three minutes before the arrival of The Shadow.
If Ballou had left the room of death at ten minutes of nine—the approximate time of the murder— he
would have reached the hotel with twenty-four minutes to spare.
The point of the pencil rested upon the statement:
Ballou: 9.14—9.34.
It crossed out “9.14” and substituted “9.10.”
Now came a soft laugh from the dark. The Shadow, in his contemplation of the figure was considering a
factor which even Joe Cardona had overlooked. The time of the murders had been set as eight fifty, for
that was when the alarm had come from central. Yet the struggle—the evidence of which The Shadow
had seen—indicated clearly that time had elapsed between the shots that had caused the killings.
The light clicked out. Usually, that was the sign for the departure of The Shadow. To-night the man of
mystery was waiting. Complete silence dominated the room, for a time. Then came a scarcely audible
sound. The Shadow was writing in the dark.
THE noise ceased. Another lulling spell of silence. A tiny light shone through the darkness. Burbank was
calling. The earphones clicked as they were carried across the table. The Shadow spoke.
“Report,” was his word.
The Shadow listened as Burbank relayed information from Harry Vincent, the operative who was
watching Pete Ballou. When Burbank had concluded the report, the light clicked on above the desk.
There, perfectly inscribed upon the sheet of paper, were the words which The Shadow had written.
“Orders.” The Shadow's command was terse. “Have Marsland join with Burke and Vincent to-morrow.
Duty on Long Island. Place indicated in next order. Vincent to maintain contact. Relieve until
summoned.”
Burbank's response denoted that the order had been checked.
“Listen for radio signals,” came the next order. “Yacht Cordova off Long Island. Code.”
Another click through the earphones. “Cover Legira home as usual,” was The Shadow's final order.
“Vincent to drop Ballou immediately. Relieved.”
Out went the light. The instruments clicked as they were placed across the table. Then, through the pitch
darkness of the room came the tones of a long, mocking laugh. It was a shuddering laugh that was
scarcely louder than a whisper; yet the very blackness of the room seemed to quiver with the sound and
the walls hurled back ghoulish echoes that might have come from corridors of space.
The Shadow had planned new work. Burbank would remain at his post of duty. The active operatives
were relieved from duty until the following day.
“Vincent to drop Ballou immediately. Relieved.”
There was a deep significance in that order. There was only one man to take the relief. That man was
The Shadow. He was to carry on where Harry Vincent had left off. While his agents slept, awaiting the
task of tomorrow, The Shadow would maintain the vigil.
The Shadow was a man who never slept when important events were developing. Unwearied by the
adventure of this evening, he had set a new task for himself to perform. In Pete Ballou he had discovered
a key to vicious plots that were reaching their culmination. Another mission called The Shadow now.
Again, the ghostly laugh crept through the inky room. Long, weird, and sinister, it clung to crevices that
shouted back their strange reverberations as though a host of imps had cried with gibing mirth.
When the last sounds of that eerie peal had ended, deep silence pervaded The Shadow's sanctuary—the
