The fourth clipping, which was marked, 'Classic Explosion,' came in for a careful inspection while the hands remained motionless.
At length a pencil was taken by the right hand. It passed over the names of the managing editor and the two reporters who had been killed. It stopped at the statement, 'Unidentified Man, evidently a visitor to the newspaper office.'
There the pencil placed a question mark.
Now the clippings were brushed aside. Another envelope was drawn forth by the hands. It bore the words, 'Report of Harry Vincent.'
The hands unfolded a typewritten sheet taken from the envelope, and the hidden eyes read: Richard Pennypacker had his own office in the Tully Building. It was his custom to arrive at the office at nine o'clock. At ten, or shortly afterward, he would leave the office, carrying papers in his briefcase. He went to an office in the Stock Exchange.
He always followed the same route, and he happened to be on his customary path when the explosion occurred in Wall Street.
Beneath this appeared a second tabulation:
Glen Houghton came into work from Mount Vernon. He always came through the Grand Central Station and stopped at one cigar stand to buy cigars for the day. It was his regular custom and he was evidently buying cigars when the explosion occurred.
Then came a third listing:
George V. Houston lived at the New York Barge Club, opposite Central Park. He invariably came downtown at noon. He always took the subway at Columbus Circle. It was just after he entered the station that the explosion occurred, and he was one of the victims.
Three strange coincidences! Three freaks of fate that had brought men to their doom!
There were others who had died, but none of their names appeared in the typewritten list of those who had been associated with Hubert Banks, except one, and it was not ignored.
Along with the listings of Pennypacker, Houghton, and Houston, appeared the name of Perry Warfield. It had its notation, as follows:
Promoter. Has been engaged in various schemes with Hubert Banks. Went to Oklahoma on two occasions to investigate oil wells for Banks. Seems to be well off financially, and sees Banks frequently.
The name of Perry Warfield appeared upon the list supplied by Harry Vincent. But it bore no explanatory remarks. Evidently the long arm of coincidence had not stretched forth to seize this fourth man.
The hands of The Shadow became motionless. Only the changing glow of the fire opal on the third finger of the left hand gave signs of activity. The hands themselves seemed to be formed of molded wax.
Minutes ticked by. Then came a low, slight buzz from the corner of the room. The hands disappeared. A moment later, a whispered voice crept through the silence.
It was the first audible sound that had disturbed the silence since the light had clicked. A low conversation followed. The invisible man was talking over the telephone.
There was a click as the receiver was replaced. Then the hands, were back again at the table. They were writing, filling in the space beneath the name of Perry Warfield, with letters that were as precise and as uniform as those of the typewriter:
Burbank reports word from Vincent. Perry Warfield did not come from his home in Westfield today. He was taken suddenly ill. He will come tomorrow. He arrives at nine, every day and goes directly to the office of Barr Childs, in the Financial Building.
The hand hesitated. Then, in small letters it wrote these words: Before nine o'clock.
Each word was underscored by the pencil. The light clicked out.
Through the darkness of that pitch-black room came the sound of a hollow, whispered laugh. It was an uncanny noise - a mirthless murmur both forbidding and foreboding.
Its echoes resounded from the hidden walls and died away to nothingness. No other sound followed. The room was empty.
The Shadow had laughed, and now The Shadow was gone!
CHAPTER V. A HAND INTERVENES
IT was eight o'clock in the morning. The first throng of early workers was still entering the Financial Building, Manhattan's newest skyscraper.
Beneath the towering monolith that raised its lofty spire eight hundred feet above the street, these people seemed less than pygmies. They came by hundreds, and were absorbed within the giant walls of the massive structure.
The long row of elevators was working to capacity. A crowd of stenographers and businessmen were pushing their way into the waiting cars.
One elevator sped upward and made its first stop at the thirtieth floor. There it began to discharge its human freight.
It continued upward. At the forty-fourth floor, a single passenger stepped forth. The door slid shut behind him.
The man hesitated a moment, then walked along the corridor and stopped at an office which bore the number 4418. On the glass panel appeared the title:
Barr Childs. Investments.
The man reached in his coat pocket and removed a set of keys. He looked carefully about him and noted that he was alone in the corner of the corridor.
He was tall, immaculately clad in a tailor-made suit of dark blue. He appeared prosperous.
His most noticeable characteristic was his face. He was smooth-shaven and had a quiet, dignified expression. One would have hesitated to state that he was more than forty; yet his firmly molded features indicated that he might be much older.
The light that came through the glass-paneled door made his face seem masklike, as though his flat cheeks and aristocratic nose had been molded by some human artifice. As he gazed at the door before him, his eyes sparkled.
The visitor inserted a key in the lock. It was not the right key. He tried another; then a third. Each time, he was unsuccessful.
He kept the third key in the lock and moved it back and forth with his thumb and forefinger. He was probing the lock as though he could feel its interior. His thumb and finger twisted. The lock clicked. The door opened.
The stranger entered the office and closed the door behind him.
A partition divided the office into two compartments. A glass-paneled door bore the word, 'PRIVATE.'
This door was locked. The visitor opened it with another key, finding his first attempt successful.
There was a closet in the inner office. This, too, was locked.
The keys that the stranger carried seemed gifted with a magic charm. Before a minute had elapsed, the door to the closet was open.
There were many articles in the small closet; boxes and piles of circular letters. With amazing rapidity, the stranger made a thorough inspection, removing various objects and replacing them exactly as they had been.
In less than five minutes he had completed his search. He locked the closet and looked around the room.
In the corner stood a typewriter table. There was no chair beside it. The man laughed softly. Evidently the table was not used regularly.
It was one of those tables that opened at the top, swinging the typewriter into position. It was locked, but this time the visitor did not resort to a key. He produced instead a tiny instrument which he pushed into the small lock.
Carefully and slowly, he swung the top of the typewriter table. The interior came into view. Instead of the typewriter, a square box appeared.
The stranger lifted the lid. He brought out a round object, larger than a bowling ball. Its top consisted of a small but complicated mechanism, made of polished brass.
