Part 4 (2/2)

He saw Jarruth's lazy sprawl, watched the revolver float from the man's grasp and do a rubbery bounce upon the floor. He saw the gla.s.s of amber fluid tilt; spill its contents as it settled gently and cracked from the feathery thud.

The bed had reached the floor. Its frame gave a jar above Jarruth's body.

Only the bed quivered. Jarruth was motionless. Steadying himself against the lowered bed, The Shadow made his way back to the chair. Sinking there, he swallowed the last of the soup. Gripping bread, he stuffed it to his mouth; devoured it with all the swiftness that he could command.

Rising, The Shadow moved with crablike gait along the floor, to preserve his balance. Half crouched, he pa.s.sed Jarruth's senseless form. He managed to stoop and pick up the revolver. Steadied, helped by the food that he had eaten, The Shadow reached the door. He paused beside a half-turned chair; on it he saw objects that were like old friends: his folded cloak, with the slouch hat upon it.

Slowly, The Shadow put on the black garments. Standing by the door, he took a look at Jarruth. It would be a while before the servant recovered; how long, The Shadow could not estimate. He was convinced, however, that he would have time to leave these premises before Jarruth awakened.

Escape was The Shadow's only policy. He was shaking the spell of the has.h.i.+sh; each slowly pa.s.sing minute brought him an increase of strength.

Nevertheless, he was in no condition for battle, nor would he be for an hour or more to come.

Tightening, The Shadow showed a flash of his old-time stealth as he opened the door and peered into the hallway. He saw the narrow corridor with its blank wall on the far side. The hall was deserted. Doorways to the left; another straight ahead - The Shadow picked the most distant barrier as the probable outlet.

KEEPING to the nearer door, The Shadow began a slow progress. He reached the first door; there he paused. Ahead, The Shadow saw a sudden signal, flickering above the end door. He knew that it might token some arrival. There was a chance that the door would open. The light was sufficient to show The Shadow, even in his attire of black.

He needed a spot with which to blend. The doorway at the left provided it.

s.h.i.+fting his weight, The Shadow edged from sight. He nearly lost his balance; to regain it, he gripped the k.n.o.b of the closed door. His hand seemed to skid as the k.n.o.b turned in his grasp.

A moment later, the door swung inward, its latch loosened by The Shadow's chance turn of the k.n.o.b. Losing his hold, The Shadow took a sprawl into a s.p.a.ce that seemed to be a closet. His mental faculties were somewhat regained; this spill did not have the long, delayed motion of the others, although it gave some impression of slowness.

Striving to halt the fall, The Shadow stumbled inward. The folds of a heavy curtain enveloped him. He sank to the floor.

His sprawl had been noiseless. Even Jarruth's revolver had made no thud, for it struck the curtain when it slipped from The Shadow's grasp. Looking back, The Shadow saw the light of the hall. Stretching, he reached for the door and pushed it shut, stopping its final close with his fingers.

Easing his hand away, The Shadow let the door go into place. The latch did not click; but the door was far enough shut to pa.s.s outside inspection.

Regaining the revolver in the blackness, The Shadow gripped the curtain and drew himself to his feet. He felt steps beneath him; realized that they had helped to break his tumble. Pressing the curtain aside, he crawled up the steps, guiding by a glow that came from above. Reaching the top, The Shadow saw the sheet of gla.s.s that formed the Argus mirror.

There was a ledge beneath it. Drawing himself to his feet, The Shadow steadied and looked through the gla.s.s, into the reception room. He recognized at once that his was a hidden observation post, for The Shadow had used these Argus mirrors before.

The reception room was empty. Its ornate furnis.h.i.+ngs, the heavy curtains, even the crackling fire on the hearth, reminded The Shadow of the house on H Street where he had first met Hugo Creelon. Once again, The Shadow was looking into the master-spy's lair; this time from Creelon's own observatory.

LUCK was at last with The Shadow. On this occasion, Creelon had failed to come to his lookout post to watch a visitor's arrival. The reason for the spy's absence became immediately apparent. The door from the hall opened; the bespectacled secretary bowed Frederick Bryland into the reception room.

As the ex-major seated himself, curtains spread on the far side of the room. Hugo Creelon appeared; against the blue of the curtains, the spy's pale face showed an expression of annoyance. Creelon had been elsewhere when Bryland's arrival had been signaled. He had not been able to reach the lookout post in time to take a preview of his visitor.

Bryland saw Creelon. The Shadow watched the thief arise to meet the spy.

Low-toned words came to The Shadow's ears, in voices that he recognized: Bryland's smooth tone; Creelon's choppy mode of speech.

The lookout post was fitted with a loud-speaker, tuned down almost to a whisper. Creelon had equipped the spot for his own use and had ignored no detail. All that was said in the reception room could be heard by The Shadow.

There was no drawl to the voices. The only lingering hallucination that still afflicted The Shadow was a false sensation of a pause after each man spoke. That illusion told The Shadow that he must continue to make allowance for the effect of the has.h.i.+sh. His senses could gauge motion and sound almost normally, but his brain became dreamy during intervals between.

Whether or not he would be capable of swift action on his own wa.s.something that The Shadow would not know until occasion forced it. For the present, The Shadow preferred to postpone such a test. There would be a time for it later, when a real crisis arrived. Then - no matter what the risk - The Shadow would attempt action.

That time would come when Frederick Bryland delivered the National Emergency Code to Hugo Creelon. When the NEC changed hands, The Shadow would have his last opportunity to save the vital doc.u.ment.

CHAPTER VIII.

CROOKS MAKE TERMS.

NINA VALENCITA had performed her mission capably during her short interview with Frederick Bryland. From the moment that he met Hugo Creelon, Bryland showed no doubt regarding the character of the superspy.

Bryland's smile showed admiration; it was the tribute of one rogue to another. He spoke freely, easily, as he opened negotiations with Creelon.

”I had hoped that a worker of your caliber might be in Was.h.i.+ngton,”

declared Bryland. ”I counted on it when I took the NEC. I needed some one to whom I could sell it; keen enough, also, to learn that I possessed it.”

Creelon accepted the compliments with a bow. As the two sat down, Bryland's expression sobered.

”There is something important that I must ask you,” he said to Creelon.

”I.

left no loophole through which the government agents could suspect me. How did you learn that I had the code?”

”Through Follingsby's cane,” replied Creelon. ”Or rather, Darson's cane, that Follingsby was carrying by mistake.”

Bryland nodded approvingly; then winced.

”That was a weak point,” he admitted. ”Therefore, it worries me. Perhaps some one else has guessed it -”

”Another did,” inserted Creelon. ”He was the man whom you failed to kill.

He gave me my information.”

”You mean Cranston! Was he one of your agents?”

”No. Cranston was the person whom you suspected him to be. He was The Shadow!”

Bryland gripped the arms of his chair; exclaimed, in startled fas.h.i.+on: ”If Cranston is The Shadow -”

”I said that Cranston was The Shadow,” reminded Creelon, coldly. ”He will trouble us no longer, Bryland. I kept him alive only until I knew that you had arrived here.”

”The Shadow became your prisoner!”

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