Why had Lamont Cranston questioned Alvarez Legira? Why had he ceased his questioning at the very
moment when the consul had expected him to resume his quiz? What was the mystery behind the strange
negotiations which Legira had managed to conclude?
The only answer to these problems was a low, uncanny laugh that echoed along the outside wall of the
Hotel Corona. Some one, invisible in the darkness, had uttered that weird laugh, and the eerie mirth bore
unfathomable foreboding.
It was the laugh of The Shadow. He had observed the secretive actions of Alvarez Legira. Ten million
dollars were at stake. Others had been lulled into believing that the money was safe. They did not suspect
that a mighty plot was on foot to rob them of immense wealth.
That fact was one which Alvarez Legira had shrewdly avoided mentioning. He believed that his suave
speech had produced full confidence, and that none who had heard him to-night could possibly suspect
his plans.
In that, Legira had been mistaken.
The Shadow had been at that secret meeting!
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER III. WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT
AS Alvarez Legira stepped from his taxicab in front of a brownstone building on a side street north of
Eighty-first, the light of a near-by street lamp plainly revealed the figure of the tall consul as he paid the
driver. That light also showed the front of the building, which seemed a focal point in the middle of a
sullen, dark-windowed row.
The house was distinguished from the neighboring buildings by a bronze plate located beside the door.
The plaque bore the coat of arms of the new Republic of Santander. This marked it as the consular
residence.
The cab pulled away, leaving Legira alone on the curb. With his blase indifference, the consul mounted
the steps and rang the doorbell. There was a pulling of bolts; the door opened cautiously, and Legira
entered. The street remained deserted, with the illumination still glaring on the front of that one
conspicuous house.
All was dark across the street. The buildings there were old and unoccupied. Silence remained after
Legira's departure. Yet that darkness opposite the consul's residence bespoke the presence of living
beings. A passer might have imagined vague whisperings coming from the gloom of a little alleyway.
Footsteps sounded lightly. A man strolled along the street opposite Legira's. He paused to light a
cigarette. The glare of the match showed a keen, firm face. The man tossed the match in the gutter. His
glance, following the bit of blazing wood, swung toward Legira's house. He resumed his way toward the
next corner.
By the time he was out of earshot, whispers were at work. Two men were talking, both unseen and
unheard by the stranger who had passed.
“That's him,” came a low voice. “Martin Powell. Told you he'd be along as soon as Legira got in the
house.”
“What of it?” was the reply. “He's no better than a flatfoot. Might as well carry a police whistle to let us
know he's coming.”
