not see him, there were other eyes that did.

MONSIEUR BREZANNE paused and waved one hand to indicate the entire group.

“All of you!” he exclaimed. “Why are you here? Because of Zemba. From each of you, he has stolen some important secret, which he is willing to restore at a given price. All of you have received letters, stating the amount.

“From you, Lord Bixley, he demands one hundred thousand pounds, in return for your submarine plans. From you, Senor Alonzo, a similar sum, for stolen fortification diagrams. From you, Signor Chiozzi, he requests a double price, because he has sealed packets that describe Italy’s complete arrangements for army mobilization in the event of war.

“He wants similar amounts from the rest of you. The sum total of his demands is large. I note, Mr. Cleghorn, that you have been making a paper-and-pencil calculation. Have you added the entire amounts?”

A nod from the man whom Delka had picked as an American.

“Including the half a million that Zemba wants for the airplane plans which he stole from Washington,” said Cleghorn, “his total demand comes to four and a half million dollars. I have figured as closely as possible, in considering the rates of exchange. I have translated other nations’ currencies into dollars—”

“Then add another half million,” interposed the French minister, solemnly. “My government is in the same predicament as yours. Our plans for anti-aircraft defense have been taken.”

Astonished gasps came from the listeners. They had not known that the French war office had also suffered. Monsieur Brezanne spoke emphatically.

“That shows the cunning of Gaspard Zemba!” he exclaimed. “He has placed all of us in the same boat. He has specialized in the theft of sealed documents. He knows that he can gain the highest prices from those who understand their worth; namely, the very ones from whom he stole them.

“If we refuse to purchase back our secrets, he can behave as any ordinary spy. He can offer the stolen plans to other governments. He will easily find unscrupulous buyers. Of course, his gain will not be so great. That is why he prefers to treat with us.

“He holds the plans, here in Paris; moreover, he is guarding the traitors who abetted him. All except Willoughby Blythe, who was tardy in leaving his own country. Under ordinary circumstances, the proper course would be to hunt him down; but Zemba has blocked that move by the deed which I so recently mentioned; namely, by his theft of documents belonging to the French government.”

The foreign minister produced a letter from his desk.

“Here is Zemba’s ultimatum,” he stated. “The French government, like others, must pay his price. We must grant Zemba and his agents the privilege of leaving France. Should the police institute a city-wide search, sufficient enough to jeopardize Zemba’s present safety, he will decamp from Paris, carrying the documents with him.

“He gives us five days to decide upon an answer. If we have not molested him; if we will make the payment and guarantee his freedom, our valuables will be restored. If we do not answer before the end of the fifth day, Zemba will go his way. Our documents will be forever lost.”

THE prefect looked puzzled.

“Have you ever heard of The Shadow?” queried Robeq. “The strange being whom the Apaches fear?”

An exclamation came from the prefect.

“L’Ombre,” he nodded. “Yes. An agent said that a dying Apache muttered the name last night. But there were others who gasped ‘Robeq’ — and when I received your message—”

“You promptly forgot what you had heard. Ah, monsieur!” His smile became friendly; Robeq clapped a hand upon the prefect’s shoulder. “It is possible for many things to happen. Last night, much did happen. Gaspard Zemba, the greatest rogue in Paris, walked into a double trap. One snare was prepared by Etienne Robeq, from Marseilles; the other by The Shadow, who comes — so they say — from nowhere.

“It was I, Robeq, who waited, once I had seen The Shadow. Knowing of his strange prowess, I expected him to deal with Zemba. The Shadow did deal with Zemba; but the rogue raised that hand of his, with the missing finger. Apaches came from everywhere.

“The Shadow dealt with them like a living fury. Paugh! What were a dozen against one like him? They were falling everywhere; all but Zemba. He was quick enough to run for it. That was when I stepped into the fight. Separately, The Shadow and myself completed the rout of Zemba’s henchmen. But The Shadow’s snare had come too soon; mine, too late.”

“The Shadow,” mused the prefect. “He has been in Paris before. Cloaked in black — a being with burning eyes — he has done much to aid us in the past.”

“And he will do much more,” promised Robeq. He raised his right hand and wagged his straightened forefinger. “That is why I count upon success. I, too, have heard of The Shadow. The underworld has breathed his name. It is known, at last, that The Shadow — like Robeq — is here.

“How can Zemba exist against such odds? The Shadow, a fighter who comes from the night itself? Robeq, who has learned to lie hidden upon the wide-stretched sands of the Sahara? What does it matter if all the underworld will move at Zemba’s bidding? Last night a score of his minions tasted their defeat.

“Zemba must stay hidden. Somewhere, he holds a fortress, guarded by those agents who fled to Paris from other countries. In that same place, he keeps his stolen plans. He has threatened to flee if the police disturb him with a search.

“But how will Zemba know that a search is proceeding, when it is conducted by two persons whom he cannot see? I, Robeq, for one; The Shadow, the other. Like ferrets, we each seek a skulking rat and the trembling mice who are with him.

“Let Zemba have his five days! Trust in me; count upon The Shadow. Then, if the five days fail, and Zemba still remains at large, you will know that he is invincible. You may treat with him on the last day, if you wish. But I declare that the fifth day will never come!”

