'The workhouse!' Partridge shouted. 'Some one has entered there! The alarm! Hurry, every one—there is not a moment to lose!'
He motioned to Vignetti as he passed him in a rush to the door. The Corsican hesitated momentarily, his eye on Vic Marquette; then, observing that the secret-service man was heading for the door also, Vignetti joined in the mad rush.
Flashlights glimmered through the dark as the rescue squad burst from a side door of the house and dashed across the lawn toward the workhouse. Vic Marquette was in the center of the mad surge, unquestioned by the scientist's henchmen, who supposed him to be a friend of the old man.
Marquette let others pass him; at the rear of the crowd, his presence passed virtually unnoticed.
Lucien Partridge, springing forward with amazing agility, was the first to reach the goal. He stopped abruptly at the door of the workhouse, only to see that the steel-clad barrier was closed.
Vignetti arrived at his master's shoulder. The Corsican muttered excited words. Partridge, suddenly realizing their import, nodded. He tugged at his gloves, removing them swiftly, but with care. He let them fall upon the ground and dropped his smock with them.
Not for one moment did the old man take his eyes from the metal-sheathed door of the workhouse. His men, armed with revolvers, were scattering about the little building, prowling the edge of the cliff, peering amid the trees. The vague ringing of alarms, back in the mansion, had ended.
SOME one had tampered with that door—but where was the intruder? In a space of less than five minutes, the guards had swept through the area surrounding the shack. They were coming up now to report that they had discovered nothing.
Partridge was glaring at his men. Vignetti was close beside the old man. Marquette was standing a short distance in the background.
The situation was indeed an odd one. Whoever had tampered with the door of the workhouse had somehow managed to approach the little building without entering the grounds by way of the iron fence.
That surrounding barrier was also protected by an alarm, which, through some mysterious cause, had not sounded.
The door of the workhouse was closed; its strong lock indicated that the intruder had been frightened away. He could not have escaped by way of the fence, with its electric wiring. He could not have descended the cliff. He could not have sought refuge in the big mansion, a hundred yards away, for the surging rescuers had come from there with remarkable promptness.
Lucien Partridge was dumfounded. He stood amid his men, wondering what orders to give them. In the midst of his dilemma, he chanced to spy Vic Marquette. The secret-service man was endeavoring to be inconspicuous.
Vignetti saw Partridge glance in the direction of the secret-service man. The Corsican's hand stole within his jacket. As Vignetti drew the gleaming blade of his knife into view, Partridge saw the action and uttered approving words in Italian.
Vic Marquette must die; and in the midst of this incredible situation, Lucien Partridge thought no more of artistry in dealing death. The old man had betrayed the location of his treasure vault. Marquette had heard his cry that had ended with the words: 'The gold!' Now, the secret-service man had learned too much.
The thought was flashing through Partridge's mind that some one must have entered the grounds unseen when Marquette had been admitted. The secret-service man must surely have subordinates!
Now was no time for diplomacy. Marquette must die swiftly, by the knife. Such was Partridge's decision, and it conformed with Vignetti's intent. Kill the leader first. Then find the others and slay them!
VIGNETTI, crafty in his manner, turned his body so that the knife was hidden from Marquette. He sidled toward the secret-service man.
Marquette observed the action, and began to move away. This was exasperating to Lucien Partridge.
With a cry of rage, the old man waved his arm toward Marquette, and shouted orders to his armed men.
'Get him! Kill -'
The command ended abruptly. Partridge stood like a statue. The other men, startled, gazed in surprise.
Even Vignetti paused, while Vic Marquette, his hand drawing an automatic from his pocket, budged no farther.
From across the river had come the deep boom of a muffled cannon shot. The echoes of its dull blast seemed to reverberate through the air, commanding instant silence. Like the first shot in the beginning of a mighty bombardment, that report inspired awe among the men who heard it.
Something whistled in the air overhead as a huge projectile completed its tall arc above the listening men.
Eyes looked aloft and instinctively turned toward the mansion, a hundred yards away. Time slowed to split- seconds as the missile completed its course toward destruction.
Then came the climax. With a crash, a huge bomb dropped from the night and landed squarely upon the doomed mansion.
A terrific explosion rocked the walls of the old frame structure. The entire roof of the doomed building was hurled high into the air. The walls spread outward, and seemed to scatter as though impelled by the mighty burst of flame that accompanied them.
Men staggered as the reverberation shook the ground. They fell helplessly. Chunks of hurtling debris were cast almost to the spot where these men had fallen.
Partridge—Vignetti—Marquette—all had lost thought of human enmity in this tremendous moment of amazement.
They and the others about them clutched the ground as though fearing it would cave in beneath them.
Like a thunderbolt from the blue, the arrival of the bomb had stunned the entire group. All eyes were focused only on the wreckage of the mansion.
Alfredo Morales had planned well. His calculations had been correct. The bomb had struck the big house perfectly. Its effect had been instantaneous. No person within that building could possibly have survived.
The wreckage was a holocaust. Fire had broken out immediately. Long tongues of flame threw a gruesome light across the lawn, and showed the pallid faces of the men who still lay helpless.
Alfredo Morales had planned to deal destruction and death. That bomb, discharged from the mortar by Manuel, had done its work. But it had accomplished only one half of its purpose.
Destruction was complete; but death had not followed. Those whom Morales had doomed were not entrapped as he had designed. All those within the mansion had been drawn from the danger spot by the intervention of The Shadow.
He had used the alarm to bring them forth five minutes before the bomb had been sent on its way.
Morales and his men were coming. Partridge and his men were here.
A loud, mocking laugh came from the door of the workhouse where the gold was kept. It was a laugh of triumph, yet its sinister tones were forbidding.
That laugh was more terrible than the crash of the devastating bomb. It inspired more awe than did the sight of the flaming mansion.
It was the laugh of The Shadow.
CHAPTER XX. ENEMIES BATTLE
LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was the first to stare in the direction of the workhouse. His action was copied by the others. Even Vignetti forgot his urge to slay Vic Marquette in his desire to see the source of that taunting laugh.
The door of the workhouse was open. Framed within it stood The Shadow. His tall, cloak-clad form was clearly revealed by the brightness from the burning mansion. To the startled eyes that saw him, The Shadow was a superbeing whose workmanship had brought these strange events to the domain of Lucien Partridge.
Silence gripped the men who watched. They knew that eyes were gazing at them from the cover of the broad-brimmed hat. They saw two black-gloved hands, each holding a powerful automatic.
They were twelve opposed to one—Partridge and his men—yet none dared move to attack this weird
