elected to play, Crofton had succeeded in his task.
He did not know what had happened aboard the Northern Express. He knew only that The
Shadow had returned. The whispered laugh that Crofton heard was proof that the cloaked
master had accomplished his design.
WHILE blades turned lazily, while the propeller continued its slow spin, The Shadow rested
deep in thought. Again he had delivered a thrust against the master plotter whose name he
did not know. Henchmen of crime had been defeated. Harry Vincent still held the
all-important plans that Commander Dadren had given him. He had done his part well.
The Shadow was considering the next move. With it, he was calculating upon what his
enemy would do, once he had learned of the defeat which his underlings had suffered.
Again, The Shadow laughed. Then, leaning forward, he hissed his order to Miles Crofton:
'To Washington.'
The pilot nodded. The motor roared. The autogyro wabbled on rough soil. Its wheels
bounced from the ground. Rising, the ship whirled forward, gaining speed with altitude.
Far below, The Shadow could spy the gleaming headlights of the Northern Express,
stopped at a small station. Then the autogyro had left the toylike train far behind.
Speeding into Washington, The Shadow was due to arrive before his agents. When Harry
Vincent and Cliff Marsland reached their destination, he would be there to meet them. The
Shadow, triumphant, was ready to offset the next stroke that came from Eric Hildrow.
CHAPTER XIII. IN WASHINGTON
AT nine o'clock the next morning, Harry Vincent was seated by the window of a room in a
Washington hotel. Smoking a cigarette, The Shadow's agent watched the passing traffic
along a broad boulevard. A smile showed on Harry's lips.
The fray aboard the Northern Express had been explained to the satisfaction of the law. The
train had steamed into Washington one hour late; but Harry, Cliff and the other two
passengers in the lounge car had been cleared of all responsibility. More than that, they had
earned the commendation of the sheriff in the town at which they had stopped.
A newspaper which lay on Harry's writing table carried two headlined stories. One
concerned the disappearance of Commander Joseph Dadren. It was believed that the
former naval officer had crashed in some wooded district. The other story told of the holdup
aboard the Northern Express. Neither the bandits nor their accomplices had been identified.
That was the reason for Harry's smile. He had concealed the fact that he was in the employ
of Commander Dadren. He wondered what the newspapers would say should they learn that
Hasker—mechanic missing with the lost flier—was one of the bandits who had been killed
in the fight aboard the train.
The public was not to know of this connection. There was one man, however, who must be
informed. That was Senator Ross Releston. Arriving at the Union Station, the night before,
Harry had gained a note, thrust in his hand by some one passing in the crowded train shed.
A message from The Shadow, ordering him to this hotel.
Here, Harry had found a room reserved for him; a new note on the writing desk. Further
orders from The Shadow. Harry was to call on Senator Releston this morning, to deliver the
envelope from Commander Dadren.
Senator Releston lived at the Hotel Barlingham. Leaving his own hotel, Harry hailed a taxi
and stepped aboard with his precious briefcase.
The driver started off along a diagonal avenue, sped for a dozen blocks through a network of
streets that bewildered Harry. Then the cab swung two-thirds of the distance around a
parklike circle and took to another avenue. It stopped in front of the Hotel Barlingham.
THE hotel, although modern, was older than most of the large establishments that Harry had
seen in Washington. Conveniently situated in the Northwest District, it was close to the
centers of activity. This had probably recommended the hotel to Senator Releston, together
with the fact that the avenue in front of the Barlingham was less traveled and more quiet than
other thoroughfares.
The lobby was ornate, but rather antiquated. At the desk, Harry learned that the senator's
apartment was on the sixth floor. As he rode up in a jerky elevator, Harry wondered why
Releston had chosen so old an establishment. He learned the reason when he arrived on
the sixth floor.
When he rang a bell at the door of Room 642, Harry was admitted by a plainly dressed
servant. He found himself in a large lounge room, which apparently served as a waiting
room, for doors led off in every wall. Glancing through one opened portal, Harry saw an inner
hallway with more doors.
It was evident that the Hotel Barlingham was specially arranged with many-roomed
apartments. It afforded space that the more modern hotels could not provide except at
exorbitant rates.
The servant stood waiting, while Harry looked about. Then the man inquired:
'Your name, sir?'
'Mr. Vincent,' replied Harry.
'You have an appointment with Senator Releston?' asked the servant.
'Not exactly,' returned Harry. 'Simply inform him that I have come from Commander Joseph
Dadren.'
At that moment, a tall, stoop-shouldered man was passing through the inner hall. The fellow
caught Harry's words and stepped into the waiting room. His long, pointed face was
quizzical. He spoke to the servant.
'Who is this gentleman?' inquired the newcomer. 'Has he told you his business, Smedley?'
'He comes from Commander Dadren,' responded the servant.
'Then I shall talk to him, Smedley,' decided the stoop-shouldered man. 'You may go.'
As soon as Smedley had departed, the lanky man turned to Harry Vincent. He introduced
himself as he extended his hand.
'My name is Stollart,' he announced. 'I am Senator Releston's secretary. You are from
Cedar Cove?'
'Yes.'
'And your name is -'
'Harry Vincent.'
'Wait here.' Stollart paused to glance at the briefcase under Harry's arm. 'I believe that the
senator will see you.'
Harry sat down in a comfortable chair. He waited for about one minute. Then Stollart
returned and requested him to follow. They went into the little hallway, turned left and came
into a room that was furnished like an office.
A gray-haired man was seated behind a desk. His face was kindly in expression, yet it
possessed a ruggedness that Harry noted instantly. Senator Ross Releston had steely eyes
that showed him to be a man of determination. Rising to greet his visitor, he delivered a
handshake that was viselike. Then the senator turned to introduce a man who was standing
by the desk.
HARRY VINCENT stared as he recognized a square, firm face. Sharp eyes met his gaze,
then twinkled as a slight smile appeared upon lips that were ordinarily set and sober. Harry