CLIFF’S question was not an unusual one, under the circumstances. When occasion called, The Shadow’s agents were at liberty to speculate upon the purposes and methods of their chief. Harry began to sum an answer to Cliff’s query.

“The Shadow came here alone,” stated Harry, still in his low tone, which the driver could not hear, “because of war secrets stolen from Washington. He started for Paris, knowing that he must uncover a crook named Gaspard Zemba.”

“And he left instructions for us to follow,” observed Cliff. “There wasn’t time for us to catch the same boat.”

“Exactly,” agreed Harry. “Rutledge Mann had our instructions for us. Go to the Hotel Moderne. That would be all, if nothing had happened meanwhile.”

“But something has happened; and our added instructions should cover it.”

“As always. Chances are that The Shadow has checked out of the Moderne. If he has, we go to the Pension Grandine, unless some other word intervenes. The Shadow will take care of it.”

“The chief always does.”

A pause. Then Harry spoke a name.

“Herbert Balliol,” he said. “It has an English sound. A good name to use in Paris.”

“It’s the first time the chief has taken it,” remarked Cliff. “Maybe this chap Zemba is watching out for Americans.”

“Very likely. And it may mean even more, Cliff.”

“A different type of appearance?”

Harry nodded.

“There may be a real Herbert Balliol,” he declared. “One who is known in Paris and who would, therefore, be unsuspected. If that is the case, the chief will look like Balliol.”

“To the dot,” added Cliff. “He will be Balliol’s double.”

“And it may mean closer contact. We may prove to be old friends of Balliol.”

“And travel about with him—”

“As I size it, yes.”

Both agents spoke from previous experience; and the situation was one that they relished. Frequently, their paths lay apart from The Shadow’s. They always preferred the rarer occasions when they cooperated closely with their chief.

The taxi had reached the Hotel Moderne. As it stopped, Harry motioned Cliff to remain with the bags. Stepping to the curb, Harry strolled into the lobby. He looked like a chance visitor rather than a potential guest. Harry approached the desk.

“Mr. Herbert Balliol?” inquired Harry, in English. “Is he stopping here?”

Smiling, the clerk shook his head.

“Mr. Balliol has gone,” he replied. “He left here late last night.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

“No. He was taking the midnight express to Brussels.”

FACING the arrivals was another of their ilk: Jacques. This Apache was squatty, but long-limbed. His face was rough and unshaven; but the stubble failed to cover a mass of pockmarks that formed the most conspicuous feature of his physiognomy.

Without the formality of greetings, the three Apaches stalked along the underground passage. Reaching the end of it, they descended another flight of steps. Then the passage turned to the right.

Jacques pressed two switches; one extinguished the corridor light; the other brought a glow from a room ahead. The trio entered a small, roughhewn chamber.

The room had no door. That was actually a precaution, for it enabled them to hear sounds from the corridor. The taps given by Georges had sounded the full distance. Yet they had penetrated to Jacques only because they had been sharp, unusual noises. Slight sounds could not be heard from this chamber, because a low, audible trickle already pervaded it.

The monotonous gush was that of water; and it came from beneath a trapdoor in the corner. Obviously, the trapdoor led to a conduit that carried a hidden brook into the River Seine. This room was almost on a level with the river bed. Though the quays of the left bank were quite distant from the spot, the conduit formed a means of exit.

There was a large box in the center of the room; one that served as table, while smaller boxes stood about as chairs. The three Apaches seated themselves beneath the single light directly above. Georges looked toward a gloomy corner, where a crude telephone adorned the wall. Its wire led to the trapdoor.

“No word from Zemba?”

Jacques shook his head in reply to the question, which came from Georges.

“No word. Well, Zemba is wise. That is what he told us long ago. Remember how we discussed it last night?”

“The night before,” corrected Bantoire.

“Last night or the night before,” retorted Georges. “What difference? Zemba said that if trouble came here, he would not call again. Such was his own warning.”

“And he told us to remove the telephone,” added Bantoire, “and to leave here if trouble came.”

“Of course,” agreed Georges. “But trouble did not come.”

“It came above here.”

“But not here below.”

ZEMBA’s expression changed. It showed a friendliness; yet of a sort that only such rogues as his henchmen could have enjoyed. For there was an ugliness to this new registration.

“Sometimes,” observed the evil-visaged leader, “I am a fool myself. It often pays to be a fool. As it did with Danyar. There were many fools, yesterday. Blythe was a fool; so was Levaux; and Danyar the same. I was the final fool; and the wisest.

“But there are other fools about. Those who seek to interfere with my plans. One called The Shadow; another named Etienne Robeq. Like myself, they are wise despite their folly. They are more dangerous than all the police and agents put together.”

With his left hand thrust deep into his coat pocket, Zemba paced the floor, puffing savagely at his cigarette. At last he swung and faced the listening trio.

“Five days!” he snarled. “I must have five days! To take less would show a weakness. It is only through strength that I can make frightened men disgorge their wealth. I must wait through those days; and I do not worry at the thought of conflict.

