smooth-topped table. There, two hands appeared, bringing a long white envelope beneath the glare.
Strange hands! White, with long, slender fingers, the hands seemed as living objects that moved detached
from the form that governed them.
As the left hand deftly tore open the end of the envelope, the light from above reflected the luster of a
jewel that gleamed with a strange glow upon the third finger.
That gem was a girasol—the priceless fire opal which was the prized possession of The Shadow. It was
unmatched in all the world; and the shafts of light that sprang from its iridescent depths were changing and
mysterious. From a rich crimson, they varied to a purplish hue, then glimmered a deep blue.
Folded papers tumbled from the envelope. The hands of The Shadow opened them, and eyes from the
dark began a study of the messages which they contained. These were reports from agents of The
Shadow.
A tiny light shone from a black patch on the other side of the table. A hand stretched in that direction. It
returned with a pair of earphones. They were adjusted in the darkness. A whispered voice spoke.
“Report, Burbank.”
The clicking sound of a voice vibrated through the receiver. The Shadow was listening, hearing the words
of Burbank, the one operative who held direct communication with The Shadow himself.
“Report from Vincent,” came Burbank's words.
“Proceed,” said The Shadow.
“No activities on the part of Martin Powell, when away from the vicinity of Legira's residence.”
A pause; then Burbank followed with his next statement.
“Report from Burke.”
“Proceed.”
“Ballou has held communication with Silk Dowdy, who is watching Legira's residence. No developments.
Ballou has had no contact with others.”
“Give your own report.”
“Observations,” declared Burbank. “Martin Powell appeared on street at nine five, walking westward.
Returned at nine sixteen, walking eastward. Appeared again at eleven eighteen. Remained until eleven
twenty-two.
“Another man, identity unknown. Appeared at eleven eleven. Stopped at entrance of alley, apparently to
receive instructions from Silk Dowdy. Resumed progress eastward at eleven thirteen.”
There was a momentary pause; then Burbank's low voice continued its methodical monotony.
“Heard on the dictograph—”
The Shadow's hand was at work as Burbank spoke slowly and steadily. The hand was transcribing a
verbatim report of the conversation that had taken place between Alvarez Legira and his secretary,
Lopez. With the completion of that message, Burbank's report ended.
On the illuminated table lay the transcribed conversation. From the darkness, keen eyes were studying it.
In black and white, that conversation was cryptic. It did not describe the actions of Legira and Lopez;
how the consul had stared in the mirror; how the secretary had suddenly divined a hidden meaning in
what had been said.
Now, the hands held the sheet of paper. They crumpled it and tossed it aside. The light went out. From
the darkness came a low, sinister laugh that reechoed from the walls of a pitch-black room. Then silence
reigned. The man of the night had gone.
IT was nine o'clock the next morning when Alvarez Legira and his man Lopez rode along a side
