The sleeper stirred, but did not awaken. The man who had entered began a close search of the
compartment. He came to the man who dozed.
The sleeper was a man of middle age with aristocratic features. His hair was gray; he wore a
close-clipped mustache, apparently of recent growth.
The mysterious visitor leaned over the occupant of the compartment. His black cloak seemed to envelop
the sleeper, as it obscured him from view. When the man in black stepped away, his hand held a thin
package of folded papers.
He stood there, studying the man before him. The man in black seemed to have no face; it was entirely
hidden by his upturned collar, and by the brim of his dark hat. His form cast a huge, fantastic shadow.
The mysterious man laughed softly.
The sound awakened the sleeper. The man of aristocratic appearance was leaning with his head turned to
one side.
As he opened his eyes, he saw the shadow on the seat beside him. He looked up quickly. His face paled;
his arms dropped helplessly. An expression of complete astonishment came over him.
'The Shadow!' he exclaimed.
The figure in black bowed.
'I am pleased to meet you, Prince Zuvor,' he said, in a sinister whisper. 'I am surprised to find you here
in Germany.'
THE seated man bit his lips. He raised himself, as he regained his composure. He watched the figure as it
moved backward toward the door.
'The Shadow,' said Prince Zuvor musingly. 'Strange that I should think of that name. I discussed The
Shadow once, with a friend of mine - a gentleman named Cranston. Do you chance to know
him—Lamont Cranston?'
There was a suave calmness in the man's voice. Completely recovered from his first surprise, he was
endeavoring to cover his mistake.
'Prince Zuvor,' said The Shadow, in the same uncanny whisper, 'we have met in various places, under
different identities.
'Perhaps you believe that you know who I am. I can assure you that you are wrong.
'Perhaps you believe that I did not recognize you the last time we met. If so, you are wrong again. The
crimson mask that disguised your face was not sufficient—especially when I tell you that I had previously
learned that Prince Zuvor and the Red Envoy were one individual.'
The Russian smiled.
'I suspected you each time I met you,' said The Shadow tersely. 'I was suspicious at the Cobalt Club,
when you invited me to come to your house—at my own risk.
'When I did call to see you, your suggestion that I leave by your secret exit was just a bit overdone. So I
came again, to take advantage of your suggestion.
'Of course, I was prepared. I had learned of Berchik's death.'
The smile faded from Prince Zuvor's countenance. The Shadow spoke as though he was about to reveal
new discoveries.
'Strange,' whispered The Shadow. 'Strange, was it not, that your servant, Fritz Bloch, was never at your
house? I suspected why.
'Fritz did not exist. He was a pretense—you—in disguise. Prince Zuvor never stood face to face, with
Fritz, until a few nights ago. Then two of us had other personalities.
'I was Prince Zuvor. Ivan Shiskin became Fritz Bloch.'
Bewilderment registered itself on the Russian's features. Then his expression became one of silent anger.
'That is how Ivan happened to attend the Red meeting,' said The Shadow. 'Of course Prokop gave him
the bomb. You had arranged the gray card, so that Prokop would not be surprised when Fritz did not
appear; but Fritz did appear.
'He used the bomb, too, for which I am very sorry; because he lost his life. The fact that Prokop and all
his agents also died does not lessen my grief for Ivan.'
Prince Zuvor could not believe his ears. Twenty killed in an explosion! It was not an exaggeration, after
all. His eyes turned unconsciously toward the newspaper.
'Ah!' The Shadow's tone expressed approval. 'I see that you are interested in my transatlantic flight.
'It was on your account that I made that journey. I had to make up for lost time. Lieutenant Branson will
receive credit for it, even though I took his place. I could easily have reached Berlin; but I preferred to
complete my trip on this train de luxe.'
THE Russian could not restrain the gasp that escaped his lips. He stared at the man before him, and his
hopes fell, as he realized the superhuman ability of his opponent.
'Your game was a clever one, Prince Zuvor,' said The Shadow. 'I do not care whether you played it by
choice, or whether it was forced upon you. The result was the same.
'It was pleasant to live in New York, as a representative of the former aristocracy of Russia, and to hold
the position of Red Envoy, also. One protected the other.
'You could trap your czarist friends without suspicion. As Fritz Bloch, you reported Prince Zuvor's
doings. As the Red Envoy, you could prevent Prokop from molesting Prince Zuvor. And through it all,
Ivan was faithful to his master.'
The Shadow ceased speaking, and stood silent, his black cloak swaying with the motion of the train. It
seemed almost as though he was lost in admiration of Prince Zuvor's cleverness. His next remark carried
that thought.
'So now you return to Russia, Prince Zuvor. Very well; return if you wish. But first you will hand over to
me the plans which you stole from Professor Whitburn. Where are they?'
Prince Zuvor quietly folded his arms in front of his body. He could feel the pressure of a thick envelope
beneath his coat.
'They are in the lining of my traveling bag,' he said. 'Open it, and take them. You deserve some reward
for your efforts.'
The Shadow ignored the sarcastic tone. He leaned forward, and carefully opened the bag. His back was
partly turned. Prince Zuvor whipped his right hand from beneath his coat, and swung an automatic
toward the leaning man.
But The Shadow was alert. He caught the Russian's wrist with a grip of steel. A twist, and the revolver
dropped to the floor.
The Shadow removed the papers from the lining of the bag. He examined them, at the same time
watching Prince Zuvor. The Russian's face flamed with intense anger and suppressed rage.
'These are Professor Whitburn's plans,' said The Shadow. 'I appreciate your willingness in delivering
them to me.
'I shall leave you now. You are going back to Russia'—his voice became a total whisper—'to
Russia—the land where failure means death!'
The door of the compartment swung inward, as The Shadow released it. The black form seemed to melt
into the darkness of the dim corridor.
