What lay behind that door was a mystery to Claude Fellows. Once he had wondered about it—long ago.
He had questioned tenants in the building, and had learned that no one ever entered the room—not even
the janitor, for the tenants paid for cleaning service and Jonas had never requested it.
So Fellows had come to accept the strange, closed office as a very ordinary matter. To-day he walked
away without even giving it a second thought.
It was simply the place to which he brought or sent reports and messages intended for The Shadow.
Once Fellows thought he had identified The Shadow, but he had found that he was mistaken. So he
continued his routine work, satisfied with his reward, which came in the form of a monthly payment from
some unknown source.
Who and what The Shadow was no longer concerned Claude Fellows' mind.
The insurance broker remembered the envelope as he rode uptown. He thought of it lying beneath the
mail chute; then he dismissed the matter.
But at the very moment that the thought of the envelope lingered in Fellows' mind, that same envelope
was lying open on a table, and two long-fingered hands were drawing the clippings from it.
THOSE hands were working in a circle of light that came from a shaded lamp, directly above the table.
They were amazing hands, white and supple.
On one finger of the left hand gleamed a mysterious gem—a glowing fire opal that shone with crimson
hue, and seemed like a living coal.
Beyond the hands was darkness, amid which invisible eyes watched and directed the hands in their work.
A pointed finger ran along the lines of Fellows' brief report.
Then the hands spread out the clippings. One by one they came under inspection of the invisible eyes;
then all attention was directed to the front-page story that had appeared in the Sphere—the report of the
last interview with Jonathan Graham.
The finger moved from word to word, as though ferreting the thoughts that had been in the mind of the
millionaire when he had given the interview.
Had young Stevens been an experienced reporter, or one gifted with imagination, he might have
presented a skillfully changed story, emphasizing certain details and subordinating others.
But as it was, his account was an accurate description of exactly what had transpired in Jonathan
Graham's office at four o'clock the preceding afternoon.
The hands suddenly folded the clipping and thrust it, with the report, back in the envelope. The other
clippings were also put away. Then the hands produced a sheet of paper and a pencil.
Slowly and carefully the right hand wrote, and the words were so carefully marked that they seemed like
spoken thoughts as they came on the paper.
Jonathan Graham's death is classed as suicide. There are hints of motives. Every life has possible motives
for suicide. Jonathan Graham did not contemplate suicide when he gave the interview. Nothing that
occurred in the following hour could have made him decide to end his life.
Therefore Jonathan Graham was murdered. Only one man's testimony disputes that fact—the testimony
of the secretary, Stanley Berger.
Berger claims that he saw Graham leap from the window.
Graham did not leap from the window.
Therefore Berger did not see him leap.
Why did he make his statement? To aid the murderer.
Why did he wish to aid the murderer?
Because he was the murderer.
The hand stopped writing. Then it began again, and the words that it inscribed came as a revelation that
told exactly what had transpired in the office of Jonathan Graham.
It was a perfect reconstruction of the crime—formed by a master mind that had the uncanny ability to
picture the thoughts and actions of another person.
Jonathan Graham had a habit of standing by the window, which had a low sill. This fact appeared in the
account of his last interview.
Berger and Miss Smythe were in the office with Graham at five o'clock. Graham turned to look out of the
open window, as Miss Smythe left. Berger was gathering a few letters. He was standing close to Graham
as the door closed behind Miss Smythe.
It was an opportunity. Like a flash, Berger pushed Graham through the window, catching him off
balance, sending him to his doom.
Berger left the room immediately. It was done so rapidly that he seemed to come out right behind Miss
Smythe. That was to be his alibi. Yet he must have had qualms.
When Miss Smythe turned to go back to the private office, Berger gained a sudden opportunity. Staring
directly into the office, he screamed a warning as the stenographer opened the door. Then he yielded to
his shaking nerves.
The hand stopped writing. It began to tap the pencil against the paper, counting the seconds that were
marked by a watch that lay on the table.
The brain in the darkness was going through the murder of Jonathan Graham, counting from the very
instant when Berger pushed the millionaire through the window until the moment when the secretary
screamed his warning.
Thirty taps. Then the hand wrote:
Half a minute at the most. No one knows the exact minute at which Jonathan Graham's body crashed to
the street. The time element is perfectly in Berger's favor.
Berger's alibi is now perfect—to the unthinking minds of those who were in the office—and to the minds
of the police.
But to the deductive brain, Berger's action betrays his crime.
The right hand picked up the paper, and crumpled it into a ball. The hand disappeared and returned
without the paper. Then on another sheet, it wrote:
Stanley Berger murdered Jonathan Graham.
The pencil remained still for two short seconds; then it moved again, and the hand inscribed these words:
The Shadow knows!
CHAPTER IV. THE RED ENVOY
LATE that evening, a man entered an apartment house in upper Manhattan. He was short and heavy set,
with a grim face that bore signs of ugliness. He walked abruptly through the hallway and took the
automatic elevator to the third floor.
There he opened the door of an apartment and entered a darkened room. He pressed a switch on the
wall. Then he turned toward the far corner of the room. A quick gasp came from his lips.
Behind a small desk sat a man in a dark-blue overcoat, who wore a crimson mask that covered the
upper half of his face.
'The Red Envoy!' exclaimed the man who had entered the room.
The figure behind the desk did not reply. The man in the crimson mask was motionless. His hands lay
upon the desk; they were hidden within thin red gloves.
