rewritten.'
He started to toss the copy into the wastebasket; then, changing his mind, he thrust it in a desk drawer.
'I'm keeping it, Stevens,' he said gruffly, 'so there will be no comeback if you kick because I fired you.
Don't bother about any assignments to-night. You're through right now.
'I sent you out to find out what a man would do if he had one hour to live. You bring back a story that
has nothing in it. Jonathan Graham simply ignored the whole idea, and you were too dumb to ask him
questions that might get him started.
'The column won't appear in to-morrow's paper. Your copy is no good, and neither are you. That's final.
Goodbye.'
'It was very late when I saw Mr. Graham,' pleaded the reporter. 'Four o'clock, you know. I mentioned
that in the story. He had a lot of work to do— I couldn't bother him too much -'
'Get out!' ordered the city editor.
Stevens was dejected when he left the newspaper building. He had counted a lot on his job as a reporter.
Now it was all over.
He stopped at a lunch wagon near his uptown rooming house, and ate a tasteless meal. Then he went to
his lodging.
He sat mournfully in his room until nearly eight o'clock. His mind seemed unable to grasp the fact that his
job was gone.
Some one knocked at his door. It was the landlady.
'Telephone call for you, Mr. Stevens,' she said.
The young man walked slowly downstairs and answered the telephone. He recognized the voice of the
city editor.
'Hello—Stevens?' came the question.
'Yes, sir,' replied the ex-reporter.
'Get back here to the office, right away. I want to talk to you.'
'But'—Stevens' voice was doubtful—'I thought you fired me, sir.'
'I did. But I'm hiring you again. You're due for an increase in salary. I want to discuss it with you.'
'But I don't understand,' blurted Stevens. 'You said -'
'Forget what I said. We've put your story on the front page in a two-column box. It's a scoop!'
The receiver clicked at the other end.
Stevens started for the subway. He stopped at a stand and bought a copy of the final edition of his paper.
The big headlines on the front page brought a gasp of astonishment to his lips.
Jonathan Graham was dead! The millionaire had committed suicide by leaping from the window of his
office on the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building, at exactly five o'clock.
He had lived just one hour after his interview!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW KNOWS
A CHUBBY-FACED man was seated at a desk in his office in the Grandville Building. Before him lay a
pile of newspapers. Through his spectacles, he was studying clippings that he had cut from the journals.
Some one tapped at the door. The man arose and opened it, peering into the outer office. It was the
stenographer who had knocked.
'It's nearly five o'clock, Mr. Fellows,' said the girl. 'My work is finished. Is it all right for me to leave?'
'Certainly,' replied the round-faced man.
He closed the door and returned to his desk.
This man, despite his quiet and almost lethargic appearance, was in reality a very unusual person.
As Claude H. Fellows, the insurance broker, he had a wide circle of acquaintances, who looked upon
him as a prosaic business man. But Fellows' real work in life was more dramatic. He was the confidential
agent of that mysterious personage called The Shadow.
The insurance broker was an important cog-wheel in the human mechanism that served The Shadow in
his encounters with master criminals.
Fellows was a methodical man who had the ability to assemble facts and information. It was his duty to
maintain contact with the unknown Shadow, and to pass instructions along to other workers.
To-day he had been busy all afternoon, clipping items that pertained to the suicide of Jonathan Graham,
the millionaire importer. It was nearly twenty-four hours since Graham had died, and Fellows had
gathered everything from all the newspapers.
The insurance broker went to the typewriter and prepared a synopsis that dealt accurately with the
accounts of Jonathan Graham's death. It was his duty to prepare reports on such occurrences as this one.
Jonathan Graham gave an interview to a reporter at four o'clock, stating that if he had but one hour to
live, he would go about his work in regular procedure.
He lived up to that statement. He called in his secretary, Berger, and a stenographer, Miss Smythe, and
dictated a number of letters, which he signed.
At precisely five o'clock, Miss Smythe left the private office. Berger followed with the signed letters.
Miss Smythe was halfway across the waiting room when Berger came out. She had forgotten a pad, and
she returned to the inner office.
She was speaking to Berger as she opened the door. He had turned toward the door, and as the
stenographer opened it, Berger could see directly across the private office.
He dropped the letters suddenly, and leaped forward, crying, 'Mr. Graham! Stop! Don't! Don't!' Then
he slumped against the wall, gasping in horror.
Miss Smythe rushed into the office and was surprised to find that Jonathan Graham was not there. There
were two men in the waiting room: one ran to the private office; the other went to aid Berger.
The secretary pointed and gasped: 'The window! He jumped—we were too late.'
The man looked out the window, and saw a crowd gathering on the side street below. The explanation
was obvious. Jonathan Graham had leaped to his death.
The newspapers have hinted various motives for suicide. No one was in the room when Berger saw
Graham leap. No person could have escaped from the room.
FELLOWS ran down the margin of his report and inscribed certain numbers with a blue pencil. These
corresponded to numbers on the newspaper clippings. When he had finished the work, the insurance
broker folded the paper and clippings, and inserted them in a large manila envelope. He took the
envelope with him when he left the office.
Hailing a cab, he rode to Twenty-third Street, and entered a dingy office building.
On the third floor he stopped in front of a door near the end of the hall. On the frosted glass appeared
the name—B. Jonas.
The shadows of cobwebs appeared through the pane. Evidently the door had not been opened for many
months. Thick dust on the glass was additional evidence to that effect.
Very little light came from the room within; evidently there was a single window that provided very little
illumination.
There was a letter chute in the doorway, bearing the sign, 'Leave Mail Here.' Fellows dropped the
envelope in the chute.
