THE big hall clock was chiming five. The only light within Coyd's residence was that of the widely spaced electric incandescents; for the outside gloom had greatly increased.
Of all spots where premature darkness had thickened most effectively, those passages between Coyd's house and the neighboring buildings seemed most favored. They were almost completely blackened.
A movement occurred near the rear of one passage. A dark?garbed, rain?swept figure merged with the darkness that was beneath the shelter of an overhanging roof. Keen eyes peered from the gloom. The Shadow had arrived at the home of Layton Coyd.
The Shadow had reached the old house less than ten minutes after Harry Vincent's departure. The reason for his quick arrival was a telephone call that he had received from Clyde Burke, while Harry was still engaged in stormy session within Coyd's study.
Immediately after the brief interview, Clyde had found some pretext to call The Shadow from a drug store near Coyd's. Clyde had accomplished this in an offhand fashion that had passed with Garvey.
Keeping close to the house, The Shadow followed the passage to the front, till he arrived at the door.
The Shadow tried the door and found it locked. He produced a probing tool; his tiny flashlight glimmered from beneath the folds of his cloak. The door yielded when The Shadow jabbed a thin, flat piece of steel between frame and door.
ENTERING the house, The Shadow found himself in a gloomy entry. He went up a few steps and came into the rear halls. On his left was the door of Coyd's study. The Shadow opened it and entered. He closed the door and turned on the light. He found a folded sheet of paper on the desk. Opening it, he read the notes that Jurrick had typewritten.
Remembering a point of Clyde's report, The Shadow looked in the wastebasket and found the original penciled paper. The Shadow fitted eight fragments together. He found that Jurrick had copied the notations exactly. The papers fluttered one by one into the wastebasket, until seven had dropped. The Shadow still held the eighth. He folded it and placed it beneath his cloak.
Moving from the study, The Shadow reached the front hall. Stealthily, he peered into the library; there he saw Jurrick reading by a lamp. Mose had finished arranging books; the servant was slowly gathering up old newspapers and dumping them into wastebaskets.
Softly, The Shadow glided away from the door. He gained the stairs and ascended; his footfalls silent, no swish from his rain?soaked cloak. The door of the upstairs living room was open. The Shadow entered that apartment. Large windows at the front gave the living room a bit of outside light. Objects were discernible.
The Shadow saw the bronze bust on the mantel. He approached to study it. He could tell that it was a perfect replica of a face mask, for no effort had been made to smooth the roughness of the profile. Even the scar upon the chin was prominent in this metallic likeness of Congressman Layton Coyd.
With a soft, whispered laugh, The Shadow moved away. He reached the closed door of the bedroom and opened it softly. He entered and approached a large four?poster bed. There he saw Coyd, stretched out in slumber.
The congressman was garbed in a dressing gown. His face was toward the window; the haggard features showed a pallor in the fading light. Coyd looked like a man whose health was irregular. The lines of his face seemed deeper than those of the bust. His closed eyes looked more sunken.
Gliding from the bedroom, The Shadow softly closed the door behind him. His form was barely visible in the gloom; his sharp eyes, however, could still espy all objects. A wastebasket stood by a table.
Reaching into it, The Shadow found torn letters and crumpled papers. The latter impressed him most.
Removing them, The Shadow carried his trophies to the window.
Examining each, he rejected them until he came to one that bore a penned scrawl. It was a brief note, the handwriting characterized by oddly shaped letters. Coyd had written it to his daughter Evelyn; the congressman must have heard from her before mailing it, hence he had thrown it away.
The Shadow kept this letter, but dropped the others back into the wastebasket. He laughed softly as he moved toward the thick darkness of the windowless hall. Silently, he descended the stairs; there he turned toward the rear passage. He stopped suddenly and pressed against the wall by the stairway.
THE door of Coyd's study was opening; a glimmer of light came from that room, which The Shadow had left dark. Then Mose appeared; wobbling as he walked, the old servant was carrying out the wastebasket. Mose passed The Shadow; the menial's dim eyes never noticed that blackened shape against the wall.
The Shadow watched Mose add the wastebaskets to others that were standing near the doorway to the living room. Then Mose started upstairs. Listening to his creaky footsteps, The Shadow knew that the servant was going up to get other wastebaskets to empty with those that were on the ground floor.
With a swift move, The Shadow gained the passage to the outside door. He left the house, carefully latching the door behind him. Passing through the deepening darkness, he reached the rear street, followed it for a block and came upon the entrance of a deserted store. Moving into the doorway, The Shadow removed his cloak, hat and gloves. He bestowed them in a briefcase that he opened into enlarged form.
Donning a soft gray hat, he strolled from the store front. His gait was that of Henry Arnaud. One block on, The Shadow reached an avenue. Standing in the drizzle, he formed a plain figure as he hailed a passing cab.
Entering the vehicle, he ordered the driver to take him to the Hotel Halcyon.
A soft laugh came from the lips of Henry Arnaud as the cab wheeled through the rain. That repressed mirth was both reminiscent and prophetic. It also carried keen understanding. A crisis had come, despite The Shadow. But the aftermath had been of The Shadow's own making.
CHAPTER IX. THE ANTIDOTE.
TEN o'clock the next morning found Senator Ross Releston at his desk. Spread before the senator were copies of many metropolitan dailies; the headlines on their front pages made a mass of screaming print. The munitions story had broken with a bang. Releston's countenance was troubled.
Across from the senator was Foster Crozan; his face, too, showed glumness. Like Releston, Crozan knew how terrific the consequences of Coyd's interview could be; but he was not discussing the matter with the senator. Both were waiting for a visitor.
Lanson entered. Releston looked up eagerly and put a question to the secretary.
“Mr. Rydel is here?”
“No, sir. Vincent has not yet returned with him. It is Mr. Cranston who is here, sir.”
“Mr. Cranston? I thought he had gone to Brazil?”
“Apparently not, sir. He said—”
“Show him in, Lanson. Show him in. Cranston can speak for himself.”
Half a minute later, Releston was on his feet welcoming his millionaire friend. The Shadow, again in the guise of Lamont Cranston, had entered in his usual languid fashion. Releston's greeting ended, The Shadow shook hands with Crozan.
“My Amazon expedition is off,” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “It fell through while I was in Havana. So I am heading north instead. I decided to stop off and see you, senator.”
“I am glad you did, Cranston,” acknowledged Releston. “Of course, you have seen the newspapers. Our worst expectations have been realized.”
Before The Shadow could make comment, two men appeared at the door of the room. One was Harry Vincent; the other Dunwood Rydel. Harry stepped aside to let the magnate enter. Rydel advanced to meet the challenging glare of Releston, who waved him to a chair. The senator made no further introduction. Instead, he opened hostilities immediately.
“Rydel, I demand an explanation,” stormed Releston. “I am confident that the story in to?day's newspapers is your work. I want to know why you forced it into print!”
“My work?” queried Rydel, savagely. His eyes were beady as he turned his glare from Releston to Crozan.
“Where did you get that impression, senator? From Crozan?”
“Yes.” Crozan spoke boldly for himself. “It is obvious that you were behind it, Rydel. I know your methods.