“Why should I be perturbed? All the underworld is at my beck. I have more men in Paris than the total number of the police. The law could not muster enough fighters to defeat me. Should I, Gaspard Zemba, give the signal, riots would break out everywhere.

“But to what avail? None — except to cover flight, should I choose it. Such a time has not arrived. Cunning — strategy — those are the elements I need to balk these two, who — like myself — stay hidden.”

EXACTLY twenty-four hours after Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland had arrived in Paris, a figure emerged from the Montmartre station of the Paris Metro, having chosen a new underground route to reach this section. Strolling along in casual fashion, the arrival entered a side street. His figure was that of Herbert Balliol.

Again, Harry and Cliff had parted with their friend. They had left Balliol in the lobby of the Hotel Princesse; he, in turn, had fared abroad soon after their departure. After his stroll from the Montmartre station, Herbert Balliol appeared later outside the Cafe Poisson.

After surveying the establishment through blue-lensed spectacles, the visitor entered and took his place at a table. He gave an order to a waiter; then turned about to eye two sergeants de ville who were seated at another table. Though apparently off duty, these officers had a purpose here, namely to watch Monsieur Suchet.

Bald-headed and fat of face; the proprietor was standing behind a small counter. Looking out through the front of the cafe, he saw a figure that alighted from a cab. Suchet’s eyes sharpened; then, nervously, he produced a handkerchief and began to mop his brow. He had seen a venomous, staring face; one that he did not know, but which made him think of the notorious Gaspard Zemba.

A sergeant de ville saw the direction of Suchet’s gaze and looked in the same direction. He motioned to his companion. The two left their table and started out. Monsieur Suchet sank back; but his face showed relief. A hunched figure had started away in time to avoid the officers.

All the while, Herbert Balliol had been seated motionless. Suchet had scarcely noted the new arrival; but he was soon to do so. Some one plucked at his sleeve. It was a taciturn waiter, motioning the proprietor to a rear door of the cafe.

A squinty-eyed derelict was standing there, grinning while he clinked a pair of metal two-franc pieces. The fellow thrust an envelope into Suchet’s hand; then shambled away.

Fumbling, Suchet tore open the envelope. Inside, he found a message. He read it and crumpled the paper. He turned to the waiter who was standing beside him. In a hushed tone, Suchet gasped:

“It’s — it’s from Zemba! Peste! Zemba! Les sergents de ville! They have started after him!”

“You saw Zemba?”

“I saw some one, outside the cafe. Ah! How swiftly he must have acted, to double back and pass this message to a chance loiterer. Zemba is incredible. But come, Oudrin! This means work for you. Change your coat and join me by the counter.”

A few minutes later, Oudrin rejoined Suchet. Close by the counter, the proprietor spoke:

“See that tall man by the table near the entrance? The one who may be an Englishman? He is the one that Zemba wants us to follow.”

Oudrin nodded.

“Take good note of him,” added Suchet. “Trail him carefully, Oudrin. Bring back full word. I shall pass it to others. It will reach Zemba.”

Suchet observed that the tall stranger was eyeing others in the cafe. His inspection ended, he arose and stalked from the place. Oudrin followed. Soon afterward, the sergents de ville returned and resumed their table with disgruntled growls. Suchet smiled blandly.

WHEN Cliff strolled from the suite, he was thinking of The Shadow. On that account, he gave a slight glance toward a doorway near the elevators. That door — number 504 — was the entrance to the suite that Herbert Balliol occupied.

Catching a glimpse of the barrier from the corner of his eye, Cliff spotted a motion. The door was closing slowly. As it shut, Cliff gained a sudden impression of a face that had peered from within.

Cliff was about to hesitate; he overcame the impulse and continued his walk along the hall. By the time he had reached the elevator, he had done some quick thinking. Cliff knew that an intruder was in 504 and that the proper step was to trap the man. It could not have been The Shadow peering from the doorway. The pretended Herbert Balliol was unquestionably absent from the hotel.

Strategy was also wise. Hence Cliff curbed himself and rang for the elevator. The lift arrived and carried him down to the lobby. There Cliff made promptly for a telephone and rang up Harry. Tersely, Cliff told what he had seen. Harry responded with a query:

“Did the fellow lock the door after he closed it?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Cliff. “I was too far away to notice any click.”

“Come up again,” suggested Harry. “Try the door from the outside. If it’s unlocked, go into the room.”

“And if it’s locked?”

“I’ll let you in later. You can count on me to be inside.”

“But how—”

“Leave that to me, Cliff.”

Upstairs, Harry dropped the receiver as he made that final statement. He knew that Cliff would follow his instructions; and there was no time to go into details. For Harry, thinking quickly, had gained an idea.

THEY changed cars at the proper correspondance and while they were riding alone in another first-class compartment, Robeq produced a new theme.

“The Cabaret du Diable,” he mused, “is close to the Allee des Bijoux. A bad pitfall, the latter, as I remember it. Rusanne mentioned the alley in his last telephone call.”

“A blind alley?” inquired Delka. “Many of them are, in Paris.”

“The city abounds with them. The Allee du Diable is one of the worst. One would be unwise to enter it, even with a squad of agents at his heels.”

“The kind of place that Zemba would choose.”

