telephone—a man who spoke in a quiet voice—had given no statement of identity. This was puzzling. It indicated the presence of an unknown person in the maze that surrounded the death of Jerry Fitzroy.
Nevertheless, Vic Marquette was not worrying about the identity of the unknown informant when he boarded a sleeper for Westbrook Falls, some time after midnight. The secret-service man was content with the thought that he possessed the only clews to Jerry Fitzroy's actions— and that of those clews, the most important was his alone.
He had the railway coupon that told where Jerry Fitzroy had been. He, only, had connected the mystery with the town of Westbrook Falls, wither he was now traveling!
With all his confidence, Vic Marquette was mistaken: A hand from the dark had performed a deed to-night. That hand had plucked the evidence, had carried it to unseen eyes, and had returned it, unbeknown!
A gold coin—a railway coupon—a feather! The secret of strange doings rested upon three clews. Vic Marquette had kept that information from Joe Cardona; but he had not kept it from the hidden figure who had been shrouded in the darkness of the balcony.
The Shadow, too, knew of those mysterious clews!
His hand had come from the dark to gain them!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW PLANS
A BLACK-SHROUDED room, lighted only by the weird glow of a bluish light that shone upon the polished surface of a flat-topped table. Two hands, moving like pale white creatures beneath the circle of light. A mysterious gem that glimmered from a tapering third finger.
The Shadow was in his sanctum!
Somewhere in Manhattan, secluded in a spot known to himself alone, this strange being was at work!
Only his moving hands denoted his presence; only the glowing jewel, a fire opal that constantly changed in hue, revealed the identity of the hands.
To police, as well as to criminals, The Shadow was a figure of mystery. His place lay in that borderland between the realm of law and the dominion of the underworld. A strange figure—a weird presence— his very identity was a matter of vague conjecture.
Who was The Shadow?
Many had asked that question. None had answered it!
Those who had encountered The Shadow had seen him only as a figure garbed in black—a tall, sinister form that came and departed as a phantom of the night.
Time and again, fierce wolves of the underworld had been thwarted by that sinister shape. Fiends of crime had faced the being in black, had met the burning gaze of eyes deep-set beneath the brim of a slouch hat, and had died with gasps of terror on their lips.
Minions of the law, too, had experienced the presence of The Shadow. More than once, a black-gloved hand, thrust from the folds of a crimson-lined cloak, had reached to rescue those who combated the hordes of evil.
Helpless men and women, doomed to die by the design of criminal plotters, had found salvation through the timely efforts of The Shadow. Yet none had seen the face of the being in black. In all his missions of retribution, The Shadow had departed; he was still unknown!
The voice of The Shadow, although a clew to his identity, had never enabled any one to trace him. When The Shadow spoke, his words were eerie utterances that chilled all hearers. More spectral than the voice was the laugh of The Shadow. When its mocking tones resounded, evil-doers trembled at the sound.
On certain nights, the voice of The Shadow was heard over the radio, on a national hook-up. With it came the echoing tones of the gibing laugh.
Shrewd persons had sought to learn the identity of The Shadow by watching the broadcasting station, but their efforts had been constantly frustrated. The Shadow spoke from a curtained room, where no one dared enter. His method of entrance and departure was known only to himself.
When daring crooks had hidden within the room to await the arrival of The Shadow, their purpose had been artfully thwarted by The Shadow's uncanny forethought. His voice had come to the studio over telephonic connection to a distant point!
OF all his amazing activities, none were more important to The Shadow than those which took place in this black-walled sanctum, where two white hands, one wearing that priceless fire opal known as a girasol, were the only shapes in view. Here it was that The Shadow formulated his plans and received reports from his trusted agents. Sworn to secrecy, ready to risk death in service of their master, these agents of The Shadow were faithful men; yet despite their contact with the being in black, they, too, lived in ignorance of his identity!
They knew only what others suspected: that The Shadow was a master of disguise, who assumed many identities that were not his own. These agents had witnessed the prowess of The Shadow. Had they told their truthful stories, their statement would not have been credited. For the power of The Shadow surpassed all belief.
To-night, The Shadow was engaged in a deep and careful study. Before him, on the polished table, lay typewritten papers; reports compiled by his agents. The long white hands were fingering these carefully compiled records with care.
One sheet of paper bore the typewritten heading:
Foreign Coinage Report
This sheet was the top one of several that were carefully clipped together.
The Shadow's finger moved down the paragraph, passing one page and following through another, stopping momentarily as it rested on certain sentences. These were the most important statements that were noted:
The suspicion of counterfeit gold coins now rests upon Peruvian and Bolivian currency in addition to that of the Argentine.
Reports of investigation in France, Italy, and Australia not received.
Coins possessing specific gravity of gold and meeting other tests have yielded base metals when melted.
Foreign reports lacking as coins not suspected as counterfeits have not been melted in the countries where coined.
No trace of source of this cheap alloy which is virtually synthetic gold.
Only test appears to be melting, hence no samples of counterfeit coins remain as existing counterfeits pass as genuine.
Secret-service investigation under way.
Turning to an appended sheet, The Shadow's finger rested upon a paragraph that included the name of Jerry Fitzroy as a special agent assigned to the work of tracing counterfeiting activities. The name of Vic Marquette also appeared.
Laying aside the report, The Shadow inspected another document. This was headed: Gold Mining Report
Again, the moving finger pointed out certain items in the paragraphs: The steady production of gold from the New Era Mine in California has created unusual interest.
Generally believed that this mine had been fully worked and about to be abandoned.
Development of new veins has created a heavy demand for stock offered by New Era Mining Syndicate.
Rumor of mine being 'salted' is not credited as no outside source of supply has been noted.
Steady production of gold is out of proportion to possible gain through sale of stock.
Clifford Forster, controller of New Era Syndicate, is constantly on ground in California.
THE papers lay still upon the table. The hand of The Shadow drew forth a white sheet and a pen. But before the fingers began to write even while the pen was poised above the paper—a tiny light glowed beyond the table.
The left hand, with its radiant girasol, reached forward and brought back a pair of ear phones. These disappeared beyond the fringe of light; then the lamp clicked off.
A solemn voice spoke amid the darkness—a low, whispered voice that sounded hollow in the blackness of that shrouded room.
'Report.'
