lights of an avenue.
Silent death! The Shadow! The two were interlocked. The Shadow was on his way to silent death at this
very moment. Cliff Marsland had certainly sent word of Ricordo's plans. That, alone, was necessary.
The subtlety of Professor Folcroft Urlich's present scheme surpassed all that had gone before it. Larry
Ricordo saw certain doom destined for The Shadow!
CHAPTER XV. THE HAND OF DEATH
THOMAS JOCELYN was lying in bed, half asleep. The financier's face was drawn. His closed eyelids
were dark and heavy. His expression showed weakness and worry.
The illness that had brought Jocelyn to this state had been the result of a troubled mind. Thomas Jocelyn
had reached the zenith of his fiendishness when he had seen Alfred Sartain about to die. The sight of The
Shadow had shattered the financier's confidence.
Given respite by Professor Urlich, told to let his plans rest for a while, Thomas Jocelyn had experienced
a slight recovery after that strange night in the office across from Sartain's penthouse.
Gradually, the old financier's fears had increased. Newspaper reports concerning J. Wesley Barnsworth
and Gardner Joyce had made Jocelyn sure that Professor Urlich was proceeding. The terrible burden
upon Jocelyn's mind was irresistible.
Living alone, with Grewson as his sole attendant, Thomas Jocelyn had succumbed to nervousness and
had failed to respond to a physician's care. At times, the old financier mumbled incoherent utterances
which only Grewson heard. The servant had been Jocelyn's constant companion during this period of
distress.
In his fevered mind, Thomas Jocelyn was battling with the desire to confess his part in attempted crime.
He was afraid to speak; he was afraid to preserve silence. The grim face of Professor Folcroft Urlich
haunted him fiendishly in his dreams; and always, behind that face, loomed the spectral figure of a being in
black — The Shadow.
It was only indecision that had prevented Thomas Jocelyn from calling the police. Had either Barnsworth
or Joyce been murdered, Jocelyn would probably have broken down. The arrest of Harbeck had been a
final blow that had shattered all resistance. Jocelyn's condition was rapidly approaching a critical stage.
The old financier managed to open his eyelids as he heard a sound at the door of the room. He saw the
portal open. Grewson, a hard-faced man, entered and stared toward the bed. The servant smiled in
disarming fashion when he saw that his employer was awake.
'Time for your medicine, sir,' announced Grewson.
'Which medicine?' asked Jocelyn querously.
'A new prescription from your doctor,' responded Grewson. 'You were half asleep when he spoke
about it, sir.'
THE old financier watched the attendant take two bottles from the corner. One contained a greenish
liquid; the other a red solution. Using a large glass, Grewson mixed the contents. Jocelyn blinked as he
saw that the result was colorless.
'Here you are, sir,' announced Grewson, approaching with the glass. 'The doctor said to take the entire
dose.'
Thomas Jocelyn began to gulp the liquid. Its taste was not unpleasant. Grewson reached out with a
strong arm and propped the financier up in bed. Jocelyn finished the draft and sank wearily back upon his
pillow. His eyes then showed a sudden sparkle.
'It is like an elixir, Grewson!' he exclaimed. 'What a strange sensation! I can feel my heartbeats
quicken!'
Grewson stood beside the bed, smiling. Of his own accord, Thomas Jocelyn sat up. He clenched his
fists; the seemed ready to spring from bed. Suddenly, a convulsive shudder shook his frame.
'Grewson!' Jocelyn's voice came in a whispered gasp. 'Grewson! What — what — is — happening — '
Tremors followed. Jocelyn retained his new-gained strength, but terrific spasms continued. Grewson
backed slowly away. He saw Jocelyn drop back upon the pillow, his breath coming in long, hoarse
gasps.
Grewson reached the door. His face bore an evil expression that marked him for what he was — the tool
of fiends who plotted death. Grewson knew that he had done his part. Thomas Jocelyn would die at the
order of Larry Ricordo.
The false servant reached to close the door behind him. In a few seconds he would be gone, leaving no
trail behind him. He had stayed his action for the appointed time; now his work was through. The door
began to close; then stopped.
A noise beside the bed had attracted Grewson's quick attention. Turning, the servant saw Jocelyn
clutching at a table that stood beside the bed. Before Grewson could spring back to stop him, the
financier had grasped the telephone and had lifted the receiver.
Pouncing in tigerish fashion, Grewson sought to wrest the instrument from Jocelyn's clutch. The financier
toppled forward. He flung the telephone from him and his clawing hands knocked over the table. The
empty glass which had contained the terrible potion shattered on the floor.
Fiercely, Grewson caught Jocelyn's shoulders and threw the financier back in bed. The alarmed servant
picked up the telephone and listened at the receiver. He could hear the voice of the operator inquiring the
trouble; he could also hear Jocelyn's long, coughing gasps.
'Hello?' The operator was speaking. 'I am calling the police. Do you understand?'
'Hello,' growled Grewson. 'Never mind. It's all right.'
'Were you on the wire a moment ago?' challenged the operator.
'No… No…' Grewson tried to be convincing. 'It was an accident. The telephone fell — that was all.'
Jocelyn's harsh sighs came audibly. The girl must have heard these belying sounds. She expressed her
doubts of Grewson's statement.
'I am calling the police,' she asserted, 'unless you put the other person on the wire.'
Angrily, Grewson hung up the receiver. He realized then that it was the worst thing he could have done.
He raised the receiver; jiggled the hook, finally hung up once more. He looked at Jocelyn.
The financier had lost all strength. His lips were moving feebly; his eyes, alone, seemed to have the power
to rove. Apparently those spasms of terrific strength had ended in almost total paralysis.
An angry snarl came from Grewson. The false servant glared venomously. He knew that he had been
successful so far, but he recalled the rest of Larry Ricordo's plans. The gang lord had said that some one
was coming here; that that person should find Thomas Jocelyn alone.
WHAT if the police arrived first? Grewson knew that such a happening would injure whatever scheme
Ricordo had evolved.
For a moment the gangster-servant hesitated, then he realized that he could do nothing to prevent the
outcome. He could trust to luck that the visitor would arrive considerably before the police reached the
apartment.
That thought gave Grewson a new consideration: his own safety. He had overstayed the time that he had
intended. He must depart at once.
He paused only to throw a last derisive glance at the gasping form of Thomas Jocelyn. Grewson held no
