the
driver. The Shadow's aim was true.
The man at the wheel collapsed. The car, uncontrolled, kept straight ahead instead of taking the last
portion of the curve. It sideswiped an old gate in front of the driveway, tilted to one side and turned
turtle.
Swinging his coupe, The Shadow calmly drove from the drive and turned toward Manhattan. Men were
crawling from the wrecked cars—men who seemed dazed and bewildered. Others lay unmoving. Not a
shot was fired by the defeated gangsters as The Shadow's car rolled along the road.
The coupe headed westward. Its speed increased. It left the scene of havoc far behind. Single- handed,
The Shadow had outwitted and defeated the mobsters who had ambushed and pursued his men. Those
evildoers had paid the penalty for their cowardly attack.
The coupe swept on to Manhattan. It crossed a big suspension bridge and threaded its way rapidly
through the streets. It stopped before a large apartment house. From the car stepped The Shadow,
garbed in black. He melted into the darkness of the side street, a part of the night itself.
When next the sinister form appeared, it was standing before the door of an apartment. A key worked
noiselessly in the lock. The door opened. The sound of a low-pitched voice reached the hall.
Frank Desmond was talking over the telephone. His words were uttered in a tone of enthusiasm.
“Great... I understand... You will be here for me... I have my luggage... Not more than fifty pounds...”
The Shadow was edging into the room. He stood in plain view, now, but Desmond did not see him. The
man's back was toward the door.
Desmond hung up the receiver. He turned toward the end of the room. He viewed his face in a mirror.
His lips wore a smile. Desmond laughed. He was experiencing an elation which he liked. He was
enjoying a traitor's triumph.
Legira had been thwarted. Zelva had borne out his promise. Plans were prepared for Desmond— plans
which could not fail.
A traitor's triumph!
Desmond's laugh was raucous. The sight of his own leering face pleased him. His mouth was opened
wide in a victorious grin.
Then came a sudden change. The man's smile froze. His pudgy face turned white. He stood whimpering
at what he saw in the mirror. There, reflected weirdly, was a form towering above his shoulder.
Desmond gasped as he saw the black-cloaked shoulders, the brim of the slouch hat, the glittering eyes
that marked The Shadow. Beneath the brim of the hat were features that Desmond could not distinguish.
Upon them rested a greenish glow, which formed a ghostly sight.
Desmond trembled as he heard the tones of a sinister, taunting laugh. It came from unseen lips and its
echoes cast a weird, uncanny spell that filled the room.
To Desmond, that laugh brought terror. It was the laugh of The Shadow. To-night, it marked the end of a
traitor's triumph.
CHAPTER XXV. THE DOUBLE CROSS
Two ships floated serenely on a placid sea. One was the yacht Cordova; the other was a rakish,
low-lying rumrunner. In the fading light of early evening, they seemed like painted ships.
A plane came purring from the distance. As it neared the ships, it circled, headed toward the Cordova
and zoomed downward. It came to rest upon the surface of the ocean.
