Legira was looking at the money, an expression of profound delight upon his face. Then something of The
Shadow's last statement impressed him. He looked up. The man in black had left the cabin!
LEGIRA was thinking of the box that contained the wealth for Santander. The Shadow had opened that
box, as well as the strong room. What did the box contain?—Legira wondered.
In this, he was not alone. Another man was wondering about the contents of the box. Rodriguez Zelva, in
a locked cabin of the rumrunner, had the box before him. He had opened the box when he had first
captured it; then had closed it for deposit in the strong room.
Now, alone, he had forgotten his promise to The Shadow. Forgotten it by design. Zelva, confident that
no one could have tampered with the box, was, nevertheless, eager to see his illy-acquired gains.
He produced the key—which he had taken from Legira—and undid the fastenings of the box. He spoke
aloud as he placed his hands upon the lid.
“The fool!” he exclaimed. “The fool! The one who thinks himself so brave, yet is a fool!”
He was speaking of The Shadow. The dread specter of the man in black had faded from Zelva's mind,
now that he was away from the menace. Rodriguez Zelva no longer feared the hand of The Shadow.
With eager hands, Zelva raised the lid of the metal-bound box. He saw a greenish color which seemed to
spread itself across the top of the box. Zelva leaned forward.
Wreathing its way upward came a slimy, greenish vapor, that spread itself like a ghoulish monster from
another world. The ghostly shape spread into a formless mass that writhed itself about the man who was
staring into the box.
With a horrible scream, Zelva leaped away. His scream became a choking gasp. The room was filled
with the spreading gas. Greenish specks were dancing. Zelva, coughing, clawed at his eyes. He tried to
stop his mouth. He tottered toward the door, then fell, a huddled figure amid the whirling vapor that
pervaded the entire room.
Within the box rested the container that had held the poison gas. By raising the lid, Zelva had released the
deadly vapor, placed there by The Shadow. Death had gripped Rodriguez Zelva. It was not death by
The Shadow's design; it was death of Zelva's own making.
Had Rodriguez Zelva kept his promise no harm would have befallen him. But in defiance of The Shadow,
he had played the traitor to the last. This master mind of international crime had gone to the fate that he
deserved.
MILES away, the yacht Cordova came to a stop amid the calm sea. Alvarez Legira, wondering, went to
the bridge. He spoke to the captain, in Spanish.
“Why are we stopping here?”
“You told me to have the little motor boat put over the side, sir,” the captain declared. “That was after
you told me just where we were to heave to—”
The purring of a motor sounded from the water off the lee side of the ship. Alvarez Legira stared in that
direction. The captain followed his example.
The motor boat of the Cordova was speeding through the waters of Delaware Bay, heading for the
mouth of the river. Beneath the glow of the moon, its shape was plain. Standing in the center of the boat
was a figure that appeared phantomlike in the mystic glow.
It was The Shadow!
A weird, creepy laugh floated across the water. A strange, fantastic laugh it was—a laugh that would
never be forgotten by those who heard it from the Cordova. The tones of that laugh were chilling. They
formed mockery that seemed voiced from another world. It was the laugh of The Shadow.
