personage who had come to awe them.
The Shadow spoke. His words carried an eerie mockery. Those words, like the presence of The Shadow, caused men to quail. The Shadow's tones were addressed to Lucien Partridge.
'Murderer'—The Shadow's words were cold—'your doom has arrived. Your vile schemes are ended.
Slayer of Fitzroy'—Marquette gasped as he heard the name—'of Forster—of Guthrie—of Armagnac—you failed to-night!
'Your failure spelled your doom. No more will you give the fatal handshake that lies upon the gloves beside you. The poisoned powder of the Orient will never again deliver the creeping death!
'Your laboratory is demolished. Your furnaces are ruined. Your plan to flood the world with synthetic gold will go no further. To you will not even belong the vast stores of real gold that lie in the vault beneath me. That gold is guarded—by—The Shadow!'
The voice ended its impressive tones. Not a man had moved while The Shadow had been speaking. The climax of the revealing words was the announcement of identity that brought chills of fear to those who listened.
To Vic Marquette, The Shadow's statement was of the utmost moment. It cleared the cloud of mystery that had befogged the secret-service man in his investigation. It brought a flood of understanding thoughts to Vic's brain.
This was the source of the synthetic gold that had entered the coinage of the world! This was where Fitzroy had come to investigate! Lucien Partridge was the man who dealt the creeping death!
Vic saw the gloves upon the ground. He realized that he, too, was to have been a victim!
Forster and Guthrie—Vic had read of them in the newspapers. He did not know the details of their connection with old Partridge; but he realized that all could soon be learned.
LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was on his feet. The old man was shaking his clenched fist at the figure in black.
He cursed The Shadow with venom; then cried out the threat which was in his evil brain.
'You have spoken too much!' he shouted. 'You shall die—you who call yourself The Shadow! You shall never leave the spot where you are standing!'
Choking with rage, the old man was about to order his men to the attack. He was sure that with their superior numbers they could conquer this menacing foe. Before Partridge could speak, The Shadow laughed again.
'You do not menace me,' said the gibing voice of the black-clad being. 'It is you who are menaced.
Your enemies approach you at this very moment!'
With a taunting peal of mirth, The Shadow stepped back into the gloom of the little workhouse. The steel- clad door clanged shut.
A cry of triumph burst from Partridge's lips. The Shadow was retreating! There, in the little house, he was trapped! Now was the opportunity to blast The Shadow's refuge place!
Turning, Partridge waved his men on. His plan was to surround the little building; to riddle its wooden walls with bullets; to burn the shack with the doomed man within it. But before Partridge could speak, a shot rang out from across the lawn. A bullet whistled by the startled group of men.
Alfredo Morales and his crew had entered by breaking down the gate. They were coming for the gold.
They had seen the group of men beside the work-house and they were opening an attack!
IT needed no command for Partridge's men to respond. They did not know the identity of these attackers. They did not care. They must fight to live. Scattering for cover, they returned the fire.
The lurid glare from the flaming mansion made a mighty spectacle of the startling skirmish that broke loose upon the lawn. Morales, though dumfounded to find men alive here, did not dare to hesitate.
Partridge, his rage a fury, was determined to resist at all cost.
One of Partridge's henchmen fell dead at the old man's feet. Partridge seized his gun and leaped for cover. Behind a protecting tree, he joined in the gunfire that was crackling from all sides.
Partridge's force numbered a dozen men. Morales had brought approximately the same number. It was an equal conflict between two evil forces.
For once, The Shadow disdained to play a part in a hectic fray. He had brought about this situation. He had matched the opposing forces. It was not through pity that he had saved Lucien Partridge and his henchmen from the doom that Alfredo Morales had planned.
Instead, The Shadow had drawn them from the marked mansion so that they might oppose Morales.
Craftily, The Shadow had brought trouble to both forces.
He had done nothing to prevent the firing of the bomb from the mortar. Thus destruction had come to Partridge's great house where crime was fostered. The Shadow had lured Morales into the conflict which now raged; thus had he ruined the Argentinian's plans.
The fray was becoming a fight to death. Those who were engaged deserved death. They showed no mercy in their actions. Every time a man fell wounded, his enemies used his body as a target. No quarter was asked, and none was given. Both sides knew that death awaited them either way.
The conflict, equal at the start, suddenly changed. The tide was turning to favor Lucien Partridge. He and his men, although surprised at the outset, knew the terrain. The circumstances that had forced them to cover proved to their advantage.
The open space of the lawn was covered with the fallen forms of the men who had come with Morales.
Shots were resounding from trees and bushes, discharged by Partridge's men. They were targets only when they fired. Between shots, they were difficult marks to reach.
The battle ended suddenly. Only Morales and three of his men remained, with bullets harassing them from every quarter. Jose was beside his master. A bullet laid him low.
Seeing Jose fall, Morales realized that disaster was upon him. With a cry to his men, he fled across the lawn, his companions close behind him.
The way had been closed by three of Partridge's men who had moved in that direction. They sprang out of hiding and leaped upon the fleeing men.
Morales shot one of his enemies dead; then he staggered and fell face foremost. His companions dropped a moment later. The men who had killed them riddled their bodies with bullets.
THE attackers were annihilated. Yet Lucien Partridge's forces had suffered heavily. Only a few remained unwounded, among them the old man and Vignetti. They were under cover, away from the territory close beside the workhouse.
One man had lain safe through the entire fray. He was Vic Marquette. The secret-service man had leaped for shelter beside the workhouse. He had fired no shots; hence his presence had passed unnoticed.
The flames of the mansion died suddenly, as though they were no longer needed. In the gloom, Vic Marquette emerged slowly from his hiding place. His plan was to reach the gloves and smock that Lucien Partridge had cast aside; to carry the gloves within the smock and escape with them as evidence.
But as Marquette moved forward, another man spied him. It was Vignetti. The Corsican, unwounded, crept out from the shelter of a bush to intercept the secret-service man.
Vignetti was not sure that it was Marquette he saw. Hence the Corsican did not fire. Instead, he carried his sharp knife.
A burst of flame from the dying embers of the old mansion threw a new glow upon the scene. Lucien Partridge spied Marquette. The old man fired. His bullet wounded the secret-service man. Partridge pressed the trigger again. There was no response. The last cartridge had been discharged.
Now Vignetti was leaping forward to finish the work that Partridge had begun. Marquette saw the menacing foeman. He raised his gun, but his hand trembled from a pain that gripped his shoulder. Vignetti knocked the automatic from Marquette's hand.
Down went Vic Marquette, with Vignetti above him. The Corsican's face was aflame with reflected light.
It was the hideous face of a fiend.
Up went the gleaming knife. Vic Marquette was helpless. He closed his eyes as he saw the wicked blade ready to descend. Vignetti was poised for the fatal stroke!
CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW FIGHTS
