'Did he mention Virginia?'
'No.'
Carleton was thoughtful. He looked at Stanford Devaux with a knowing glance.
'She has fallen for him,' said Carleton, in a low tone. 'While Milbrook is around, it is going to be tough for me. He's a trouble-maker, that fellow. You didn't tell him that I suggested you have the diamonds brought out, did you?'
'No,' responded Devaux, with a quiet smile. 'That might have made him change his purpose.'
'Hm-m-m,' said Carleton. 'We must talk about this later—after dinner. In the meantime'—he pointed toward the desk—'may I use your telephone?'
'Certainly,' agreed Devaux.
The millionaire arose and left the room. He passed Virginia in the hall, and looked questioningly at the girl, suspecting that she had been listening to his conversation with her fiance. No words passed between father and daughter. They went downstairs together.
Alone and unheard, Douglas Carleton spoke across the wire to Felix Zubian. His words were significant.
They added a new duty to to-night's job.
'Be sure,' said Carleton in a low voice, 'that Shelton Milbrook gets the works to-night. He knows too much!'
CHAPTER XXIII. THE SYNDICATE OFFICE
THE blue light was glowing in The Shadow's sanctum. Two white hands were at work making notations upon a sheet of paper. The fiery girasol threw its ever-changing sparkle from The Shadow's finger.
The cryptic statements which The Shadow wrote were evidently references to the activities of certain persons with whom he had been recently concerned. Among them appeared names: Gats Hackett, Squint Freston, and those of lesser gangsters.
Then, in new notations, The Shadow's hand inscribed the names of Douglas Carleton and Felix Zubian.
Master plotters though that pair believed themselves to be, they had not managed to escape The Shadow's attention.
Where Lamont Cranston had been watched, at the Cobalt Club, Henry Arnaud had become a watcher.
He had connected many links in a broken chain of circumstances. Even now, he was fingering a sheet of paper that bore the names of other persons: Stanford Devaux and his daughter, Virginia.
A tiny spot of light gleamed across the table. The Shadow's hands reached forward, and obtained a pair of ear phones. These disappeared into darkness, to be fitted upon an unseen head. A voice whispered into the mouthpiece.
'Report.'
'Burbank speaking,' came a voice from the other end. 'Report from Cliff Marsland. He is established as a member of Gats Hackett's new gang. Job set for to-night. Ready to leave at half past eight. Clyde Burke is following. Will report upon signal from Marsland.'
The ear phones moved across the table. The tiny light no longer glimmered. The Shadow laughed softly in the darkness. His plans were working well to-night.
The Shadow had anticipated Gats Hackett's next move immediately after the battle beneath the Tenth Avenue garage. Since Harry Vincent and Rutledge Mann were now known to The Shadow's enemies, he had placed those agents out of danger's way. But in New York, The Shadow had another pair of competent workers whom he had called to active duty.
One was Cliff Marsland, who had entree to the underworld. Gangsters believed that Cliff was one of their own ilk. Hence when Gats Hackett had recruited his new forces—a step which The Shadow had foreseen— Cliff had been welcomed as a member of the replenished mob.
The other was Clyde Burke, a newspaper reporter. He had been assigned to the job of following Cliff Marsland, so that the pretended gangster might flash him a signal when Gats Hackett's mob had assembled at a given spot.
Minutes went by, while The Shadow's hands still moved among the papers. Shortly before nine o'clock, the little light made a tiny spot across the table. Again, The Shadow communed with Burbank.
'Mob outside Archive Building,' reported Burbank, in his quiet tones. 'Attack planned on diamond syndicate office. Half past nine is zero hour.'
'Instructions to Burke,' declared the voice of The Shadow. 'Visit Cardona at headquarters. Keep him there on interview, until after nine thirty.'
The little light was gone. The large blue incandescent flicked out. The room was in darkness. A shuddering laugh swept through the blackness. A robe swished amid the shivering echoes. The Shadow was gone.
FIFTEEN minutes later, an almost invisible shape moved inward from a window on the eighth floor of the Archive Building. The figure of The Shadow merged with the blackness of darkened corridors. It passed directly beside the half-opened door of an empty office. There, The Shadow listened.
'Be ready, Squint,' came the whispered voice of Gats Hackett. 'We're holding it until nine thirty. That's when the boys outside will begin to act suspicious.'
'Yeah,' responded Squint grimly. 'They're goin' to bring The Shadow in on us, eh?'
'Sure,' declared Gats, in a brave tone. 'He's going to run into my smoke wagons to-night, unless he gets nabbed on the way in. We're going to do it right this trip. I can blow the lid off that old kettle in two minutes. You scram with the sparklers. I'll stick with the mob to get The Shadow.'
'What if he don't get here?'
'Him?' Gats was derisive. 'That fox? You bet he'll be here! With Gaffer, Fuzz, Martin, and that guy Marsland roaming around the building, he'll spot something sure enough. Say—he's got to be good to get by those birds.'
The Shadow moved on. He passed by other spots where men were lying silent.
Gats Hackett had spoken the truth when he had declared it would be difficult for The shadow to enter this building unobserved. As a matter of fact, The Shadow had not scaled the wall unseen. His long, mysterious form had been glimpsed by one man who was watching that particular portion of the building—The Shadow's own man, Cliff Marsland.
A key jogged into the lock of the syndicate office. It was a formidable lock, one which Gats Hackett expected to crack with a powerful blow. But the hand of The Shadow opened the lock noiselessly. A tiny, black steel instrument performed the operation without any difficulty.
Within the office, the door closed behind him, The Shadow continued until he came upon a strong safe in the corner. There, aided by the small round spot of a tiny flashlight, his left hand began its work upon the dials. The hand was ungloved; the sensitive fingers were unhampered. The mystic hues of the girasol sparkled with new radiance.
The door of the safe opened. The spot of the flashlight, a circle no larger than a silver dollar, probed the interior. It came, at last, to a final stopping point.
The inspection of the steel box was final and complete. The safe was empty!
The light went out. There was a short pause, while a keen brain sought the answer to this unexpected enigma. Then, a soft, scarcely audible laugh sounded before the safe, and its tones were whispered back in the same weird fashion by the steel interior of the opened strong box.
The door of the safe closed slowly and softly while the echoes still emerged. There, in the dark, it seemed as though The Shadow had locked his own mockery within the vault!
The black cloak swished as The Shadow swept swiftly across the room. The flashlight glimmered upon a telephone. The light went out. A whispered voice was calling a number. A short space followed. The tones of a gruff voice came from the other end. Detective Joe Cardona was on the line.
'Yes, room eight—six—four'—The Shadow's whispered voice was low and ominous—'in the Archive Building. Office—United Diamond Syndicate. Safe blowers here. Come at once.'
The receiver clicked. The Shadow's form moved toward the door. Invisible hands turned the lock and the knob. The door was opened. The way lay free for The Shadow's unseen departure.
He had come here, this being of the night, to take the wealth of diamonds before the crooks arrived. He had
