the automatic missed the fleeing form of Squint by the fraction of an inch.
Now, with the free gangster gone, The Shadow gripped the man who was seeking to overpower him.
The strugglers no longer remained upon the floor. They were rising upward, The Shadow providing motive power.
In the gloomy light, the body of the struggling gangster hung poised as though in space. The man was helpless in the grip of the seemingly invisible shape that held him.
Try as he would, the gangster could not grip the man below. His arms and hands waved wildly. The Shadow poised; then, with terrific power cast his enemy from him. The gunman's body whirled in air as it traveled across the room. It crashed upon a chair, smashing the piece of furniture against the wall. The body, itself, rebounded from the wall and rolled over and over as it reached the floor.
The Shadow stood silent, his glowing eyes surveying the body that lay a full ten feet away. The man who had begun the struggle did not move. The force of that terrible fling was as damaging as a bullet from The Shadow's deadly automatic.
Long minutes had passed since the beginning of the conflict. The building was not yet emptied of late workers. When The Shadow reached the hall, the sound of shouting voices indicated clearly the excitement that the pistol shots had caused.
Again, the odd contour of the corridor served The Shadow well. His tall form blended with darkness as two uniformed policemen came dashing past.
The Shadow went on. His figure showed near the elevator shaft, where a car was waiting, the operator leaning from the door, staring in the direction that the officers had taken. He did not see the long splotch upon the floor as the shape of The Shadow followed that weird silhouette.
The operator's first knowledge that a living being was close by came when long arms gripped him and sent him sprawling from the car, unable to catch a glimpse of the man who had attacked him.
By the time the operator managed to get to his feet, he saw the steel doors closing at the elevator shaft.
He uttered a startled cry; then stood helplessly as he observed the dial above the doors. The elevator was moving down to the ground floor.
A POLICEMAN was waiting in the lobby. He was not watching the elevator dial. The doors of the car opened slowly. The officer was not conscious of the sound until these barriers had reached their full width, when they clanged slightly. The policeman turned and looked into the car.
It was empty!
Vaguely, the watcher stared about the lobby of the building. He saw no one. He did not observe a shadow that had merged itself in an obscure corner— all that remained in view of a tall figure that had slipped through the opening elevator doors. Perplexed, the officer entered the elevator and started upward to learn what had happened to the operator.
The tall shape of The Shadow moved toward the passage to the street. It stopped and returned to darkness. A cowering creature was coming down the steps from the second floor, cautiously looking about him.
It was Squint Freston, who had chosen this method of escape. Seeing no one, the little gangster slouched toward the door and reached Broadway, where he huddled himself among the passing crowd.
The Grandville Building was near a corner, and Squint made quickly for the dark obscurity of a side street. Here he discovered a drug store, with a row of phone booths located just within the door. He slipped into the nearest booth.
Had Squint suspected that The Shadow was near, he would have dropped helpless from fright. Yet The Shadow was there—less than three feet from the gangster. The tall, black-cloaked being had picked up Squint's trail, and had kept close behind him. Now, The Shadow was in the phone booth next to the one which Squint was using.
Squint dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed a number. The clicks of the turning dial were clearly audible in the next booth. The eyes of The Shadow were upon the dial of the phone before him; his hand was busy in the dark, making notations which resolved themselves into a telephone number.
'Hello,' said Squint, in a low tone which The Shadow heard. 'That you, Gats?... Say—he got into the office... Yes... No, we didn't get him, least I don't think so... Well, I nearly plugged him, and he may be up there yet... The rest of the crowd? They musta got the works... No, they can't squawk; they don't know nothin'; I'm the only guy knows where you are.
'No, I'm safe. Got away from the coppers. I'm goin' to lay low where I am for a while. I don't want to run into that guy again... Say, have you given those stools the works? No? They're goin' to get it soon?
All right, Gats... Sure thing, I'll scram.'
Squint hung up the receiver. He sauntered from the telephone booth and joined the crowd at the soda fountain. The protection of a crowd felt good to Squint, after that encounter with The Shadow.
DESPITE the fact that Squint must know the location of the place where he had called, The Shadow made no move in the direction of the little gangster. His own hand was dialing a number. The voice of Burbank came across the wire.
In a low, whispered tone, The Shadow gave the telephone number that he had learned by listening to the clicks of Squint's dial.
'Westbar six—three—four—nine—seven'—the tones were deliberate and clear—'give location immediately.'
'Immediately,' responded Burbank.
A short interval followed. Somewhere, in the secret spot where he was located, Burbank was consulting a special telephone book which listed numbers in rotation, with the names as information. The task was performed with promptness.
'Pay station,' announced Burbank. 'Located at Spica Garage.'
'Location,' whispered The Shadow.
Burbank gave an address on Tenth Avenue. The Shadow uttered a short response. His hand hung up the receiver. The door of the telephone booth opened softly.
Three minutes later, a taxicab driver, stopped by Broadway traffic, was surprised to hear a voice speaking from the back seat. A hand, reaching through the window, thrust a ten-dollar bill in the driver's hand as the voice announced an address.
The driver made no comment. He had believed that his cab was empty. Ordinarily, he might have challenged the unexpected passenger how and where he had entered. But the ten-dollar bill was sufficient reason to avoid an argument.
Traffic was clearing. The cab shot forward.
A minute later, a speeding taxi was traveling like mad toward Tenth Avenue, carrying one passenger, whose shape remained invisible in the back seat.
The Shadow was riding to a new adventure!
CHAPTER XVII. THE ORDEAL
A GROUP of men were assembled in a stone-walled room. Before them were two prisoners. Harry Vincent and Rutledge Mann, bound with sturdy cords, were in the power of Gats Hackett.
The chunky gang leader was master of the situation. The men about him—a full dozen in number—were the members of his brutal mob.
With lips that punctuated his sentences by oaths, Gats was speaking in demanding tones. The two men before him were silent and obdurate. When forced to replies, they made them briefly. The grilling instituted by Gats had been futile so far.
'So you don't know who The Shadow is, eh?' questioned Gats. 'Well, I'll make you know—you rats!
The Shadow's stools; and yet you don't know who he is! A great guy, eh, The Shadow? Holler for him now. See where it gets you!'
Gats turned to his supporters. His words had brought evil leers to their toughened faces. In the midst of this approval, Gats turned again to the prisoners before him.
Harry Vincent and Rutledge Mann afforded a striking contrast. Harry had long been an active agent of The Shadow. Time and again, he had encountered situations such as this. Now, his mind was filled with recollections of
