Alvarez Legira had fought for that stake, and he had won. He gradually regained his composure. He
looked about for Lamont Cranston, the man who had furnished the dramatic climax to these negotiations.
But he saw no sign of the calm-faced millionaire.
The other men were leaving. Soon, Alvarez Legira was alone with John Hendrix. They talked for a few
minutes. Hendrix would have the money within forty-eight hours. Legira could call and make
arrangements for its shipment to Santander.
“Jermyn!”
When Hendrix gave his summons, the melancholy secretary appeared from the other room. He was the
only one who remained beside the two negotiators. Jermyn was a man who had the confidence of
Hendrix. He had been appointed usher at this secret meeting.
“Mr. Legira is leaving, Jermyn,” said Hendrix. “You may show him through the other room.”
Legira shook hands with Hendrix. He took his hat and cane, and left the suite. In the corridor, alone, he
glanced in both directions; then headed for the stairs that led to the roof garden. Upward he strode until
he reached the top of the final flight.
THERE, Legira peered cautiously from the head of the stairs. With quick, deft movement, he stepped
into the lobby. Standing by the wall, he lowered his head, but looked shrewdly about him while he
inserted a cigarette in his holder.
Legira saw no one watching him. He lighted his cigarette, strode toward the elevator, and joined a group
of people who were leaving the roof.
As he entered the car, Legira's back was directly toward the stairs that he had left. A sudden sensation
gripped him—the feeling that now some one was watching him. He turned; but too late. The door of the
car had closed.
Only a split second prevented Alvarez Legira from seeing what he had suspected. Two eyes were
burning from the darkness of the stairway - eyes that Legira would have recognized. They were the same
eyes that had viewed him so closely during the conference—the eyes of Lamont Cranston.
Now, those eyes had disappeared. No sign of a man was visible. Down through the semidarkness of the
stairway, only a swishing sound betokened the descent of a living being. The stairway ended in a side
passage on the ground floor, a spot which at this hour was deserted.
There, a tall figure came into view—a strange, silent figure that was seen by no one. A tall man, clad in
black, his cloak dropping from his shoulders, his features hidden by the brim of a slouch hat, stood
motionless. Had Alvarez Legira been there to see that phantom shape, with the eyes that gleamed from
beneath the hat brim, he would have been astounded.
For this mysterious man possessed the eyes of Lamont Cranston, yet he was a totally different individual.
In all New York, there was only one who appeared in this strange, fantastic guise. That one was The
Shadow—man of the night, whose very name brought terror to the hearts of evildoers.
A soft laugh came from the hidden lips. The black cloak swished and revealed a flash of its crimson
lining. Then the man of mystery was gone. Moving swiftly through the door at the end of the passage, he
had vanished into the night.
Where crime and danger threatened, there did The Shadow appear. Tonight, he had been present to
learn the plans of Alvarez Legira. Evil work was afoot, and The Shadow was prepared to thwart it.
