But, within the studio where doom had failed to strike, The Shadow was acting with instinctive practice.
Although unaware that hidden eyes were observing him, The Shadow, master of desperate situations,
had not allowed his interest in Alfred Sartain's recovery to reduce his normal vigilance.
When he had suddenly stepped away from the reviving millionaire, it had been because his keen ears had
heard a slight sound at the doorway of the studio. The momentary pause had enabled him to detect the
turning of the knob. The motion of his hands toward his body was the beginning of the swift method
whereby The Shadow encountered foes who sought to catch him off guard.
As the black form whirled to face the door, those gloved hands swept free from the folds of the cloak.
As The Shadow's eyes stared directly at the portal, the firm fists beneath them were gripping the
powerful automatics with which The Shadow warred against fiends of crime.
The action was a timely one. Simultaneously with The Shadow's swing, the door came inward, and a pair
of villainous gangsters plunged into the room. Each of Slips Harbeck's gorillas held a leveled revolver.
The gunmen held the first advantage. They were actually in the room before The Shadow faced them. But
they did not know the exact spot where they must attack, so precipitous had their entrance been. They
were forced to swing their gleaming weapons in order to cover their foe.
The Shadow, on the contrary, had a definite objective — the doorway. His rapid turn ended in a deadly
aim, whereas the gunmen acted with haste. It was this factor that turned the tide in The Shadow's favor.
Two shots burst from the doorway — each from a gorilla's revolver. One bullet missed The Shadow by a
foot. The other burned through a waving fold of the black cloak — less than an inch from its mark.
A DOUBLE answer came a split second later. As both gunmen sought to deliver a second shot, The
Shadow's automatics roared together. The forward plunging mobsters hurtled to the floor. One sprawled
crazily in a sidewise swing; the other somersaulted almost to The Shadow's feet.
A bursting cry of mirth sounded from The Shadow's unseen lips. No longer concerned with the enemies
whom he had dropped, The Shadow advanced toward the door. His method was slow but constant — a
scheme with definite purpose. From the first instant of the attack, The Shadow had kept himself as a
shield for Alfred Sartain, helpless in the chair behind the desk.
Now, seeking to meet new invaders, The Shadow held to the same purpose. Blocking the path from the
doorway, he gave no hidden enemy an opportunity to complete the job which had failed — the murder of
the hapless millionaire.
Keen eyes glistened. The Shadow's right-hand automatic roared another greeting. A scream came from
beyond the doorway. A third gangster, more cautious than his fellows, had thrust forth a hand with a
revolver. The Shadow's prompt response clipped the trigger finger from the hand!
The maimed mobster fled. After him tumbled another who had also kept to cover. The Shadow's guns
barked a stern pursuit.
The fleeing men were heading across the living room, The Shadow following. Only one mark offered — an
uncovered shoulder at the farther doorway. The Shadow found it; the man staggered, but kept on.
Beyond the outer door of the penthouse, the fleeing gorillas encountered their chief, Slips Harbeck. He
had sent them into the attack, intending to follow after the first onslaught. For Slips, alone, had heard the
identity of the enemy whom they must meet.
The leader of the gorillas was thrown back by his fleeing henchmen. He could not stop them now. They
had met the menace of The Shadow. They had seen their companions sprawl within the first two seconds
of the battle.
The flight would have proven futile, had The Shadow followed his advantage. But a new duty lay before
the master in black.
Across the room, Duster Brooks was struggling with Hunnefield, the secretary. The false butler was
holding a revolver in his hand; Hunnefield was gripping the wrist below that hand.
Brooks put forth a desperate effort just as The Shadow appeared. He wrested his wrist free, and struck
a fierce blow at Hunnefield's head. Fortunately for the secretary, it was a glancing stroke that failed in its
murderous intent. But as the weapon thudded above his ear, Hunnefield collapsed. He would have fallen,
but for the butler's grasp.
BROOKS was facing the doorway toward the studio. He saw The Shadow. He recognized the menace.
With Hunnefield's body as a shield, he thrust his revolver forth and fired. The swaying of the secretary's
form destroyed the aim. The bullet from the butler's gun whisked the brim of The Shadow's hat and
lodged in the redecorated wall beyond.
Still keeping covered, Brooks thrust the barrel of his revolver under Hunnefield's armpit. Again he sought
to shoot The Shadow.
All the while, the black clad fighter was weaving his way across the room, his burning eyes looking for an
opportunity to clip Brooks without harming Hunnefield. Constantly, The Shadow's gaze roved toward the
outer door.
A revolver muzzle gleamed at that spot. It was handled by Slips Harbeck, who had remained despite the
flight of his crippled minions. One of The Shadow's automatics spoke — once — twice — thrice.
The first bullet splintered the woodwork; the second struck the revolver barrel and sent the weapon
spinning from Slips Harbeck's grasp. The third was delivered to catch any portion of the gangster's body
that might have revealed itself.
But Slips, by amazing good fortune, had managed to stagger back. Fearing that The Shadow was coming
his way, he took the last shot as a sign of sure doom, should he remain. Staggering from dread, the leader
of the defeated gorillas dashed madly toward the stairs.
Another shot sounded in the living room. Duster Brooks, nerviest of the evil crew, had hoped to get The
Shadow this time. His second shot, like the first, went wide. With the burden of Hunnefield's protecting
form, the false butler could not gain certain aim toward that elusive form of black.
Even now, The Shadow was circling to deliver a return shot. Brooks, dropping toward the floor with
Hunnefield's body, again tried to fire through the perfect loophole formed by the secretary's arm and
body.
The Shadow's task seemed impossible. Brooks showed the revolver muzzle as the only target. To shoot
that tiny spot would surely cause injury to the one brave man who had tried to foil the invaders.
Hunnefield, still unconscious, was under The Shadow's protection.
The revolver muzzle turned. As it spat flame, The Shadow's tall form hurtled to the floor. Brooks cried
out in exultation. In his excitement, the false butler did not realize that The Shadow's drop had begun
before the shot was fired. It was a ruse — not a sign of good aim by Brooks.
As the butler instinctively shifted, believing that he had wounded his opponent, The Shadow's right band
fired from the floor. The bullet from the.45 struck the first portion of the butler's body that was
uncovered — his left shoulder.
Brooks, anxious to put a sure end to The Shadow, was aiming his revolver just as the bullet from the