“I know it. That is why we shall watch the outside, at a respectable distance. I shall have you summon a few officers when we near there. Our best plan would be to trap the fox when he has ventured from his den.”

Finishing their subway journey, Robeq and Delka came above ground and approached the drizzle-blurred lights of the Montmartre. Blinking, red bulbs proclaimed the Cabaret du Diable. Robeq edged Delka into an alleyway at one side; then mumbled angrily at his mistake.

“Bah! I am wrong!” he ejaculated. “The Allee des Bijoux is reached from the other side. Come, Monsieur Delka.”

They skirted the cabaret and entered a narrow, gloomy street. Robeq stopped his companion; they paused, pretending to light cigarettes while two Apaches slouched past.

“They may be going into the alley,” whispered Robeq. “It is right behind the cabaret. Go. Find the nearest agents and tell them that you are from Sergeant Rusanne. Mention that you have a friend waiting here. If they should guess that one of us is Robeq, it is better that they should believe that you were he.

“I would prefer to pass for some dandy visiting the Montmartre. My attire indicates it. Meanwhile, I shall be prepared. It would be best to mention that your friend is armed.”

Delka had noted Robeq’s attire. The detective had been dressed for the street from the time that Delka had seen him. He was wearing a fashionable Derby hat, a light waterproof raincoat, and a pair of smooth-fitting kid gloves. As he mentioned that he was prepared, Robeq peeled the glove from his right hand and held it in his left while he dipped his right and into his coat pocket to bring a stub-nosed revolver into view. Delka tapped his own pocket to indicate that he was armed. After that, he hurried to locate the agents.

THE situation had altered oddly. A swift fight had been held in one long block of a single street. That narrow thoroughfare had practically emptied. Agents were at both ends of it. Those by the Cabaret du Diable were still being harried by a few lurking Apaches. Delka had dragged a lone man out to safety. He was chiding him in well-intended terms.

“This place is no Sahara Desert,” insisted Delka. “Your way of fighting may work in the open; but not in front of a squad of agents. Why handicap your own men?”

“It was Zemba,” came the reply. “I had him covered.”

“I saw it. You fired at him.”

“Four shots. Bah! I was too hurried. Give me a rifle, any day, in preference to this toy pistol!”

“Too short a barrel for the range.”

“Yes. But I was swinging down upon him. Blame the agents for throwing away their flashlights. Well, let them take their time. They are too late. Zemba has escaped.”

Fighting had lulled. Apaches, the few that remained, were lurking, hoping that the agents would become unwise. But the officers were too wary. They held both ends of the street. They were satisfied.

True, the center of that thoroughfare marked the mouth of the Allee des Bijoux. But the alley was a blind one. Any one who backed in there would be trapped. So the agents waited; and the Apaches lingered also.

Oddly, something was happening in the Allee des Bijoux. A figure was moving; slowly, laboriously. It had come from the darkness of the beleaguered street. One fighter, tired, half crippled in the fray, was seeking temporary refuge. Gaining it, he slumped.

New footsteps crept inward. Another combatant had sought this same seclusion. He had heard the man ahead of him. He listened to the sliding sound of the sagging body. He approached. He reached the flattened form. A flashlight glimmered. It showed two faces.

The face on the sidewalk; grimy, bloodstained, was that of Herbert Balliol. The visage above, leering with its grinning lips was the countenance of Gaspard Zemba. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland would have been horrified had they remained to see this outcome.

The Shadow in the toils of Gaspard Zemba!

The flashlight blinked out. The stooping figure gripped the inert form upon the paving and hoisted it upward. Moving into the cul-de-sac, Zemba reached a flight of steps upon the right. Descending with his burden, he rapped at a metal-sheathed door.

At first there was no response; then the door opened slightly inward. A husky voice whispered:

“You can’t come through this way! The agents are here in the Cabaret du Diable! Hide in one of the caveaux—”

“Open the door farther!” snarled the burden carrier. “Look! At my left hand!”

The barrier moved inward. A wizened-faced man stared at sight of hand pressed flat against a grimy coat. Fingers were close together; but the next to the last was a single-knuckled stump.

“Gaspard Zemba!”

THE two arrivals contrasted in appearance, exactly as they had the night before. Robeq was still playing the role of a fop. He was wearing a pale-gray fedora, a topcoat of the same color. He was wearing a small, white chrysanthemum in his lapel. He was carrying his gray-kid gloves and he held a walking stick tucked beneath his arm. Delka, in a dark coat and an old felt hat, looked somber beside his fashionable companion.

A chuckle from Robeq as he noted the antagonistic glances from the group.

“Ah, messieurs!” The detective shook his head reprovingly. “You do not like my garb? You think it unsuited to a detective? N’est-ce-pas? Is it not so?

“Let me tell you, then, where I have been to-day. I have gone to the Cabaret du Diable and to the Allee des Bijoux, to study the ground by daylight. I, Robeq, gawked with the rest—”

“And what did you learn?” interrupted the prefect.

“I learned nothing,” admitted Robeq, his square-face sobering. “Nothing that will help us locate Zemba. I am sure, however, that the rogue has left the Montmartre.”

“A fact which we already know,” said Monsieur Brezanne. “If you had not been wasting your time, Monsieur Robeq, we might have informed you sooner.”

