The door was drawn shut; The Shadow was gone. But as he disappeared, a laugh came from his invisible
lips—a taunting laugh.
Prince Zuvor snatched the revolver from the floor. He stood in the center of the compartment, watching
the door. Then he resumed his seat.
He smiled, as he held the gun in readiness, while he thrust his other hand deep in the lining of his coat, and
drew forth a long envelope.
As though to enjoy the triumph which he felt, Prince Zuvor opened the envelope, in which he carried
exact duplicates of Professor Whitburn's plans— copies which he had made on the Dresden. Still
watching the door, the Russian spread the papers in his lap.
'Fool!' he hissed. 'Fool, called The Shadow! You thought because I drew a revolver that I was fighting
to keep my only set of plans. You are welcome to those you took. These will serve me every bit as well!'
He looked at the papers in his lap. They were blank!
HE turned them over—both sides were blank. Nervously, the Russian dropped his revolver, and it
clattered to the floor. As Zuvor spread the blank sheets, he heard a laugh that came from the other side
of the closed door.
The truth dawned on Prince Zuvor. The Shadow had entered without awakening him, and had taken the
duplicate plans from his coat, substituting these blank papers instead.
The Red Envoy had been tricked into delivering up the original plans. He had given them with a pretense
of reluctance; he had even made a gesture to recover them.
For he had felt the packet in his coat, and had been sure that the duplicates were safe.
By his subtle methods, The Shadow had led Zuvor to reveal the set of plans that were in the traveling
bag, and now the Red Envoy held nothing. The man in the compartment groaned.
The details of Professor Whitburn's invention were too complicated to be remembered without the plans
themselves, he could not rely upon his memory.
He had stolen the plans; he had brought them with him. He had reached Germany, where he was beyond
the reach of the agents of the United States government.
But he had not escaped The Shadow—that man who could span an ocean when he set out in pursuit.
The Russian leaped to the door of the compartment. He unlocked the door, and stared up and down the
corridor. There was no sign of the man who had emitted that uncanny laugh. Yet the sound of the taunting
merriment still echoed through Prince Zuvor's maddened brain.
He closed the door, and slumped into his seat.
'To Russia—the land where failure means death!'
The Shadow's words were true. Even the Red Envoy must report to one higher up, exactly as the agents
had reported to Prokop, and Prokop to the Red Envoy.
The situation was terrifying to Prince Zuvor. As a renegade royalist, he had worked long to obtain his
position of immunity. In order to maintain his security against enemies, he had promised to bring the plans
of Professor Whitburn's invention, that his superiors might make use of it before it had reached the
American government.
The train was slowing as it neared a station. Prince Zuvor did not notice the slackening speed. He sat
motionless, dazed and staring. He knew that he had failed; he realized that no excuse would be accepted.
When the train de luxe reached Berlin, a startling discovery was made.
The body of a man—a Russian—was found in a compartment. The dead man was identified as Prince
Zuvor, a member of the old regime.
His death was pronounced suicide. He had swallowed poison. The bottle which had contained the
death-dealing fluid was lying on the seat beside the body.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DEPARTURE
THE successful nonstop flight of the Silver Comet was a front-page sensation in the American
newspapers. The fact that the Transatlantic plane had been given up as lost added to the interest of the
story.
Furthermore, Lieutenant Raymond Branson had disappeared after his successful landing in Germany, and
his whereabouts had been unknown for several days.
Berlin had been the pilot's objective. He had confided that fact to his companion in the plane, early in the
flight.
Everything had gone well until they had reached Germany; then, for some unknown reason, Branson had
been forced to make a landing. He had brought the ship to earth not far from a large town, and had
immediately left the plane.
When his weary companion had climbed from the ship, Branson was nowhere around.
The man who had accompanied Branson had been completely bewildered by the disappearance of his
chief. He was unable to speak German. It had been some hours before he had been able to convince
people that this was a plane from America, and that the pilot had vanished.
Branson's picture had been printed on the front pages of thousands of newspapers. Then, while wild
theories were being advanced to account for his absence, the missing man revealed himself in Berlin.
The strain of the flight had told on him, he said. His failure to reach Berlin had made him frantic. He had
hastened from the plane, and had gone to the town near which he had landed.
From there he had taken a train to Berlin. He had gone to a hotel, and had slept intermittently for three
days and nights.
Then he had realized that his disappearance might have caused consternation. In this he was entirely
correct. It had.
WHILE Raymond Branson was being idolized in Berlin, two men were traveling to America on an ocean
liner. They were inconspicuous passengers on the boat, and they saw each other only occasionally during
the voyage.
One of these men was a wealthy New Yorker named Lamont Cranston. The other was registered on the
passenger list as Victor Marquette.
Although these men appeared to be merely acquaintances, they had held a very short though important
conference in Marquette's stateroom, the night the boat had left Cherbourg.
During the course of that brief meeting, Lamont Cranston had delivered two envelopes into the hands of
Vic Marquette.
The same day that the liner reached New York, Harry Vincent came downstairs from his room on the
second floor of Professor Whitburn's house. He walked outdoors rather unsteadily, and reached a
steamer chair that had been prepared for him. There he sat looking at the lake.
Death Island was a beautiful place to-day. The aspect of gloom had left It.
Some one approached. Harry turned and saw Arlette. The girl seated herself beside him.
'Arlette,' said Harry, 'you promised to tell me your story -'
The girl nodded.
'My father was an American,' she said. 'He died in Russia. My mother, who was a Russian, brought me
