regard for the man whom he had pretended to serve. He had accepted Ricordo's order to slay with a
malicious relish. Thomas Jocelyn was dying now, and Grewson had guided the hand of death.
'Cash in your checks,' jeered Grewson. 'Good-by, you old mug. Let the bulls find you coughing out.
Sorry I won't be here to see it. Try to tell 'em who did it!'
The false servant backed across the room. His gangster identity had come to the surface. Thomas
Jocelyn understood and tried to reply to the villain's challenge, but his lips, although they moved, could do
little more than cough.
Backing to the door, Grewson grinned and made a burlesque of the bow which he had been accustomed
to use when doing Jocelyn's bidding. The gangster-servant intended it as his last action before he left that
room where death was working. But as he inclined his head, Grewson saw something upon the floor that
made him stiffen.
Stretching out in front of him, cast from a spot behind his body, lay a strange, blanketing shadow of
blackness. Long, sinister and spectral, it seemed a living creature of ominous import. It represented the
shape of a tall being garbed in flowing cloak and broad-brimmed hat.
Grewson's tense form relaxed. Dazed and affrighted, the killer turned slowly toward the door. As he
made that slow revolution, Grewson heard a terrifying sound — a weird noise far more incredible than the
gasping breath of Thomas Jocelyn.
A low, mocking laugh rang in Grewson's ears. Its gibing tones reechoed in hollow tones from the walls of
the room. The laugh was audible proof of visible fears. Without completing his turn, Grewson cowered
away from the door, staring wild-eyed past his own shoulder.
A scream came from his trembling lips. Before him, Grewson saw the enemy of all gangdom — the being
of whom he had heard — The Shadow.
Tall, sinister and unyielding, The Shadow surveyed the shrinking gangster with burning, brilliant eyes.
Beads of sweat glowed on Grewson's paling forehead. The man understood Larry Ricordo's admonition
now — the reason why a quick departure had been urged.
The Shadow was the one whom Ricordo had expected here to-night! He had known that this terrible
being would come to the room of doom. Grewson realized the consequences of his delay, but all too late.
Surprised beside the dying form of the man whose death he had furthered, Grewson stood openly
condemned as the tool in the plot against Thomas Jocelyn. He had guided the hand of death; now he had
met the avenger of death.
Helpless before the tall black-garbed being that threatened him, Grewson crouched upon the floor — a
murderer in the power of The Shadow.
CHAPTER XVI. THE DEATH THAT LURKED
TOTALLY unnerved by the terror which now confronted him, Grewson stared upward into the blazing
eyes of The Shadow. The master of darkness stood with folded arms. His brilliant gaze seemed to pierce
the pitiful coward who crouched before him.
At last, the inscrutable eyes raised slightly and looked toward the bed against the wall, where Thomas
Jocelyn, his breath coming in long, heavy sighs, was slowly coughing out his miserable life. Grewson,
momentarily released from the stern gaze of The Shadow, rose slowly, as though to spring upon his
enemy.
One folded arm moved. A black-gloved hand swung promptly into view. It clutched a huge automatic.
Staring into the wide, round muzzle of the powerful weapon, Grewson quailed and sank back toward the
floor.
Slowly, The Shadow approached. Instinctively, Grewson retreated with crawling pace. At last, the
gangster crouched beside the foot of the bed. The Shadow, standing above him, surveyed his pitiful
prisoner.
'Speak.' The Shadow's words came in an ominous whisper. 'What part have you performed in this
crime!'
The sentence was a command, not a query. Grewson, trapped, could give no answer other than the right
one.
'I–I gave Jocelyn the poison,' the gangster admitted, in broken tones. 'It — it came in bottles and I
mixed it in the glass — the glass which Jocelyn broke.'
'Who gave you the liquids?'
Grewson cringed at the sound of The Shadow's sardonic voice. He tried to restrain his answer, but
failed. He could not struggle against the terror cast by The Shadow.
'I–I got it' — the man's voice broke—'got it from — from Larry Ricordo.'
'When?'
'A — a couple of days ago. He called me — to-night — on the telephone — to tell me to use it.'
'Where is Ricordo now?'
'I–I don't know. That's straight! He hadn't told me anything — I don't even know why he wanted
Jocelyn bumped off — '
The Shadow's gaze turned toward the pitiful figure on the bed; still, the menacing automatic covered
Grewson. Thomas Jocelyn, his face deathly white, was staring toward The Shadow. He had recognized
the form in black. Amid his long, sweeping sighs, his moving lips were trying to speak.
IT was plain that Jocelyn intended to convey facts that Grewson could not give; to reveal the purpose of
those who had brought him to this plight. The effort seemed futile, for the motion of the dying man's lips
brought nothing but wavering echoes to his sighs.
With hawkish gaze, The Shadow watched for any sign that might reveal the financier's thoughts. Slowly,
the black-hatted head began to incline, then suddenly it turned. The Shadow's eyes glared once more in
Grewson's direction. They saw the cringing gangster starting to rise.
Instinctively, Grewson slumped back to the floor. At the point of the automatic, he pleadingly blurted the
reason for his action.
'The bulls are coming!' he groaned. 'Jocelyn got at the telephone. The operator turned in the call.'
A ray of hope kindled in the crook's eyes. He thought that this bit of important information might alarm
The Shadow or else cause the weird avenger to soften. The Shadow's derisive, reverberating laugh was
the answer that only brought new dread to Grewson. The bold visitant had no fear of the police.
Nevertheless, Grewson's words did inspire The Shadow to swifter action. Once again, the black-clad
watcher noted Thomas Jocelyn. The dying financier was living only by virtue of tremendous gulps. With
wide-open mouth, Jocelyn took in a breath, then expelled it with his peculiar, wheezy sigh, in one long
exhalation. The action was repeated. Again, still again.
Those powerless lips could not frame words; but perhaps, in those long sighs could be heard a coughed
utterance. To listen closely, one would have to lean close to the mouth of the dying man. To perform that
action, The Shadow would be forced to cease his vigilance with Grewson.