“Regarding Zemba?”

“Yes.” The minister reached to his desk. “We hold a letter that was posted early this morning, from the Faubourg Saint-Denis. It is a new ultimatum from Gaspard Zemba.

“Substantially, he accuses us of having violated his rule.” Brezanne was referring to the letter. “He states that we must, therefore, agree to pay the full sums demanded; otherwise he will leave Paris, carrying away all the stolen documents.

“As guarantee of acceptance of his terms, we must insert a special advertisement in the morning journals. That will notify Zemba that we have obtained the millions that he wants; and are ready for a prompt exchange.”

Robeq’s face had lost its pleasant smile. The detective was repressing a display of anger at Zemba’s boldness.

“You are mentioned in the letter, Robeq,” added Brezanne. “Rather contemptuously, in fact. Zemba remarks that since you have the faculty for visiting districts incognito, you would make an excellent emissary to conduct the exchange.”

Robeq’s temper unloosed.

“The upstart!” he stormed. “Why should we tolerate such suggestions! We have until to-morrow morning. Leave me to my own measures. I shall have Zemba before then!”

Doubtful looks and headshakes. Robeq flung his gloves upon the minister’s desk. Stiffening, he looked about the group.

“You have lost confidence?” he blared. “You doubt the ability of Robeq? Tien! If that is so, I am no longer wanted. Adieu, messieurs!”

With that, the detective swept his gloves from the desk. Briskly, he donned them, turning toward the door. Brezanne made a comment.

TIME drifted. Bantoire’s keen ears detected a sound. He looked toward the door; Georges and Jacques followed suit. Another had entered. They were staring at the ugly, distorted face of Gaspard Zemba. Their fierce-mannered chief was angry in mood.

“Why are you here?” came his harsh demand. “Do you fear the agents and the sergents de ville? Why are you not continuing the search that I ordered?”

“It was useless,” grumbled Jacques. “To-day, I began a trail that led nowhere.”

Zemba’s fists were clenching. Bantoire spoke.

“My trail was better,” said the second Apache. “It gave me a goal.”

“Mine also,” added Georges. “One better, perhaps, than Bantoire’s.”

Sharp eyes gleamed from Zemba’s fiendish countenance. His gaze was toward Jacques. The first Apache spoke.

“I went to the Cabaret du Diable,” informed Jacques. “I talked with Corchu, who keeps the cellar there. I knew that he was one of us. He was worried, Corchu was. He asked if I had come from Zemba.”

“And what did you answer?”

“That I had. I wanted to hear Corchu talk; and talk he did. He whined that the prisoner had escaped—”

An oath from Zemba. Jacques nodded.

“Escaped as by a miracle,” continued the Apache. “Out through a closed door, into the Allee des Bijoux. He was gone when Corchu went to carry him to a chamber that lay deeper in the cellar.”

A scowl from Zemba. Jacques added:

“Corchu was troubled. He fears the wrath of Zemba. I said that I would look for him — that man who had escaped — to bring him back. But I could find no trail.”

“That is not surprising,” growled Zemba. “The prisoner was The Shadow. I left him with the guardian whom you call Corchu.”

“L’Ombre!”

The ejaculation came simultaneously from the Apaches. Zemba’s face showed an annoyed scowl.

“His escape was no marvel,” declared the supercrook. “I discovered later that I had lost the key that Corchu gave me. It must have dropped in the cellar. But The Shadow! Bah! I want no news of him. Tell me — what about the quest to which I set you? Has news leaked out concerning my greatest hiding place?”

A headshake from Jacques. A pleased leer from Zemba, as his left hand, displaying its absent finger, came from his pocket with a pack of cigarettes.

“I have news,” stated Bantoire, suddenly. “I began inquiries about our comrades who were slain in last night’s brawl. I asked others where different ones had last been seen. I learned something regarding an Apache named Quintre.”

Georges looked sharply at Bantoire; but the latter did notice it. Zemba’s keen eyes caught the darted gaze. Bantoire was resuming; Zemba did not interrupt.

“Quintre, alone of all the fighters,” said Bantoire, “had been seen in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Why should he have been seen on the Rive Gauche when he belonged in Montmartre, on the Rive Droit?”

There was merit in Bantoire’s question. The Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the Left Bank of the Seine, was a contrast to the Montmartre, far beyond the Right Bank.

“I went to Saint-Germain,” continued Bantoire. “I searched about the places where Quintre had been seen. Bah! There were none that would have suited him. Only mansions of the rich — some homes that once were palaces — for that is where all aristocrats lived formerly.”

AFTER a long wait for word from The Shadow, Cliff had gone down to dinner, leaving Harry in the suite. Soon Cliff would be back. It would be his turn to wait. Drowsy, Harry was stretched in a big chair, deciding what he would order for dinner, when the telephone interrupted his reverie.

Harry picked up the receiver. He spoke. Instantly, his nerves tingled. A voice was upon the wire. A whispered tone that carried recognition. It was The Shadow!

“Report.”

The single word was a command. For a moment, Harry was confused; for he had nothing to report. Then he smiled as he realized that nothing, in this case, might mean something. He stated simply that he was alone in the suite; that Cliff was downstairs at dinner.

