BEFORE Vignetti's upraised hand could drive the knife blade down into the heart of Vic Marquette, a shot blazed forth from an unexpected place.
The door of the workhouse had opened. The Shadow's aim was trained upon the murderous Corsican.
The unerring hand did not fail. The bullet from The Shadow's automatic struck Vignetti's right arm. The wounded limb collapsed; the knife fell harmlessly upon the ground beside Marquette's body.
With staring eyes, Marquette saw what had happened. The timely rescue gave him his opportunity. It was one wounded man against another.
With a mighty heave, the secret-service man threw the Corsican from him. Vignetti's left hand made a desperate clutch. The two men locked in a struggle.
Marquette's plight was apparent. Despite the fact that he had gained a temporary advantage over Vignetti, the outcome still was hopeless.
At the door of the workhouse, safely away from gunfire, The Shadow could pick off Vignetti at the first opportunity. On the other hand, Lucien Partridge and his few remaining men, hidden in darkness, could direct their fire upon Marquette.
Tense moments followed. Whichever won the struggle, Vignetti or Marquette, the other would be prey to an avenging shot. Seemingly, both were doomed.
Partridge and his men were afraid to shoot at the writhing forms for fear of striking Vignetti. The Shadow, who could easily have clipped the Corsican, desisted because Vignetti's death would mean the end of Vic Marquette!
The struggling men kept on their weakened battle. Neither one seemed capable of gaining an advantage.
Both had reached a defensive stage.
Figures were slinking through the dark, keeping away from the workhouse door where they knew death lurked. Partridge and the others were wary; and they were taking sure positions from which they could slay Vic Marquette, should he overpower Vignetti.
The gleaming eyes of The Shadow pierced the darkness. They seemed to sense the logical spots where the foemen were located. Then, as the situation reached its most crucial stage, The Shadow acted!
He chose a moment when the flaring mansion dulled spasmodically. Like a weird phantom, he swept silently from his place of safety. So perfectly did The Shadow choose his time that he had virtually reached the fighting men before Partridge and his minions saw him.
A chance burst of flame from the mansion revealed the tall, advancing figure. A being of black—a stalking form—with a long, grotesque shadow stretched across the lawn. That was the sight that the watchers saw!
Marquette and Vignetti were struggling side by side. Each was working desperately. The Corsican had clutched his knife again, holding it in his left hand. The secret-service man, likewise utilizing his left hand, was vainly endeavoring to bring his automatic into play.
THEN The Shadow was upon them. With one swift motion, he propelled Vignetti clear of Marquette's body. Vic saw only the rolling form of the helpless Corsican. He fired his gun point-blank, his elbow resting on the ground. Three shots resounded in quick succession. Vignetti lay still.
Marquette was rising to his knees when he heard a voice hissing in his ear. The words were plain. The Shadow was ordering him to the shelter of the workhouse. With hands of steel, The Shadow gripped Marquette and plunged him on his way to safety.
The act was none too soon. A fusillade of shots burst forth from encircling spots. Partridge's men were blazing at the spot where two targets had been, but only one remained, now that The Shadow had hurled Marquette from the danger zone.
The Shadow staggered, but did not fall. Instead, he swerved in his course and zigzagged across the lawn, forming an eccentric course that defied accurate fire.
He was wounded; that was plain, for he had been unable to protect himself while aiding Vic Marquette.
But now he was possessed of an uncanny faculty that enabled him to elude new bullets.
A wild shot was aimed at Vic Marquette, who was scrambling to the workhouse. That shot was answered— by The Shadow!
Turning, his body merging with the ground, The Shadow had raised his left hand. With eagle eye he had spotted the exact place from which the shot had flashed. His perfect aim sought out the man who had delivered the shot. That marksman was felled by The Shadow's bullet.
Again, the black-clad hand pressed the trigger. This time a bullet sped toward a foeman who was dimly outlined in a fringe of dull light. The second enemy fell.
Now The Shadow's course had changed. He was invisible as he skirted the lawn, lost in the dying rays of flickering light. Men fired wildly. Each flash received a prompt response.
With his right hand useless, The Shadow was working with his left alone. Both hands were trained to perfect accuracy.
When this strange contest had begun, Lucien Partridge and five henchmen were still capable of battle.
Five marksmen were aiming for The Shadow. Partridge, alone, was not firing.
Now, in reply to wildly directed shots, The Shadow had fired five times. Every bullet had found a mark.
There was a pause. The form of The Shadow was momentarily revealed. Two spasmodic shots came from the only henchman of the five who had not been incapacitated or killed. One man alone had suffered only a minor wound.
Those shots were futile. They were also fatal to the man who delivered them. Deliberately, The Shadow aimed and his unerring finger dispatched a leaden messenger that found its resting place in the heart of the skulking foeman.
Silence followed, while Vic Marquette, now sprawled upon the floor of the workhouse, stared forth upon the field of battle. He caught one flash of The Shadow's form as it glided into darkness and seemed to sway uncertainly.
SINCE the beginning of the conflict, The Shadow had received no wounds other than those which had first been inflicted on him. In retaliation, he had fought one-handed against the surrounding odds. His strategy, his marksmanship; both had been unfailing.
His twisting course had taken him toward the edge of the cliff. As Marquette gazed, he fancied that he saw the blackened form loom uncertainly against the dawn-flushed sky. For early day was breaking upon the scene of carnage.
Marquette's vision was not at fault. The Shadow had neared the cliff. Now, from the last bush in a clump of shrubbery, Marquette saw another form emerging —a form that crouched as it was silhouetted in the early light.
Vic shouted a warning. It was unnecessary.
The Shadow, too, had seen that lone form threatening him. With uncanny precision, he had directed his course toward the only spot where danger still lingered. The one man who had kept wise silence in the battle was waiting the close approach of The Shadow.
That man was Lucien Partridge.
Marquette saw the old man's hand swing upward. Then The Shadow was upon Lucien Partridge. With time too short to beat the old man's aim, The Shadow had leaped with a mighty spring.
Partridge's gun was discharged upward as The Shadow's left hand struck the old man's arm. Then the two were locked in grim embrace.
The Shadow and the fiend had met!
CHAPTER XXII. ON THE BRINK
THE verge of the cliff was clothed in dawning light. There, two figures had united in a struggle that would mean death to one or both. One hundred feet beneath, the river foamed its way through the gorge, between rock- studded banks.
The Shadow, strong and indomitable, was fighting with a man who was no longer young. Yet Lucien Partridge possessed surprising strength. More than that, he owned the fury of a fiend.
Crippled by wounds, The Shadow possessed but a fraction of his normal strength. Spurred by mad desire for revenge, Lucien Partridge was a demon in human form.
The bodies swayed backward and forward. At times they seemed to sidle toward the edge of the cliff.
