the barrel of the revolver. He still held the butt, and his finger found the trigger. He fired to no avail.
Jermyn had turned the muzzle of the gun away.
With a quick twist, Jermyn managed to yank the revolver from the man who held it. The weapon
clattered across the floor as Jermyn flung it toward the wall.
Heavy fists struck downward. The fierce murderer pounded the man beneath him. His fingers clutched
Jermyn's throat. A thumb pressed deeply into the flesh. Jermyn suddenly relaxed.
It was not the choking that had overcome him. His wound was a mortal one. He had been fighting on
nerve alone. Now, his strength was gone.
The murderer knew that his victim lived no longer. With a low, muttered exclamation, he arose and
picked up the glowing flashlight. Then he paused and extinguished the light. Some one was pounding at
the outer door of the apartment, the way by which the killer had entered.
Help was here. Escape must be made at once. The killer pushed the button of the flashlight. The rays
turned toward Martin Powell. Beside the investigator lay the automatic which Powell had used so
ineffectually.
In the murderer's mind were two thoughts. First to escape; second, to carry a weapon with him.
His own gun was gone. It was the object of his search. He wanted his own revolver, but the heavy
beating at the door was alarming. There was no time for either choice or delay. The hand of the killer
seized the automatic. The man dashed toward a window, extinguishing the light as he went.
Peering from the window, he saw the balcony of a fire tower. He drew up the sash, swung his body
clear, and clung to a cornice as he stretched toward the rail. He lost his footing, but his wild, clutching
hands managed to grasp the rail.
The escaping killer pulled himself to safety and began a mad flight down the steps of the tower.
Back in the room where three men lay, all was silent, save for the sound of pounding that came from the
outer door, far down the hallway. Then the pounding ceased suddenly. The rescuers, thwarted, had gone
for assistance.
Silence followed. Then a slight moan. One of the three was not dead. A second moan; then silence. From
far down the hall came a distant click, as though the lock of the heavy outer door had yielded. A few
seconds passed, then the silence of the room was broken by a new sound that was scarcely audible.
Something was swishing through the darkness. A tiny ray of light gleamed along the wall. A spot, no
larger than a silver dollar, was focused upon the light switch which the murderer had pressed. A hand
reached forth and pressed the switch.
Some one had entered this room of death!
CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW KNOWS
ONCE again, the office of John Hendrix was flooded with light. This room, the most secluded in the
apartment, presented a gruesome sight.
Two of the fallen men were unmistakably dead. One was John Hendrix; the other was Jermyn. Only
Martin Powell still lived. He was the one who had moaned. Even now, his lips were moving.
In the midst of the scene of carnage stood a tall man clad in black. The Shadow had arrived too late to
prevent the killings; now was his opportunity to learn the identity of the murderer.
One man could tell. That was Martin Powell. The Shadow leaned over the form of the dying investigator.