“Instructions—”

Harry keyed up as he heard the whispered word. Then he was all attention, listening, thrilled with eagerness as he heard the statements that followed. Orders that meant action. News that offered opportunity. The Shadow’s terse whisper ended. Harry delivered the reply:

“Instructions received.”

The call ended, Harry grabbed his hat and coat and hurried from the suite latching the door behind him. The first job was to get Cliff. There would be no dinner for Harry tonight; but that did not matter. All the way down to the lobby, Harry was filled with exuberance. His enthusiasm waned, however, when he reached the dining room.

Cliff was not there.

DELKA turned. Robeq had come back. Tersely, Delka explained what Clandine had told him. Robeq seized the telephone. He started a rapid conversation with the prefect. At first, the discourse was excited; then suddenly, Robeq stiffened.

“I have the answer!” he exclaimed, to Clandine. “It was The Shadow! Yes… He could have found Zemba’s rendezvous… What shall we do? The answer is simple. We must act!

“No, no… Neither course will do… I have the answer… A picked squad of agents… Ones already at Saint-Germain… Yes. I shall call Rusanne. He can arrange it.

“You wish to join us? Excellent!.. Certainly, there will be time… Delka and I shall be outside. I shall tell Rusanne to come here… Yes, you will arrive as soon as Rusanne…”

Hanging up, Robeq turned to Delka.

“The Shadow is in it,” informed the detective. “Clever chap! I wager that he has actually traced Zemba. He wants to work it alone; but he knows that he may need the law. That is why he called the prefect.

“Clandine wanted to spoil it all, by smashing into the Vraillard Palace. That would be a mistake. At the same time, The Shadow is taking too great a risk. I have found the way to aid him. Instead of deploying our agents half a kilometre distant, we shall close in and enter afterward.”

“Agents may prove clumsy,” objected Delka. “I heard you mention them to the prefect.”

“You are right,” agreed Robeq, “but we are prepared for this emergency. Rusanne has already chosen picked men from every commune and faubourg. We shall have a squad awaiting us at Saint-Germain. Men upon whom we can rely.”

Picking up the telephone, Robeq put in a call to the prefecture. He was connected immediately with Sergeant Rusanne. Tersely, Robeq gave the details. He emphasized the matter of the picked squad. The call ended, he turned to Delka.

“Rusanne has everything ready,” assured Robeq. “He knows his business, that fellow. All will go well tonight, unless—”

Delka raised his eyebrows in query. Robeq smiled grimly.

“Unless the whole thing is a false trail,” he said. “It may be such. Even this famous sleuth, The Shadow, may make false steps. But if he is right, tonight—”

“What then?”

“I shall concede,” smiled the detective, “that The Shadow is greater than Robeq.”

Delka duplicated the smile. He decided that no greater compliment could come from Robeq. The detective was an egotist, despite his capability.

THE flashlight was extinguished. They were moving up a flight of curving stairs. Dull illumination greeted them. They arrived in a barren hallway, where a single wall bracket provided light. Harry and Cliff looked to see if their chief had donned his cloak. They saw the face of Herbert Balliol, minus the blue-tinted spectacles.

A smile of Balliol’s lips answered Harry’s mental query. The Shadow had no need for shrouding garments of black. The total darkness of the cellar had been sufficient. Apparently, The Shadow intended to go through with the game in the guise of Balliol. The reason became evident.

“We are ready.” The whisper was Balliol’s, but toned to solemnity within the hushed space of this gloomy hall. “I have found the rendezvous. Observe that door, toward the back, beneath the grand stairway to the second floor. That is where the rogues have their headquarters.”

Harry and Cliff noted the door. It was slightly ajar; from its edges came dull streaks of light. Harry guessed that The Shadow had already spied into the room beyond.

“There are four men in the room,” resumed the whispered voice. “Also a large safe, which must contain the stolen documents. We shall surprise the men; while you two hold the culprits covered, I shall work upon the safe.

“Zemba is not here; but that is no cause for alarm. I shall be prepared to handle him. Your work will be to keep the others helpless. Remember that our prisoners are hunted men. They will be under tension. To preserve it, we should maintain strict silence.”

Guns were coming from carriers beneath Balliol’s tuxedo coat. Harry and Cliff produced their own automatics. A whisper told them to remain where they were. The tall form of Herbert Balliol crouched and crept forward.

Amazement held Harry Vincent as he watched the stealth of the advance. Harry knew The Shadow’s remarkable ability at silent approach, when garbed in black and covered by darkness. Rarely, however, had he witnessed The Shadow’s demonstration of this ability.

There was something incredible about the motion of Herbert Balliol’s form. Only a master worker could have stalked his prey in such a perfect fashion. Not the slightest sound reached the ears of The Shadow’s agents.

When their creeping leader reached the door, he paused and moved his left hand up and down. It was the signal for readiness. Harry and Cliff strained forward.

Straightening, the tall form of Balliol became electric in its action. With a twist, a shoulder struck the partly opened door. With a spin that matched the gyration of a whirling dervish, the invader launched himself into the lighted room. Ready to aid The Shadow, Harry and Cliff sprang forward. They reached the doorway two seconds after their leader had plunged through.

