them
shouted as he saw a figure above. He swung his revolver to fire.
Crack!
In each hand The Shadow held an automatic. His first bullet downed the leading man of the invaders. The
others sprang forward, both about to fire at once.
A second report sounded and another invader fell. The third made a wild scramble for safety, shooting as
he dived. His shot was wide. The Shadow's third bullet clipped him in the shoulder. The man plunged
headlong down the stairs, into the arms of Pete Ballou.
“The Shadow!”
This was the awe-stricken cry uttered by the wounded gangster. Pete Ballou did not seem to understand.
He thrust the injured man aside. His foot was on the lowest step. Silk Dowdy, close beside him, gripped
Ballou's arm.
“The Shadow!” exclaimed Dowdy.
“The Shadow?” questioned Pete Ballou.
“Yes”—Dowdy's tone was breathless—“if he's in this, we're up against it. I know what he's like,
Ballou—”
The seriousness of Dowdy's tone impressed the leader. Pete Ballou looked about him and saw that the
others of the mob were also restrained by indecision.
“We'll get him!” declared Ballou.
“Wait!” Silk Dowdy spoke quickly. “He's got us blocked. Heave that pineapple.”
The last words were uttered to a short, swarthy man. The fellow grinned as he brought a bomb into view.
Ballou nodded his approval.
“Scatter!”
At Ballou's order, the gangsters rapidly withdrew toward the front door, with the exception of the man
who held the bomb. This intrepid expert stood poised at an angle, ready to throw the deadly missive and
dive in the direction of his companions.
Before he could move, the tall figure of The Shadow stood in view upon the landing. At the sight of that
ominous form, with its fist-gripped automatics, Silk Dowdy barked a spontaneous command.
“Quick!” he cried. “Throw it quick!”
The man's arm was swinging. The Shadow fired. His target was that moving arm. His bullet struck the
bomber's wrist. The deadly pineapple slipped sidewise from the crippled hand. It struck against the wall
at the bottom of the stairs and exploded with a mighty burst.
A wave of nauseating smoke swept through the lower hall. Wreckage tumbled from everywhere. Plaster,
bits of wood and fragments of metal fell in a deluge. The bomber was buried in the midst of the debris, a
victim of his own weapon. The lower portion of the stairs was tilted at an angle. Above, on the protected
landing, stood The Shadow, unharmed.
The concussion had produced an effect near the front door. The gangsters there were halted by the
shock. Lying on the floor and against the walls, they recovered themselves. Pete Ballou, who had
reached the front steps with Silk Dowdy, issued a sharp command.
“Get him! Get him!”
THROUGH the clearing smoke, the form of The Shadow came suddenly to view. It loomed like the
figure of death amid an inferno. The sight of the enemy was as effective as Ballou's cry. Standing, leaning,
and kneeling, the gangsters aimed their guns.
Flashes of flame shot from the landing. The Shadow's automatics were taking their toll before his
