He realized that he had seen the result of another of his master's eccentricities. The employer whom Stanley knew as Lamont Cranston had a habit of appearing and disappearing in mysterious fashion.
Passing blackness on the sidewalk was the only token of The Shadow's presence after the master of darkness had stepped from the limousine. The blackness faded. The Shadow had merged with the front surface of a scarred-walled building. After that, the passage of the mysterious traveler was untraceable.
Such was the way of The Shadow. His destination was the unknown sanctum wherein he laid his plans for fighting crime. His course to that point could not be followed. Half an hour after his disappearance, The Shadow manifested his presence within the walls of his secret room.
The click of a switch sounded amid darkness. Bluish light glared upon The Shadow's polished table.
White hands—one with its sparkling girasol—appeared and opened an envelope. A report fell upon the table.
The Shadow scanned the lines. The writing faded. This report had come from Clyde Burke, through Rutledge Mann. The Classic reporter had been keeping tabs on Joe Cardona. So far, the detective had made no new move.
Reports from Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent were absent. They, like Clyde Burke, had evidently learned nothing concerning Worth Varden, who had vanished as completely as Seth Cowry. The hand of The Shadow stretched forth and grasped the ear phones.
No light glowed upon the wall. There was no voice across the wire. For the first time in The Shadow's weird career, communication had been broken over this line. There was no response from Burbank!
A chilly stillness followed. The blue light clicked off. Shrouded in complete darkness, The Shadow was as silent as death. Keen ears were listening in response to an amazing emergency. Long, tense minutes passed undisturbed.
A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. The laugh lacked mockery, yet it carried a bold challenge. Even its echoes seemed absent, as though The Shadow expected human voices to cry back an answer in place of the ghoulish reverberations which so often leaped from those pitch-black walls.
Still silence. The Shadow moved unheard within the darkness. The swish of his cloak was inaudible. The touch of his hand against a spot upon the wall was an action which no eye could have seen, nor any ear have heard.
A slight click came. Instead of the bluish light above the table, an indirect glow came into being. A spectral, bluish illumination pervaded the entire sanctum, casting its rays from shaded spots about the blackened walls and ceiling.
The Shadow, standing silent upon a tufted carpet of inky hue, appeared as a tall, supernatural creature amid this strange setting. His very presence would have chilled the hearts of hardened foemen. Here, in his sanctum, The Shadow had created a mellow glow which showed him as a terror-dealing power.
It was The Shadow's challenge to all who might dare his might. It was the action of a superbeing who feared nothing. It proved The Shadow's readiness to meet all who might seek to cross his purpose. It was also a signal of The Shadow's knowledge that some one sought to defy his strength.
The Shadow was seeking the answer to his thoughts. The answer lay before him. There, upon the floor of The Shadow's unknown sanctum, was a sight that brought the instant glare of The Shadow's burning eyes.
A figure of a man lay flattened on the floor. A white face was staring upward from the tufted blackness.
A gaping mouth was open. Glassy eyes were fixed in sightless death.
Here, in The Shadow's secret abode, was the corpse of a murdered man!
THE creepy, whispered laugh that echoed from The Shadow's lips was one that betokened understanding. Despite the unexpectedness of this discovery, despite the amazing fact that some one had penetrated to this secret sanctum, The Shadow's keen eyes were studying the man who lay dead before him.
The identity of the victim was certain. That pale visage, with its thin gray hair, could be the face of no one but the man whom The Shadow and his agents had been seeking.
The man on the floor was Worth Varden. The importer had met death because he had sought to betray the fiend who held him under sway. He had met his end through deliberate murder, the very means of which was viewed by The Shadow's eyes.
For the glassy stare of Worth Varden was that of a doomed person who had seen the approach of death. Driven deep into the heart of the dead importer was a knife blade, its upper portion gleaming dully under the strange light that pervaded The Shadow's sanctum.
The handle of the knife projected like a pointer—a reminder of some fierce hand that had dealt the death stroke. So had death come to Worth Varden; yet in the very deed of doom, the enemy who had ordained that death had meant it as a token to The Shadow.
Below the handle of the knife, pressed against Worth Varden's bosom, and pierced by the blade itself, was a sheet of paper that showed its grayish color even in the weird glow of the sanctum.
Upon the dull surface of the paper were written words that stood in black inscription. The paper which had been skewered above Worth Varden's heart was a message.
Such was Gray Fist's challenge to The Shadow!
CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW COMPLIES
GRAY FIST had delivered a home thrust to the heart of Worth Varden. That stroke had also been a home thrust to The Shadow. Gray Fist, the unknown fiend who planned great crime, had accomplished the seemingly impossible. He had left the evidence of his villainy—the corpse of Worth Varden—in the most inaccessible of all places: The Shadow's sanctum!
The laugh had died from The Shadow's lips. Silently, the black-clad warrior moved forward across the tufted carpeting. Like an unreal specter, he stood within the walls of his secret room—the chamber which was secret no longer.
Despite the fact that his sanctum had been invaded, The Shadow showed no trepidation. Well did he know that those who had brought Worth Varden's body hither would not have dared to stay within these gloomy walls. The unreal atmosphere made the sanctum seem a trap. The Shadow feared no attack while he was here.
His interest lay in the note pinned to Worth Varden's body. The hand that wore the girasol stretched forth and plucked the paper. The projecting portion of the knife blade sliced the gray sheet as The Shadow drew the paper sidewise. The Shadow raised the note and read its written lines.
This was not a doubled sheet. It was a single piece of gray paper, and its words were in a cipher. The Shadow's eyes roved along the lines. A soft laugh came from the whispering lips. The writer of the note had anticipated that the reader would quickly solve the simple code.
The message, as The Shadow deciphered it, was direct and concise. Its legend showed that the writer had guessed the identity of the personage who would receive it. The message was as follows: TO THE SHADOW:
You are seeking to block my plans. Such effort will be futile. You have sought Worth Varden. He lies dead before you. Others are in my power. If you seek them, they, too, will die.
This is my warning. You must leave New York. You must not return. You must give surety that you have gone. Unless you voluntarily accept my terms, you will die.
A car will await you at midnight. It will be one block south of the Black Ship. You may enter it in any character you choose. That car will take you from New York.
Those who convey you need not know your true identity. That is known to me alone. If you show your willingness to avoid interference with my plans, no harm will befall you or those who serve you.
My identity is as closely guarded as your own. I have strength beside which yours is nothing. The choice is yours. The verdict is mine. GRAY FIST.
His burning eyes upon the gray paper, The Shadow, for the first time, read the name by which his formidable enemy was known. Gray Fist! This was the title of the superfiend whom The Shadow knew had brought death to Worth Varden—and probably to the missing racketeer, Seth Cowry.
IT was not the threatening tenor of the note that caused The Shadow to study the cryptic lines. The masterful brain was at work, thinking out the causes which had produced this message. The Shadow was summing up the menacing of Gray Fist's threatening message.
The fact that his sanctum had been discovered was the basis of The Shadow's reasoning. Tracing backward,