ASTONISHED gapes. The Apaches exchanged gazes, realizing for the first time that their penetration to the cellar depths had rendered it impossible for them to know what might have happened at the outer door.

“The Shadow has entered,” sneered Zemba. “Next, the police, headed by Robeq. They have agents with them. All have gone upstairs.”

Apaches uttered angry snarls. Zemba shook his right fist, to silence them.

“Forget those men you captured,” he ordered. “They will be safe below. Have you gagged them?”

Nods from the Apaches.

“Good! Then go to the stairway in the outer cellar. Open the door and listen. I shall go up by these other stairs.”

Zemba pointed to the path that Bantoire had mentioned as leading to a side room by the rendezvous.

“Wait until shots are fired,” was the next order. “Then attack by the stairs. Open fire when you meet the agents. Show them no mercy.”

Jacques displayed a wicked grin.

“I shall bring the machine gun,” he chuckled. “The little one, from the wine cellar. With Georges and Bantoire on either side—”

“Enough!” snared Zemba. “Make your own plans for the attack. Remember. My shot will be the signal.”

“But you will be alone!” exclaimed Bantoire. “Suppose they pursue you? They will drive you down the secret stairway, chief. Then we—”

“Bah! Do you think I do not know my business?” Zemba’s right forefinger pointed to the square package. “What do you think this box contains?”

“A bomb!” expressed Georges.

“You are right.” Zemba’s evil leer had returned. “My shots first; then this — but only if necessary. Bullets alone may start them in the opposite direction. All agents are cowards. At any rate, none will pursue Gaspard Zemba!”

The finger pointed to the electric lantern. Bantoire extinguished it. Jacques whispered that he would descend to gain the submachine gun. Zemba’s order came for the other two to await him. Footsteps shuffled upon stone; then faded, to be followed by a creepy creak. Zemba alone, his package with him, was ascending the secret stairs.

As yet, all had remained the same in the upstairs rendezvous. There was a reason. The tall figure of Herbert Balliol was still crouched in front of the compact safe. Harry and Cliff, watching him at intervals, decided that their chief had struck a tartar.

The Shadow was uncanny in his ability at detecting strong-box combinations. This safe, however, was unquestionably a formidable one. It belonged to Gaspard Zemba, who had been willing enough to leave it in the care of other crooks. Honor among thieves was a myth so far as Gaspard Zemba was concerned. It stood to reason that the safe would be a tricky one.

Suddenly, Harry became tense. The Shadow had apparently given up his task. Harry saw the tall, tuxedoed figure arise and turn. Then he observed that Herbert Balliol’s face was staring directly toward the door of the room. A quick hand whisked an automatic from its tuxedo pocket. With that, the door swung inward.

“Greetings, monsieur!” came a quick voice. “Greetings! We are friends!”

A smile appeared upon the features of Herbert Balliol. His gun hand lowered; his head delivered a bow. Then came a gesture to Harry and Cliff. They could relax their vigil. Still covering their prisoners, The Shadow’s agents gave quick glances toward the door. They saw their leader advance with an extended hand.

“Monsieur le Prefet.” The words came with a perfect French accent. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Herbert Balliol; these gentlemen are friends who have aided me in an expedition against Gaspard Zemba.”

“You are The Shadow?”

Balliol’s smile broadened.

“Perhaps,” he remarked dryly. “Ah, M’sieu’, you have brought others with you.”

“This is Sergeant Rusanne.” The bearded prefect indicated the bantamweight beside him. “He is my trusted aid. But there are others also. I shall summon them, with your leave.”

A bow of Balliol’s head. The prefect turned and motioned at the door. Promptly, Delka and Robeq appeared. Then came the agents, clustering in the hall. Rusanne gave the latter orders; they clumped to stationary positions inside the room, with their sergeant and another blocking the door.

Delka and Robeq had entered ahead of the agent. The prefect was introducing them to Herbert Balliol. Delka smiled when Clandine referred to Balliol as The Shadow. Delka had met The Shadow in the past and regarded him as a friend, no matter what his guise might be.

“And this,” announced the prefect, with a profound bow, “is Etienne Robeq, most celebrated of all the detectives in France.”

CLANDINE stood stupefied, glancing from one to the other. Eric Delka was completely bewildered. As for The Shadow’s agents, a light was dawning upon them. Harry Vincent had remarked upon the oddness of The Shadow’s actions. Cliff remembered Harry’s comments. They were gaining an explanation at last.

“I shall make the case plain,” declared Herbert Balliol. “As I have just said, I am Etienne Robeq. I came to Paris to seek the notorious Gaspard Zemba. I learned that my presence here was known. I stayed away from the prefecture. I knew that word was leaking somewhere.

“A strange rumor had reached the underworld. Talk of The Shadow — a belief that he might be in Paris. I learned later that tension, alone, had begun that rumor. But it chanced to be correct. In my search for Zemba, I happened, one night, to glimpse The Shadow. He was cloaked in black. I saw him in an alleyway not far from the Boul’ Mich’.

