But the drawn window shades suddenly attracted Berger's attention. He began to mumble, as though
talking in a delirium.
'Those shades were up when I went out,' he said. 'I ought to keep them up. Shades down—looks bad.
Who put them down?'
He rubbed his hand across his forehead. Evidently Stanley Berger's mind was troubled. He appeared
restless as he paced across the room.
'Too many people in the theater,' he muttered. 'Couldn't stay there. Bad place.'
He walked over to raise the window shades; then he apparently changed his mind, for he stopped short,
and stood by the table. He looked at the opposite wall of the room.
A bookcase was there, near the corner. The black shadow of the bookcase seemed to fascinate Berger.
He became motionless, staring at the spot.
Then he detected a slight movement. Before his astonished eyes, the darkness of the corner seemed to
alter.
There appeared a tall figure, clad in black, its shoulders shrouded in a cloak of sable hue.
Stanley Berger tried to speak; but no sound came from his lips. This amazing form that had come from
nothingness seemed to transfix his gaze.
Berger's body began to tremble as The Shadow moved slowly forward and stood before him—tall,
black, and ominous—a cloaked form, its face obscured by turned-down broad-brimmed hat.
'Who are you?' gasped Stanley Berger. 'Who -'
The words died on his lips. A terrible fear came over the man. Perhaps this black being was a phantom
from another world!
Ghostlike it had appeared before him. Now it stood, like a medieval inquisitor, waiting for him to speak
words that would betray him.
THE figure became motionless. Stanley Berger still trembled.
'Why are you here?' he asked. 'Who are you?'
'I am The Shadow!'
The low, sibilant whisper was more terrifying than the spectral form itself. Berger swayed; then gripped
the edge of the table, and steadied himself.
'Sit down.'
A long black arm extended toward the chair. Stanley Berger could not ignore the command.
Automatically, he took the chair; but his eyes were still upon the weird being before him.
'Turn on the lamp.'
Stanley Berger obeyed.
The Shadow seemed to glide across the floor. It reached the door, and the ceiling lamp went out.
Berger stared; he could no longer see the man in black. Then he choked and gasped as The Shadow
appeared directly above him—looming like a monstrous creature of vengeance.
The man in the chair looked up. Below the broad-brimmed hat he could see two eyes that gleamed like
living coals. Dark, burning eyes, that seemed to pry into the secrets of his mind.
'You killed Jonathan Graham!'
The whispered words were a statement—not a question.
'Answer me! You killed Jonathan Graham!'
Stanley Berger nodded. His personality seemed to have left him. His brain was under the domination of
this unknown being. He could not withstand the power of The Shadow.
'Tell me why!'
The man in the chair made a great effort to fight off the controlling force that held him.
'I don't know!' he said. 'I don't know!'
'Tell me why!'
'Because'—the admission came slowly from Stanley Berger's lips— 'because I had stolen his private
correspondence.'
'To what did the correspondence refer?'
'I do not know.'
The Shadow was silent. Berger's last statement had come with a spontaneous relief. It was obvious that
he had spoken the truth.
'With whom did Jonathan Graham correspond?'
Stanley Berger could not overcome The Shadow's control. His lips seemed automatic as they framed the
reply:
'With a man named Whitburn.'
'Tell me his first name!'
'I do not know it.'
The glowing eyes burned steadily before the entranced gaze of Stanley Berger. There was a sharp click,
as though The Shadow had snapped his fingers. The man in the chair started, and rubbed his forehead.
'Look at the table,' came the whispered voice.
Berger obeyed. A hand came before his eyes, carrying the five cards from the table drawer.
Upon the third finger of the hand was a ring with a large gem that glowed with crimson depths. It caught
Stanley Berger's attention, fascinating him.
'Look at those cards,' said The Shadow. 'I shall tell you what they mean. Answer each statement that I
make. Black signifies: 'There is a meeting to-night.' That is correct?'
'Yes.'
'Gray signifies: 'Meeting to-night. Do not come unless absolutely safe.' Correct?'
'Yes.'
'White signifies: 'Your work is ended. No more meetings!' Correct?'
'Yes.'
'Where were the meetings held?'
The reply that was forming on Stanley Berger's lips suddenly died away. He fought against the control
that held him in its merciless grip.
'No! No!' His exclamation came in short, nervous gasps. 'I cannot tell! I must not tell!'
He fell forward on the table, and buried his head in his arms.
THERE was complete silence for a few tense minutes. Then a distant clock chimed ten times.
A low, fraughtful hiss came from The Shadow. It was well past the half hour that he had allotted. His
voice whispered gentle, soothing words:
'Look up.'
Berger raised his head.
The slender, white hand appeared before his eyes, and he found himself staring into the glowing depths of
the crimson fire opal.
Then an envelope appeared beneath it. A pen was placed in Stanley Berger's hand.
'Write this address.'
The sibilant voice carried a gentle persuasion, which came as balm to Stanley Berger's troubled mind. He
was conscious of the envelope. But the burning fire opal held him beneath its spell. He placed the pen
upon the paper to inscribe:
'Harry Vincent. Metrolite Hotel. New York City.'
With automatic precision, Stanley Berger wrote the address. The envelope was drawn to one side. A
sheet of paper took its place.
