closed
again.
THE sedan was pulling from the drive. Its lights threw a long beam upon the corner of the old house.
They showed strange shadows there. Then Frank Desmond was speeding westward toward New York.
Whirling on at sixty miles an hour along the open road, Desmond was pondering over the new mission
which had been given to him. He was thinking of the additional thousand dollars and the ease with which
he had acquired it.
A horn sounded behind the sedan and Desmond inclined to the right as a swift coupe sped past him at a
terrific rate. It must have been making nearly ninety miles an hour, for its tail light disappeared with
amazing rapidity.
Little did Frank Desmond realize that the swift coupe was piloted by another man who knew his plans as
well as he. The Shadow, hastening back to New York, was thinking, like Desmond, of a sum of money.
But his mind was concerned with more than a thousand dollars. The Shadow was thinking of the box
which Legira possessed—the box that contained ten million!
A sound came above the roar of the coupe's motor. That sound was a mocking laugh. Foreboding mirth,
it spelled doom to those who resorted to crime. The Shadow, strange creature of the night, had learned
the plans of Alvarez Legira.
He had been within reach of the ten million dollars, yet he had chosen to let the wealth remain, for the
time, in the possession of the scheming man from Santander.
The Shadow had more work to do before to-morrow night. Lives, as well as money, were at stake!
What was The Shadow's purpose? How did he intend to cope with the strange mixture of plans that
surrounded the final fate of the hoard of wealth that Legira had obtained?
Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW'S THEORY
IT was after midnight. Detective Joe Cardona was still in the office of John Hendrix. He was alone. The
bodies had been removed and now the shrewd detective was examining the evidence.
There was a knock at the door. Cardona uttered a gruff command to enter. A policeman came into the
room and announced that Lamont Cranston had arrived.
“Show him in,” ordered Cardona, “but keep the reporters out, until after I have talked with him.”
Lamont Cranston, tall and calm-faced, entered.
The man was faultlessly attired in evening clothes. He looked inquiringly at Cardona. The detective
pointed to a chair beside the desk. Cranston sat down and Cardona leaned against the wall and began to
speak.
“Glad you got here, Mr. Cranston,” he said. “I have been talking to a fellow named Roger Cody and he
said that he had better discuss matters with you.”
“Certainly,” said Cranston, with a quick smile. “Cody could not very well discuss the subject of financial
arrangements that Hendrix made. He was quite right to refer you to me. This is a terrible
tragedy”—Cranston's face became stern—“and I intend to do all in my power to aid in the capture of the
murderer.”
“We should have had him,” said Cardona ruefully. “He didn't get away until after I was here. Broke loose
through a whole squad. They charged him, but he dodged them in a car.”
“I should like to know the details,” suggested Cranston. “Then I can tell you whatever facts may be of
assistance to you in following this case.”
“Well,” said Cardona, “Hendrix was here in his apartment all afternoon. His man, Jermyn, was here also.