“I supposed that The Shadow had found some trace of Zemba. The next night, I watched the same spot. That was the night when Zemba arrived in Paris after his murder of Boris Danyar. A taxicab arrived, with Zemba aboard. Another came, carrying The Shadow.

“I was sole witness to the fight that followed. I joined it to aid The Shadow. Gaspard Zemba escaped us. Both The Shadow and I departed. Again, I saw his taxicab.”

The real Etienne Robeq paused. He looked toward the supposed Robeq, who smiled his approval of the statements. Both had relaxed. The former Herbert Balliol, in particular, had dropped his part of an Englishman.

“Apaches saw The Shadow that night,” resumed the real Robeq. “But I, alone, noted his taxi. I traced it. The driver talked. He told me that his passenger went to the Hotel Moderne. Going there, I learned that a guest named Herbert Balliol had checked out hurriedly, to take the midnight train to Brussels.

“Viola! He could have been The Shadow. I went to other hotels. There was no Herbert Balliol. An idea inspired me. I went to the Hotel Princesse. I registered there as Herbert Balliol.”

Harry and Cliff exchanged understanding glances. They expected what was coming.

“The doorman at the Hotel Moderne aided me,” laughed Robeq. “He promised to send all inquirers for Balliol to the Hotel Princesse. The next day, these two arrived. They joined me.”

Smiling, Robeq indicated The Shadow’s agents. Then, with a shrug of his tuxedoed shoulders, he resumed:

“You ask why I became The Shadow? I shall tell you. I thought that perhaps Zemba would trail him also. I wanted to meet Zemba. I knew that my action would not harm The Shadow. Instead, it gave me a way of covering up the fact that I was Robeq.

“Seeking The Shadow, Zemba would find Robeq! But instead of men from the underworld, my visitors proved to be friends of The Shadow. Men who would have gone their own way had they not found Herbert Balliol. Knowing that they must take me for The Shadow, I kept up the pretense.

“My position was strengthened. I had two men who would obey my commands. So I went to the Cafe Poisson and sent a note to the proprietor. He thought it was from Zemba. It told him to have me followed. Thus did Zemba learn of Herbert Balliol, the man whom he thought was The Shadow.

“Zemba laid a trap in the Allee des Bijoux. We captured a prowler who was sent to give the word away. Zemba was afraid to visit The Shadow; he wanted The Shadow to come to him. It was I, Robeq, who went, with The Shadow’s men to aid me. I believed that we could nullify the trap.

“Zemba was there; but the conflict proved to be a draw. The cause seemed hopeless until tonight. I still played the part of The Shadow, but I had learned nothing. Then, tonight, these two men received a message from the real Shadow!”

ALTHOUGH he had foreseen developments, The Shadow had been unable to intervene. Matters would have proven confusing to the very men whom he had come to aid. Until the truth was out, The Shadow could not have acted. But now that Zemba had gained full control, the opportunity had come.

Even now, The Shadow could have waited; but he saw a chance that might not come again. Zemba had sent the false agents to the hallway. Robeq, Delka, Harry, Cliff — all were still capable to aid. Moreover, Zemba had forced the issue, by stating sudden suspicion regarding the guards who should have been on duty in the cellar.

This was a time that called for swiftness. Well did The Shadow meet the crisis. Thrusting himself through the curtained doorway, he had drawn attention by his challenging laugh. Zemba had turned; so had all others. Five helpless men were freed from menacing guns; for every weapon swung to greet The Shadow.

Automatics blasted their prompt message before a single crook had time to fire. Muzzles tongued spurts of flame that stabbed like fiery daggers. Four men were The Shadow’s targets. One was Gaspard Zemba; the second, the traitorous Sergeant Rusanne; the last two were false agents, who were still within the room.

Zemba and Rusanne sprawled simultaneously, while tugging at revolver triggers. They fell, firing uselessly and wildly, beyond heavy chairs that blocked further gunfire. The false agents, slower on the trigger, were spilled by the next blasts. One fired badly, peppering the wall beside The Shadow. The other did not fire at all.

The Shadow had ignored four others. They were the foreign spies, who had disarmed Harry, Cliff and the other prisoners. Those spies had thrown captured guns into the wastebasket and were fishing out their own instead. They were in the correct position for the mass attack which came.

Robeq and Delka were closest to the spies. Quick thinkers, they leaped forward to down those immediate foemen. Harry and Cliff were farther, but fully as spontaneous in action. They grabbed for the other pair.

Four pairs of fighters sprawled upon the floor; and into the fray came Monsieur Clandine. Having no antagonist, the prefect snatched the wastebasket. He yanked two guns from it and swung to aid The Shadow.

Clandine’s move was timely. The false agents from the hall were piling in with fury. The Shadow, sweeping forward to meet them, was quick with opening shots. Clandine joined; the agents fell back. Rusanne, who had been clipped in the left shoulder, bobbed up and snarled as he aimed for Clandine. The Shadow swung and blazed a shot that rolled the traitor to the floor.

A hiss from The Shadow. Clandine pounced over to aid struggling fighters. Delka and Cliff were being overpowered. Clandine used a gun butt to club the spy who fought with Delka. Robeq, hurling aside his own antagonist, piled to Cliff’s aid. Harry was subduing the man with whom he grappled.