'Wonder where that bird went, so quick?' mused the cab driver. 'Just dropped out of sight all of a
sudden.'
The statement was not an exaggeration. The man on the street had disappeared as if the ground had
swallowed him.
Had the taxi driver peered in the right direction, he would have observed a clew. For on the sidewalk
appeared a long, thin shadow—a shadow that seemed to move of its own accord.
This fantastic shape flitted across the street, and melted into the blackness in front of the old apartment
house.
It came into the light of the entry, and for an instant it seemed to assume human form. Then it had gone.
Two minutes later, the door of Stanley Berger's apartment opened as though the knob had been turned
by some psychic power.
The window shades moved noiselessly downward. Then the beam of a flashlight appeared against the
wall.
The flashlight was suddenly extinguished as the telephone bell began to ring. A form moved softly across
the room; the ringing ceased as the receiver was lifted.
The man in the darkness listened, awaiting some statement from the other end of the line. The word
came. Then a whispered voice spoke amid the silence of the dark apartment—a low, weird voice—the
voice of The Shadow:
'Hello! Burbank?'
The Shadow received acknowledgment. Burbank was one of his trusted agents.
'Report!' came The Shadow's whisper.
The silence of the apartment was disturbed only by the clicking voice that came from the receiver. The
sound ceased.
'Good!' said The Shadow. 'I understand. You heard him order the theater ticket this morning.
Downtown. Vincent trailed him to the theater. Where has Vincent gone?'
A short explanation clicked from the receiver.
'You did not recognize the man he followed?' The question came in The Shadow's whisper. 'What
address did he give the cab driver?'
Burbank's information came over the wire.
'Good work,' commended The Shadow. 'That is all for to-night, Burbank.'
The receiver was replaced upon the hook. The flashlight beamed upon the desk. A hand appeared in the
spot of glare, and the hand held a watch.
'Half an hour to work,' came the almost inaudible whisper. 'Then to the Pink Rat. There will be trouble
there.'
THE flashlight glowed constantly, now. It moved rapidly about the room. It stopped upon a table
drawer.
A hand tested the drawer and found it locked. A small key glistened beneath the rays of the light. A
moment later, the drawer was open.
From the drawer, the hand removed five blank cards. Three of the cards were black; one was gray; the
other was white. The hand placed the cards upon the table.
The flashlight remained steadily upon the cards. The entire room had been searched quickly, but with
amazing thoroughness.
These were the only objects that had been discovered. Yet the cards were blank. Apparently they meant
nothing.
Still, the light was held upon them, as though a mind in the darkness above was studying them with
concentrated thought.
The flashlight went out. The room remained black for a few short minutes. Then a lamp was turned on. It
cast its illumination upon the table, and revealed the cloaked figure of The Shadow.
With the five cards before him, the mysterious personage produced a sheet of paper, and began to
express his thoughts in writing. A column of short, terse statements appeared:
Stanley Berger killed Jonathan Graham.
Stanley Berger is being watched.
Why?
The pencil paused. Then it wrote words that answered the question:
Because certain persons must know that Berger murdered Graham.
Those persons do not want the crime to be discovered.
Those persons must be connected with the crime.
Another pause—a longer pause. Then:
Berger was directed by some one.
He possesses no written evidence.
He received instructions verbally.
Where?
The pencil hesitated a few seconds only. Then it inscribed these statements:
Instructions were given at some unknown meeting place.
Berger was summoned to that place.
Probably more than once.
The blank cards have special meanings.
The long, slender hand thrust the pencil out of sight in the folds of a dark coat. It reappeared, carrying a
fountain pen. It wrote upon a black card, in red ink:
Come for instructions to-night.
The hand stacked the three black cards. The writing explained their meaning.
Stanley Berger had received them at different times. Each card was a summons to attend a meeting.
The pen poised above the gray card. Then it wrote:
Meeting to-night. Do not come unless absolutely safe.
The hand hesitated over the white card; then, as though controlled by a mind that could divine everything,
it wrote, in words that had the vivid red of blood:
Your work is ended. No more meetings.
The revealing words told the meanings of the cards. They remained in view for more than a minute. Then
the writing disappeared from the black card, as though some invisible hand had swept it away.
A few seconds later, the writing on the gray card began to fade. When it had obliterated itself, only the
white card bore its writing. Then those blood-red words slowly vanished.
THE Shadow glanced at his watch. Half an hour had elapsed since the telephone call from Burbank. The
man in black arose, and replaced the cards in the table drawer.
He extinguished the lamp. The flashlight gleamed toward the door; then it was suddenly turned off. To the
keen ears of The Shadow had come the faint sound of a key being inserted in the lock of the door.
A man entered the room, and switched on the light. It was Stanley Berger!
His face was haggard and worried. He walked across the room to a small cupboard, and brought out a
bottle and a glass. He filled the glass, holding it with a hand that shook unsteadily, and drank.
Then he began to look about the room. He saw no one there.
